Above, an electric fan spun round on a low setting, barely stirring the air enough to offer him any comfort in the late morning heat which lay over the city like a stifling blanket. The walls were whitewashed and slightly stained where cupboards had once lined the room. The floor was wooden and smelled pleasantly of polish, a welcome hygienic odour after the pungent sour smell of the streets he had walked through to reach the former offices of the Oriental Wares Trading Company. The sign still hung outside the modest entrance, but the company had long since moved to Port Said. An Egyptian doorman stood outside in his galabeya, just as if the company was still in residence, but as soon as Andreas had entered the building it was clear that a very different kind of enterprise was being run from the premises. A thickset man in khaki shorts and shirt was seated behind a desk in the entrance hall. He checked Andreas’s name against a list and guided him up the stairs to the anteroom. On one side of the building was a busy street, thronged by traders, hawkers and off-duty servicemen seeking the sultry delights offered by the souks and the less salubrious bars and clubs the great city had to offer.
