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Britain for a time. We ended up in Palestine, along with a pair of Bedouins named Ali and Mahmoud Hazr, who took us under their cloaks as they wandered about the desert. At any rate, we thought they were Bedu. However …”
    It was a lengthy tale, and Holmes permitted himself considerable embroidery to an already ornate story. It was late, the decanter well down, another flask of strong coffee brought and drunk, by the time he described the meeting in the Government House drawing room, with General Allenby (yet another remarkable figure, an English Lyautey—as Palestine was in many ways a British Morocco) lifting Russell’s filthy hand to his lips before introducing them to the small yellow-haired man with the piercing blue eyes and dazzling white robes, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Edward Lawrence.
    Lyautey chuckled and shook his head, his aristocratic fingers folding the stub end of his cigar into the intricately pieced ash-tray. “Yes, governments flourish upon the colourful exploits of individuals such as Lawrence, and your Hazr brothers. But governments also, eventually, crush them underfoot. In a fair world, Colonel Lawrence would be crowned.”
    “Not that he would care much for that. I understand that he is currently working happily as a mechanic in the tank corps. While your Abd el-Krim is headed for a precipice.”
    “I wonder if I will ever be given the chance to meet him, before I leave here,” Lyautey reflected.
    “If the Spanish catch him first, they will tear him to pieces.”
    “As a soldier, I can understand the impulse. Well, my old friend and cousin, work awaits, and tomorrow I must put on a patient face before a delegation of worthies.”
    “While I turn south, to Marrakech.”
    “As I said, if you venture into the High Atlas, make certain to examine your guide’s rifle yourself. And if time permits, do bring this apprentice-turned-wife of yours to Fez. At the very least, you must bring her to France, once they permit me to retire.”
    The Maréchal stood, betrayed by a faint stiffness, and drained the last swallow from his glass. But that did not mean that the man was going to bed: Lyautey awake was Lyautey at work—Lyautey, and his men. The Maréchal was speaking before the door had shut, to an assistant who waited in the courtyard below. “François, you sent a message to Madame to say that I would sleep here tonight? Good. Tell Youssef I’ll have more coffee. So, François, have we answered that absurd request from the archaeologists, l’affaire Natale ? I suppose that we could spare a tent, and—”
    His vigorous voice faded, leaving Holmes with a smile of admiration on his face: One o’clock in the morning, and the indefatigable Maréchal was summoning men to work. At least it sounded as if he intended to stop here the night, rather than walk back to the official Residence—or indeed, climb into a motorcar and set off for Marrakech or Casablanca.
    Holmes took his glass to the window, standing for a time looking across the neighbouring rooftops. The moon was waxing towards full; with the night’s stillness, he could hear the constant splash of a fountain. The scent of orange blossoms sweetened the frigid air. He had never been one for the purposeless travel of mere sight-seeing; on the other hand, Russell would appreciate both Fez and its Resident General. The man’s palpable love and respect for the country that had been placed in his hands might even restore one’s faith in the colonial system.
    Perhaps he and Russell could delay their departure for home, just a day or two. After all, this might prove the final opportunity for a pair of Europeans to do so: If the Revolt to the north managed to join hands with the uncontrolled tribes to the south, the French would be squeezed out in no time at all.
    He latched the tiny window, dropped his cigarette stub into the low-burnt coals, and went to bed.

C HAPTER S IX
    I n the morning, there was a tap at the door.
    “Come!” Holmes