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Egyptian phrasebook I discovered in the bedside cabinet last night. As I memorise what I hope might turn out to be a useful set of words, I admire the brass tables, the marble floor, and the intricate white ceiling. I thank God I don’t have to clean it. I glance at my watch for the tenth time this morning and see it’s 7.52am, Egyptian time. Already I know it’s going to be a hot day, in more ways than one. Breakfast is a feast of bread and butter pudding, fruit, yoghurt, and croissants, plus coffee that could line the stomach in a nuclear attack, if there was one, and I take as much as I can. The day ahead will be long and hard.
    Outside, I check my map, get in the taxi I’ve ordered, and head off to my first meeting with Delta Egypt. In central Cairo, through the press of traffic and the bustle of the streets, I can see the glistening waters of the Nile, taking with them downstream many lifetimes of history and culture. As we drive past the Egyptian Museum, dusky pink and grand, I wonder if there’ll be time to visit before I leave. We turn into the heart of the Sharia Qasr el-Nil, the city’s financial trading district, and my professional day is about to begin. Time to get into character.
    Delta Egypt has the second floor in a four-floor building, situated on the corner of two wide streets packed with shops and bars. The foyer is calm and white, with two statues of eagles either side of a small water fountain, which provides a soothing background gurgle to the hum of the receptionist’s computer. Today, I almost fit into this world, dressed as I am in the suit I chose to visit Dominic’s office.
    I stride up to the reception desk and showcase one of the two pieces of spoken Arabic I hope I’ve picked up, at least phonetically. ‘Sabaah al-khayr. Good morning. I’m here to see Mr. Kenzie, of Delta Egypt.’
    The dark-eyed woman studies my card.
    ‘Certainly, sir,’ she says in perfect English. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
    ‘No, but I need to see him urgently.’
    ‘I’m afraid, sir, that it may not be possible. Mr. Kenzie is not often here. I’ll try his PA for you.’
    ‘Trust me,’ I lay my hand on hers as she reaches for the switchboard. ‘If I’d wanted to see Mr. Kenzie’s PA, then I would have asked. It’s the man himself I’m after, and I think you’ll find he’s here.’
    The woman frowns, ‘But, sir, it’s standard practice to contact the PA first and I—’
    ‘No,’ I cut her off. ‘Ring him. If he objects, tell him my name. Tell him it’s concerning DG Allen Enterprises. He’ll see me.’
    For another second, she stares at me. Then she stabs a number on her keypad and the two of us wait. There’s a burst of quick-fire speech I can’t understand, and I hear my name, a pause, then she breaks the connection.
    She hasn’t mentioned Dominic’s company, and I just have time to file that as an interesting fact to be mulled over later before she directs me to the lift.
    ‘Second floor, sir,’ she says.
    I step out into sunlight and cool air and find myself face to face with a clean-shaven young man dressed in a dark grey business suit.
    ‘Mr. Maloney?’ he asks, and I nod. ‘Please, come this way.’
    I walk in his trail past a row of offices, doors all shut, and then out into a communal area filled with low glass tables and easy chairs on one side and a series of work stations on the other. Most are in use, but one or two people are standing, drinking from small white cups. The smell of coffee is overpowering. The windows curve ’round the length of two walls, and I realise I must be facing the interconnection between the two streets outside. There’s no noise.
    ‘Please,’ the young man says, ‘sit.’
    This doesn’t sound like a suggestion so I obey.
    ‘When can I see Mr. Kenzie?’ I ask.
    My companion smiles. ‘Please, wait. I will find out for you. Help yourself to a coffee if you wish, please.’
    He disappears back the way we’ve just come, and enters an