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appropriate gangplank.
    Grasping her arm, he halted her at its foot. “Wait.” He signaled to Bister, who with a nod went racing up the gangplank, Jimmy, Watson’s seventeen-year-old nephew, at his heels.
    Two minutes later, Bister reappeared. “All clear.”
    Getting the women, their luggage, and then their men aboard took ten minutes. The captain nodded benignly; the crew all smiled.
    Shouts ran the length of the barge, ropes were cast off, and at last they were away.
    The barge moved slowly, ponderously turning on the increasingly fast-rushing tide. One of many so engaged, the throng of vessels gave them extra cover. To Gareth’s relief, all three females—Emily, her maid Dorcas, and Arnia—had retreated without prompting into the cabins built along the length of the barge. Watson had gone inside, too, taking Jimmy with him, leaving Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins to keep watch.
    They found what cover they could, but the barge was carrying little freight beyond its passengers.
    Gareth had hoped that by timing their departure to the very last usable minute of the tide, then even if the cultists spotted them—as he felt sure they would—their pursuers wouldn’t be able to sail after them for at least another twelve hours, if not more.
    At this point, a day’s head start was all he could hope for.
    They got away, swinging out of the harbor and onto the ocean swell, then turning along the coast for the straits without challenge. But as they rounded the last headland, Jimmy caught the reflection off a spyglass directed their way.
    Bister drew the younger lad with him to report to Gareth. “I saw it, too, once he pointed it out. Sure as eggs, someone was watching us.”
    Gareth grimaced. “No prizes for guessing who. But at least we’ve got away, and with the straits ahead, I doubt they’ll catch us up, not before Mocha.”
    Later that evening
Elsewhere in Aden
    “Uncle—we have news!”
    The tall bearded man known throughout the Black Cobra cult simply as Uncle slowly lifted his gaze from the pomegranate he was peeling. “Yes, my son?”
    The younger man he’d sent to supervise the watch on the harbor drew himself up, head high. “We saw the Major Hamilton leave on a barge, but the barge was on the ocean, heading for the straits, before we could get a clear sighting.”
    “I see.” Uncle paused to eat a piece of pomegranate, then asked, “Did he have a woman—the Englishwoman he saved from our blades on the docks—with him?”
    The young man turned to his colleagues, who had followed him into the courtyard. A whispered conference ensued, then the young man turned back. “She was seen briefly on the docks, but we didn’t sight her on the barge—howsoever there were cabins.”
    “Ah.” Unhurriedly Uncle finished the pomegranate, then carefully wiped his hands. Then he nodded and looked to his second-in-command. His only true son. “In that case, I believe my work here is done.”
    His son nodded. “We will catch them in Mocha—there are men already there.”
    “Indeed.” Uncle slowly stood, stretching to his full, impressive height. “Our illustrious leader has truly foreseen the gentlemen’s paths. There are men watching, ready to act, along all the routes they might take. But my mission—” He broke off and inclined his head to his son. “ Our mission is not just to stop these men reaching England. The Black Cobra demands a greater retribution from those who oppose its might and power.”
    Turning to the younger man and his comrades, Uncle raised a hand in benediction. “You have done well enough. You will remain here in case any of the other gentlemencome this way. But I and mine”—he glanced at his son and smiled—“we ride to Mocha.”
    His gaze passed on to the older, more hardened men—assassins all—lined up behind his son. His anticipatory smile deepened. “Find horses. The overland route is shorter.”
    October 5, 1822
The mouth of the Red Sea
    Dawn broke in a pearly