10th November 1997. Cairo, Egypt. 08:40 hrs

This morning I took Samira and her daughter to the clinic to visit Eleana again. She is much better, and the doctors say she can be discharged tomorrow.

I sit in my shelter now, staring out across the rubbish-strewn ground at the neighbouring buildings. Yesterday evening I went to see the Kemetic.

He was waiting for me in the same long white robe he had been wearing before. He had tidied the place a bit. He’d lit incense and a few candles. The place looked more like a shrine to Horus than ever. When I arrived, I hung my burqa on the hook at the front door. Underneath I was wearing the most fetching of the dresses that I have kept – a simple cotton shift that flatters my figure. I could see he liked it.

He made us tea, very dark and sweet. We sat in the main room and drank. After a while I asked him about the call he had received.

Ah yes, he said.

Did he give a name? I asked.

It seems you are very popular, good lady. He smoothed his robe across his knees. I can understand why.

I lowered my eyes, smiled. This works well with certain types of men. Thank you.

Ra has made you this way, he said, starting with the ancient Egyptian rubbish again. The sun and the stars and all the gods have created the world and everything in it, and you are yet another example of their perfection.

I tried again, attempting to forestall what I knew was coming. The man who called, what did he say?

Not one, he said.

Pardon? I didn’t understand. He could see this.

Three different men called for you.

I gasped, just a little, giving away my surprise. Three? I asked. Are you sure it was not the same man calling?

Yes. I am very sure. Three different men.

Please, I said, tell me who they were. Did they leave names? What did they say? You know my situation. You have seen. It is very important. Please help me. I must have sounded very desperate, speaking this way, very quickly and out of breath. I could feel the colour coming to my face.

He tugged on that little waxed beard of his, stroking it from chin to tip with his fingers, very slowly and deliberately as he had done before when I had seen him. I could see he was enjoying having put me in such a state of excitement.

Yes, he said, of course. But first, perhaps you would again like to use my shower? You have worn a becoming dress for me, but still, you smell of the street.

I blushed, even more than I already had, and he noticed. No woman likes to be told that she smells, no matter what the circumstances. No, thank you, I said in my best formal Arabic.

He crossed his arms – crook and flail – and stared at me. Please, he said. Wash. And then we can talk.

I knew where this would lead. Of course, I did. I would be lying to you, my love, if I wrote anything else. I had known since before I went there. And yet I had to keep going. There were other ways, of course. But you know I abhor violence. No descent is deeper, no fate worse. How you live with yourself, I cannot imagine. I have other powers even more compelling, and I had already decided I would use them. So I stood, smiled and walked to the bathroom. I disrobed, as before, stood naked looking at myself in the mirror, this other person preparing herself – the other side of me, perhaps. I knew he was out there, thinking about me, about what I was doing, inflaming himself. I knew. And yet I continued. I got into the shower, ran the warm water across my body, soaped myself, washed my hair, rid myself of the filth. It felt good. I took a long time. I thought of you, Claymore. I did not want to come out.

When I emerged, he smiled and asked me to sit. His face was flushed, as if he’d run downstairs for something and back up while I was in the shower. We drank more tea. Then he stood and moved to the cushion next to me. He sat close.

Please, he said, his voice thicker than before, almost a whisper. Let me. He reached his hand towards the front of my dress, the buttons down the front.

I pulled away. Who called for me? Did they leave a name?

He was staring at my chest now, all pretence gone. One of them called from France.

I straightened in surprise, pulled away. Are you sure? I said.

Yes, from Paris.

He reached up again. This time, I did not move away. My mind was spinning. He sighed, undid the top button of my dress, then the next. Cold seized me, despite the heat. I pushed him away. As I did, the button he was manipulating came away, tearing the fabric of my dress.

What was his name? I said, holding him at arm’s length. Was this fool lying about everything – making up these calls to lure me in? Perhaps there had been no calls.

He did not say, the Kemetic breathed. He reached for my dress. I will tell you everything. Please. Lower your arm. For just a moment.

I let my hand fall into my lap. He slid my dress from my shoulders, breathed something I could not understand. He reached up and touched the underside of my bra, ran his fingers across the silk. Heat poured from his body. His arousal was clear and substantial.

Beautiful, he whispered. The most beautiful of the gods’ creations.

Before he could go further I grabbed his hand and turned it into the beginnings of a wristlock. Jiujitsu was compulsory in the Directorate, and even though I barely passed the course, a few techniques have stayed with me. But I have learned, as I have gained experience of life, and of myself, that Allah did not put me here to cause pain, but to deliver those less fortunate from it.

His wrist was thick, his forearm big, and I had to use all my strength to get the lock to come on. He looked up at me in surprise – that something he considered so beautiful and delicate could wield such power, perhaps. Or perhaps it was just the pain he was starting to feel.

Tell me, I said, continuing to apply as much pressure as I could.

The Kemetic gasped. He said to tell you that you should call him immediately. That he had news.

I released his hand. He rubbed the wrist.

Did he leave a name? I said, hoping that the pain he was feeling might act as a warning. A telephone number perhaps?

No. Only this. A friend. No name. From Paris. He said you would know.

And the others? I asked, beginning to doubt everything he said. The first call could have been from my friend from the Directorate, but how would he have obtained the Kemetic’s number? And besides, I had stated clearly that I would contact him. We were trained never to break protocol. No. It could not be him. The Kemetic knew I was from France. Paris would be a good guess. He was playing with me, keeping me interested so he could indulge his lecherous fantasies.

Amenhotep looked down at my chest. Please, he said. I have told you. Now you must allow me.

I let go of his hand and pulled my dress back up over my shoulders. No, I snapped. You are fabricating all of this, I said. There have been no calls.

Please, he said again, as if shocked that I would accuse him of such a thing. It is the truth. We are allies. We fight a common enemy.

Convince me, I said.

He glanced at my chest, pure lust pouring from him. One of the others, he gave a name. It is a name I do not know. A strange name.

What was it? Tell me.

Nteclom. Yes. Nteclom.

His pronunciation so mangled the name that at first I did not recognise it. Declan? I said, at last, my voice giving away my excitement. Was it Delcan?

He nodded, reached his hand again towards my breasts.

I sighed, reached behind my back, unclasped my bra, let it fall away. He stared at my breasts for a long time, as if wanting to prolong the moment.

He whispered something I could not understand and raised his hand.

I sat, allowed him his pleasure. He squeezed and caressed both of my breasts, and I sat, shamefully passive, my hands at my sides. I felt no pleasure. Only sadness, and a strange sense of pity for us both.

After a short time, I moved away, broke his rapture. Declan, I said. What did he say? Tell me now.

I shall, I shall, he said, standing. Come with me, he offered me his hand.

I stood and made to pull my dress back up over my shoulders.

No, he said. Leave it, please.

I covered myself up.

I have written it down, he said. It was a long message. With an address. For you to meet him. He pointed towards the bedroom. In there.

Of course I knew what this meant. The bedroom. The consummation of our arrangement. If I wanted to know what was in the message, I would have to give myself. I suppose, upon reflection, that I could have tried to overpower him. He was much bigger than I, easily twice my weight, and much taller, much stronger. I know some techniques, but I have not practised them for a long time and the difference in size and strength would have made my chances of success low. I decided instead to lure him in, and if needed, dissipate him with my hand, or as a last resort, my mouth.

Please, do not be shocked, Claymore.

He stood aside, let me enter the bedroom. I turned and faced him, the bed behind me. He closed the door and stood staring at me, breathing hard.

The message, I said. The address. Tell me and I will do anything you want.

His eyes widened and gleamed. He will meet you tomorrow at noon, here in Cairo. At Groppi’s on Talaat Harb square. As he said it, he stepped close, enveloped me in his arms and pushed me to the bed.

I had not expected him to move so quickly. I struggled, but he pinned my arms over my head with one of his big hands and started pulling up my dress with the other. He was very strong. I thrashed my legs, searching for his groin with my knee, but he was too heavy. His weight crushed the air from my lungs. He ripped away my underpants, began positioning himself for entry. I screamed, lashed out with my head and caught him a glancing blow to the chin, which hurt me more than it did him.

Please, he whispered. Do not fight. This small thing, he kept repeating. This small thing. I gave you the message. We can be friends. All the time like this, talking as he placed himself against me and began his violation.

It was then that I stopped struggling. I let the tension go from my body, opened myself for him, lay back, closed my eyes.

Good, he breathed. Good, yes. He was very big.

He released my hands, reached for my breasts.

As soon as he did, I reached my right hand inside my dress and pulled my blade from its sheath around my waist. And then I did something I have never done before, in all my years.

This was a few hours ago. My hand shakes as I write this. Already I know the horror that you have lived with for more than a decade. For no matter the justification, taking another’s life remains the most heinous of sins. I am twice debased, and for these transgressions, I shall never be forgiven.

I curse myself. I curse life. All is sin. And evil is everywhere

In a few short hours I will see you again.

But how can I face you now, my love?