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enough to have learned a little of most of its languages.
    He bowed, and left them. There was a rustling in the oleanders, then nothing, except the mutter of the storm around the entrance, and the sounds of the French.
     

Chapter 5
     
    “Remember now, lads, not a word once we’re close to the shore! English voices will prove our undoing!”
    In Aboukir Bay, about eight miles away from Tel el-Osorkon, First Lieutenant Martin Ballard’s voice was snatched by the wind as the pinnace pushed away from HMS Lucina. It was half an hour to midnight, the cloudy Mediterranean night was black and starless, and the muffled oars made little sound as the sailors began to pull for the shore through the wind and swell. The storm was abating quickly now, but the sea was still surly and unsettled. There were no lights on the thirty-two-gun fifth rater, for fear of alerting the French fort on the western promontory. Out of sight to the east lay the Rosetta mouth of the Nile, and the infamous sandbar where, as yet unknown to the Lucina, the Gower had met her fate.
    Martin was thirty-three years old and romantically handsome, with dark curling hair, thick-lashed brown eyes, and finely chiseled lips that could as swiftly warm into a smile as press thin with anger or grim determination. His complexion was tanned from the sun and sea, and there was a ruggedness about him that rested oddly well with the grace of his movements, for he was as at home in bloody hand-to-hand action as dancing a measure at an assembly room ball. He tugged his flowing green robes around his lean, muscular body, and adjusted his turban. When he slipped ashore on these secret intelligence-gathering missions, he always wore a disguise, for to appear in naval uniform would be to sign his own death warrant. But this was his last such mission; indeed, it was his last voyage. When the Lucina returned to Portsmouth, he would leave the navy and start a new life in far-off America.
    He checked the dagger and long curving knife thrust into the wide sash around his waist, then made sure of the pistol he carried against his heart. Only then did he gaze toward the land, where there were a few clumps of date palms, and dunes topped with waving grass. Beyond the dunes that fringed the beach there was a sandy waste that stretched to the lush fertile edge of the delta. He raked the rocky beach for any sign of activity, but all seemed deserted, just as he’d hoped. Secrecy was essential now that the British were only days from invasion to end French occupation. Information about enemy numbers and deployment was vital.
    The coxswain addressed him suddenly. “Are there any further orders, sir?”
    “No, it’s all as before, Matthews. If I’m not there at dawn, you’re to return at the same time every day until I am. If I have any urgent messages and cannot stay to deliver them in person, I will leave them in the usual place.”
    “Aye, aye, sir,” Matthews replied. He was an experienced seaman, wiry and agile as a monkey.
    The pinnace slid further from the protection of the Lucina and was swept forward on huge rollers. The noise of the surf grew louder, and spume flew on the air. Salt stung Martin’s lips, and the lurch of the boat was almost sickening as the sailors shipped the oars and allowed the last wave to almost hurl the pinnace onto a small stretch of sand. The moment Martin was ashore, the sailors began to shove the boat back into the surf. He didn’t wait to see them go, but slipped away toward the usual thicket of date palms. On reaching the trees, he ducked down among some wind-carved bushes and laid low, listening beyond the racket of the breakers for any sound that might warn of danger. The seconds passed. Out on the water the pinnace was pulling strongly back toward the indistinct silhouette of the Lucina out in the bay. He was alone. There was a knot in his stomach that felt as cold as ice, but the blood pumped swiftly through his veins as he took out his fob