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“See that they don’t. Whatever means necessary.” He grabbed the doorknob and then half turned in my direction. “Don’t lose yourself again, Whit.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was already lost. The minute I stepped foot back in England, Whitford would virtually disappear, to be replaced by my title. Then he left, shutting the door behind him with a measured click.

I sighed. One last hurrah.

I’d always loved Cairo’s crowded streets. They offered an easy way to become invisible. An effective trait I needed in order to sneak into a certainbuilding surrounded by opium dens and brothels. This part of town offered myriad forms of entertainment for tourists wanting something besides temples and tombs. My taste had run along similar pursuits before Ricardo found me, up to my ears in debt.

I crept up the crumbling side, digging my fingers into the grooves, and then heaved myself up and through an open window. If I knew Peter, he was holed up in the back room smoking hashish, delegating his duties to others while he enjoyed a long break from divvying up stolen artifacts.

The hallway stank of sweat and stale air, but it didn’t slow me down as I peered into the rooms lining the corridor. A plume of smoke revealed the man I searched for. He sat, reposed and comfortable on a low banquette, surrounded by dusty pillows, his feet crossed on a worn and dirty Turkish rug. Tall stacks of crates were piled around the room, some labeled for Bulaq, but most weren’t. I’d bet good money they were filled with trinkets, waiting to be fenced.

Egypt attracted all manner of opportunists. Peter Yardley, a fellow Englishman, worked as an antiquities officer and secretary to the consul general. But before he came to Egypt, he had worked as a mercenary, trading in secrets, drugs, and antiquities.

“Who goes there?”

I stepped into the room, and kicked the door shut. “Hello, Peter.”

A soft chuckle reached my ears. “No one calls me that but you.”

The smoke cleared, revealing Peter’s slight frame. Deep hollows in his cheeks and bloodshot eyes displayed his exhaustion. His clothing hadn’t seen a bar of soap in some time, reeking of sweat and hard liquor. An uncomfortable feeling bubbled under my skin. I hadn’t looked so different not too long ago.

“You look terrible.”

He grinned, and motioned for me to have a seat on a low chair across from him. I remained on my feet, conscious of the noise coming from the floor below. I counted three, perhaps four, different men working.

Peter’s smile dimmed and his hand dropped. “I take it this isn’t a strictly social call?”

I shook my head. There are Curators who provided illicit goods forTradesman’s Gate. Peter ran one of the auctions, and when we used to play cards, he once told me he knew someone who knew someone who had inroads with a lady who often fenced stolen artifacts. I had relayed the information to Ricardo, and at the time, we’d wondered if it had been Lourdes. “Have you heard of any large shipments coming into Cairo recently?”

He sat back against a cushion, dark eyes narrowing. “There are always shipments coming in. Are you going to sit?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you tell me where you’ve been these last few months. I never see you at the table anymore, Whit.”

Because I couldn’t stand playing cards, even if it was the best way to hear things.

“My luck ran out.” I pulled out the envelope tucked deep in my jacket pocket and placed it on a round table that stood close to his elbow. “Speaking of, I believe this makes us square.”

Peter fingered the corner of the envelope. “Here’s an idea—why don’t you keep this and come work for me? I never understood why you didn’t before.”

“I’m leaving Egypt.”

“Shame.”

“Everything comes to an end, eventually.” I turned to go, and as I reached the door, I said half over my shoulder, “Careful at the warehouse in Bulaq, Peter.”

“Stop.”

I froze underneath the frame. Slowly turned to face Peter, who had jumped to his feet, his hand gripping a pistol. “How did you know about the warehouses?”

“Lower your gun.”

“Hayes,” Peter said, cocking the gun. “How?”

I kicked the stack of crates closest to me. Bottles of whiskey and rum were perched on the top one, and they clanked loudly, but I pointed to the bottom two. Written on its side was the location of a warehouse close to the docks. “It’s written right here, idiot.”

“Aw, shit.” Peter kept his weapon aimed at my chest. “I think you’re going to have to sit down after all. We need to have a chat, you and me.”