A sudden bullet pierces the pungent dust that permeates Cairo. The victim is a bookkeeper called Fairclough; he has been shot at from behind while riding home on his donkey, though not badly hurt. Hardly cause for alarm, thinks Cadwallader Owen, better known as the Mamur Zapt, or head of Cairo's Secret Police. After all, Fairclough is with Customs. And in 1909 British-ruled Cairo, Customs is the lowest of all departments. But Owen's nonchalance is soon shattered as unexpected, bloody violence shakes Cairo's crowded bazaars and bustling thoroughfares. Then, scores of frightened British and Egyptian civil servants flood the police with complaints of pursuit by unknown men. Finally, on a dank back street, Owen himself is followed and nearly attacked by two shadowy characters in European dress.
