6th November 1997. Cairo, Egypt. 22:40 hrs

I write this from my shelter in Giza. I am still shaking.

Tonight, Samira and her children shared their evening meal with me. She had had a successful day, she told us as she stirred the pot over the fire. Under a pile of rotting vegetables she had found a small trove of almost-new electronics: a tape deck, amplifiers, a personal computer. The Coptic Zabbaleen she works for was very pleased. He took her finds back to his shop in Moquattam, above the City of the Dead, and will burn out the plastic, recovering the precious metals: gold, copper, perhaps titanium.

With the money Samira bought a bag of chickpea flour, a bottle of canola oil and four oranges. She wet the flour and rolled it into falafel, which she cooked in the hot oil. The smell was wonderful and the taste better than any I have enjoyed before. We ate in silence, even the children, all focused on this delicacy. After, we all shared an orange, two succulent sections each. Samira put her children to bed and blew out the candle and we sat in the half-lit city darkness and had tea.

That some people are so wealthy they can afford to throw away such things, she said, shaking her head. Of course, I did not tell her that until very recently, I too had regularly disposed of perfectly good mattresses and shoes, and occasionally phones and televisions, and every other kind of implement and device, to make room for newer, more functional, more exciting models. We threw away perfectly edible food, disposed of once-worn clothes, and even – I gasp now, thinking of it – books. And the worst part of it is that I never even thought about it. And yet, because of such profligacy, Samira and her children and I eat. Is this the real definition of trickle-down economics? Tomorrow night I will claim a similar windfall, and I will treat Samira and her children to a feast.

This afternoon, I met Mehmet.

I was very careful this time. I am sure no one followed me, or was watching me. He gave me his address over the phone – I used a public telephone – and then I watched his building for more than six hours before entering. I picked through the rubbish in the vacant lot opposite and along the flanks of the alleys, just another poor, homeless wretch, invisible, all the time watching for any signs of surveillance. I entered the building by the back stairway and climbed the four flights to his flat.

It was quite a humble place for the second pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty, and I told him so, unable to help myself. He looked me up and down, at my filthy hands and unkempt hair and already ragged clothes – it is amazing how quickly one can descend. And then he pointed out that he had taken the name Amenhotep out of respect, and in actuality, he was only a grand vizier of the lawful descendants of the last Egyptian pharaoh, Nectanebo the Second, who died in 343 BC, before the corruptions of the Persian rule of Egypt.

He certainly looked the part. He had a long, flowing beard and was dressed in a floor-length white robe. In his right hand, he held an ankh ♀ – the symbol for life and the unity of matter and spirit, he told me. We sat on cushions in the middle of the floor. Shutters dimmed the afternoon light. He offered me tea. I asked if I could use his bathroom. It had been three days since I had used a proper toilet or washed myself in clean water.

Please, he said, standing. Feel free to shower, if you like. He led me to the bathroom and opened the door. There are towels, soap and hot water, he said.

I thanked him and closed the door behind me, searched for a lock but could not find one. Any hesitation I had disappeared as the shower beckoned. I could not resist. I turned on the hot water, stripped off my filthy clothes and jumped in. Allah forgive me, but this must be what heaven is like. I stayed under the water for far too long, knowing he would be listening, wondering what he would be thinking. I soaped myself raw, used his shampoo, washed my hair out twice, bundled myself into clean towels. At that point, there was a knock on the door.

I froze, remembering where I was – in a strange man’s house, naked but for a towel. His voice came through the door, asking me if I would like clean clothes. Perhaps he was married? I had seen no signs of a feminine presence.

What do you have? I asked him, staring at my stinking rags piled on the floor. A moment later he handed me in a clean dress. It was very plain with a high neck and low hem. It hung off me like a sack, but it was clean and smelled as if it had been freshly laundered. Had he anticipated the state I would be in?

Almost half an hour after entering the bathroom, I emerged, realising how badly I must have smelled when I had first arrived. To his credit, he said nothing, just smiled, poured me tea and offered me a plate of sweets, which I devoured.

Thank you, I said.

He nodded, smiled. It is my great pleasure, lady, he said.

Please, tell me about Yusuf Al-Gambal, I said. Why are the police watching him?

He is a very dangerous man, Amenhotep said.

He does not look dangerous, I said.

No. It is always thus, said Mehmet. He spoke a very formal, traditional Arabic, quite unlike the street, slang-ridden dialect I have already begun to emulate. Clearly he is an educated man.

Tell me, please.

His danger comes from what he knows. And to your second question, madame, the police simply enforce the will of those in power.

What is it that he knows? I asked. Is it something about the Consortium, the ones you spoke of before? I was sure he could hear the desperation in my voice.

This Hamid Al-Farouk must have been very important to you, he said, piercing me with his gaze.

I looked away. Yes, I said. He was.

I understand, he said, watching me very carefully.

Then please help me.

He considered this for what felt like a long time. I sat and watched the candle flame burn on its wick, the wax drip slowly to its base.

Then you will also know that Yusuf Al-Gambal and Mr Al-Farouk were very close. But something happened. At some point during the trial, there was an argument. Threats were exchanged. I do not know what precipitated it or what it concerned. I was not present. But whatever happened, they never spoke again.

What is your relationship with Yusuf Al-Gambal? I sounded like the analyst I was, the reporter I am.

We are… He hesitated …Allies.

Fighting a common enemy? The Consortium? The ones you said were violating the Ma’at, destroying the Two Kingdoms, Upper and Lower Egypt?

He nodded.

Who are they, this Consortium?

They are the godless ones. Those whose souls Set has poisoned.

Please, I said. I know he could sense my impatience.

I do not know who they are, madame. Only what they are. Then he stood and offered me his hand. I took it. He looked at me. Perhaps, madame, we too can become allies, in time?

I smiled. I know its power. Inshallah, I said, pulling away from him.

He stood looking me up and down, and then said: If Isis wills it.

Of course.

He placed his hand on the small of my back, escorted me to the door, something a Muslim gentleman would never do – touch a woman not his wife without permission. He clasped the door knob, started turning. But then he stopped. He leaned in close to me. His lips brushed my ear. I could feel his hot breath on my neck.

We can help each other, he whispered, sliding his hand lower.

I pushed him away, pulled open the door.

Call me in two days, he said. Perhaps I will have more information for you then.

I stopped, stared at him.

But I will need something in return, he said.

I have money, I said.

He laughed at this. Money is not for allies, good lady. He leaned close again. You must understand, he whispered. Your enemy is our enemy.

I looked into his eyes, my pulse doing hummingbird wings. Who is my enemy? I said.

Those who murdered your husband and son, my dear lady.