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up to the breach and from its rear men were lowering sandbags precisely into position with a rope and pulley. Ferguson was lying on his front peering down into the breach and directing proceedings. He stood up when he saw Owen coming.
    ‘We’ve got something for you,’ he said.
    He called down to Macrae, who came up and joined them. They walked down the canal to where what looked like a piece of broken pipe had evidently been heaved up out of the water.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘It’s part of the culvert. From just beside the regulator gates. It was blown out by the explosion and carried here by the water. The thing is, though: see those? They’re burn marks. That means, that’s where the stuff was put. Just shoved up inside, I’d say.’
    ‘Aye,’ said Ferguson. ‘That would have been enough. It’s the position, you see. It would have cracked the concrete that held the frame just by the hinge. The weight of the water would have done the rest. Whoever did it knew just what they were doing.’
    ‘And you still say,’ said Owen, ‘that it wasn’t one of your workmen?’

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Chapter 3
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    The gardener came running.
    ‘Effendi! Oh, Effendi!’
    He arrived panting.
    ‘Oh, Effendi! Another one!’
    ‘Another what?’
    ‘A bomb! Oh, Effendi, come quickly!’
    ‘Another! Jesus! Where?’
    The gardener pointed across the Gardens.
    ‘The Rosetta? Jesus!’
    They ran straight across the Gardens, splashing through the water. Birds scattered. Herons rose with a clap of wings like a gunshot. The palm doves rose in a flock. Hoopoes hesitated no longer and made for the trees.
    The gardener ran ahead of them, his bare feet kicking up the water. He led them across the lawns and then up on to the crest along which Owen had passed previously. Down into the bamboo clumps of the valley and then left along the stream, almost to the spot where the ghaffir had been taking his repose. There, virtually beneath the baobab trees, the gardener halted.
    ‘But—?’ began Macrae.
    ‘There, Effendi, there!’ pointed the gardener with trembling finger.
    He was pointing towards a gadwal.
    ‘Leave this to me!’ said Macrae, shouldering Owen aside.
    ‘Aye,’ said Ferguson. ‘We know about these things.’
    He pushed Owen behind a tree and then went forward to join Macrae.
    ‘Bloody hell!’ they said in unison.
    Owen, who had served with the Army in India before coming to Egypt, and thought he also knew about these things, re-emerged from behind the tree and went cautiously up to them.
    They were peering into the gadwal. Lying in the bottom were a pair of detonators.
     
    ‘It is easy to see, Abdullah,’ said the ghaffir superciliously, ‘that you are not a man who knows about dynamite!’
    ‘How was I to know?’ said the gardener defensively. ‘It looked like a bomb to me!’
     
    ‘How did you find it?’ asked Owen.
    ‘I was clearing the gadwal,’ said the gardener. ‘You need to, to make sure that the water can flow along it. You’d be surprised what gets into it. Leaves, sticks, that sort of thing. All these birds! And then the people—they put rubbish in it, though you’d think they knew better. So before I let the water through I go along and see there are no blockages. I mean, you don’t want water coming over the sides until you’re ready, do you? What would be the point of that? You may not think I know about dynamite,’ he said aside to the ghaffir, ‘but I do know about gadwals. Mess up one and you’ve messed up the lot!’
    ‘Gadwals!’ sniggered the ghaffir. ‘To talk about gadwals when the Effendi have great things on their mind!’
    ‘Never mind that!’ said Macrae. He looked down into the gadwal. ‘Spares, you reckon?’ he said to Ferguson.
    ‘Aye,’ said Ferguson. ‘Discarded afterwards.’
    Macrae picked them up.
    ‘And you know where they come from?’ he said.
    ‘Aye,’ said Ferguson.
    The stores were kept in a hut beside one of the regulators. Its door was heavily