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reading up on the history of Afghanistan, its people, customs and language. He now knew the country to be a largely roadless tract of grey-green mountains and dusty deserts, yet its strategic position astride the route from Persia and central Asia to India meant it had been fought over and traded through for thousands of years. Many of history's great conquerors - the Persian kings Cyrus and Darius, Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan - had passed through Afghanistan on their way to India. More recently the British had tramped in the opposite direction in the hope of bringing the Afghans to heel.
    The chief obstacle to control, George discovered, was that Afghanistan was so ethnically diverse, with a multitude of races and nationalities, each with rival interests and antagonistic ambitions. In the south and east were the Pashto-speaking Pathans, descendants of the original Afghans from Syria, transplanted to the country in the time of Nebuchadnezzar; further north, beyond the Hindu Kush, lived Mongol-looking Hazaras, Turkic-featured Uzbeks and their neighbours the Tajiks, and to the west, in the mountain fastness of Nuristan, a tall people with fair hair, blue eyes and freckles.
    Since 1740 the country had been nominally ruled by the shahs and amirs of Kabul, members of the Sadozai and Barakzai tribes of Pathans, but rarely had they established complete control. The exception was Dost Mahomed, scourge of the British and grandfather of the current ruler, who had died in 1863, thus ushering in a new era of internecine strife. The only thing Afghans seemed to have in common was the Muhammadan religion.
    The more George had read about the Pathans - whose honour code, the pashtunwali , guaranteed life to friends and death to strangers - the less confident he had become that he would leave Afghanistan in one piece. To have any chance of survival, much less of carrying out his mission, he knew he needed a guide he could trust, and determined to find one at the earliest opportunity. But first he would have to acclimatise to the heat of the sub-continent which, though past its hot-season worst, was still severe enough to discourage most Europeans from venturing out between the hours of ten and two.
    Fortunately it was early evening, with a light breeze cooling the deck, as the Windsor Castle passed slowly between Shark Island and the breakwater, coming to a halt in Karachi harbour off the wharfs of Kiamari Island. No sooner had the anchors dropped than the ship was surrounded by a swarm of native boats, their turbaned skippers loudly hawking their services as they fended the competition away. George watched with amusement as an aggrieved captain boarded his rival's boat and pushed the occupant overboard. The sodden victim took it in good part and, back on his vessel, continued searching for passengers to take to shore. George admired the fellow's stoicism and, having fetched his valise from his cabin and said goodbye to the ship's captain, he climbed down the rope-ladder, called the man to him and leapt aboard.
    They agreed the extortionate fare of four annas - the equivalent of sixpence, more than most boatmen would earn in a day - and George was soon ashore and striding up the wharf towards the village of Kiamari where a second riot ensued as pairs of palanquin-wallahs vied for his custom. He selected the sturdiest duo he could find and, climbing inside the covered rickety litter, told them to head for the Hotel Metropole on Frere Road; a fellow traveller had assured him it was the best in town. The pair hoisted the litter to waist level and set off at a trot. Their route took them down Napier mole - named after Sir Charles Napier, who had conquered Sind in 1843 - past the Customs House and on up Bunder Road, the dividing line in Karachi between the narrow, people- and refuse-choked streets of the native town and the broader, tree-lined avenues and spacious bungalows of the European quarter. Bunder Road itself was something of a