Billy said, “He looks like a Bedouin.”

“That’s because he is, Billy. Let’s join him.”

As they approached, the passport officer had already opened the passport and was examining it. “Mr. Caspar Rashid? Address?”

“ Gulf Road, Hampstead,” Rashid told him.

“Country of birth?”

“ England.”

“Would you like to have a look, sir?” The passport man passed it across and Rashid waited impassively while Dillon stepped back and examined the pages. Finally, Dillon said, “Fine,” and handed the passport to Rashid, who gave him a wonderful smile and walked away.

“He has, you would agree, a great smile,” Dillon said.

“Yes, I suppose so, but then he’s a good-looking guy.”

“But that isn’t why he’s smiling. He’s smiling because he thinks he’s got away with it, and I’m smiling because I’ve caught him. He’s hiding something, Billy. I don’t know what, but he’s hiding something. Let’s go.”

RASHID WAS TIRED from the flight, and obviously beyond caution. His vehicle was a red hire car on the ground floor of the car park opposite the exit. Rashid unlocked the door, including the luggage compartment. They were close enough to have a look when Rashid heaved out the spare tire and started to lift up the carpet.

“Get him, Billy,” Dillon said, and they moved fast and Rashid turned to face them. Dillon produced his Walther. “Hands behind your neck. See what you can find, Billy.”

Billy struck gold straightaway, lifting out a cloth in which were wrapped a few tools-and a pistol. He held it up.

“Thirty-eight Smith amp; Wesson automatic. Loaded.”

“Cuff him.” Billy did as he was told. “Do we take him in?” he asked.

“No. He interests me.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know he was up to no good. His passport indicates that he arrived in Cairo last week by plane from London. Took a train to Mombasa, then a ferry from Mombasa to Hazar. He didn’t even stay a full day before flying back to London. Why did he do all that? Why not fly from London to Hazar and back?”