Scorpia Rising

constructed out of gray stone with dark brown shutters and a little balcony protruding over the front door. What made it almost unique in this crowded city was that it stood alone, set back from the road. A gate opened onto a path that swept up the center of a lawn that was more dust and sand than grass. There were two stone lions facing each other about halfway up and, to one side, a tall fountain with water tinkling down in graceful loops. It was obvious that the house belonged to an Englishman. There was a large mat in front of the door with the single word: WELCOME. A small Union Jack fluttered on the roof.
    Alex was already dressed for the flight home—in jeans and a dark red Hollister polo shirt. It was a little warm for the city, but Jack was packing the rest of his clothes and she had told him it was raining in London. He walked up the drive, his feet crunching on the gravel, and rang the doorbell. There was a mirror set in the wall on each side of the door and he examined the two reflections of himself as he waited. A moment later, the door opened and Smithers appeared.
    “Do come in, Alex. Very good to see you. I was just boiling the kettle. I hope you’ll have a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of homemade cake?”
    Smithers was more informally dressed than he had been at the apartment, wearing pale trousers and a brilliantly colored short-sleeve shirt. He could have walked straight off a cruise ship . . . All that was missing was the straw hat and the camera. He stepped back to allow Alex into a hall that was shaped like a hexagon with a marble floor, a chandelier, and rather strangely, golden-framed pictures of the royal family on each of the walls, with the queen and the Duke of Edinburgh glancing at each other, side by side, opposite the door. There was an ornate table with what looked like a TV remote control sitting on the top. But there was no sign of a TV.
    “This way!” Smithers bustled ahead into the kitchen, which was dominated by a stainless steel fridge. He threw it open to reveal shelves stacked with food, much of it flown in from England. There was a large cake on the middle shelf. “A Victoria sponge,” he explained. “Can I interest you?”
    “Not really, thanks, Mr. Smithers. I’ll just have a Coke.”
    “Will you stay for lunch?”
    “I haven’t got time.”
    “A short visit, then! Very well. Let me see . . .”
    Smithers put the cake back, then carried two Cokes and a bowl of chips into the living room, an airy, old-fashioned space with plump sofas, bookshelves, and a splendid rug that must surely have come out of the souk. And yet, as Alex sat down, it occurred to him that the house told him very little about the man himself. It could have belonged to anyone. What did he actually know about Smithers, now that he thought about it? Was he married? Was he gay? Where did he live when he was in England? What did he do in his spare time, apart from cooking himself Victoria sponges? But of course, that was the world of MI6 and all its agents. They didn’t just live with secrets. Secrecy surrounded their entire lives.
    Smithers helped himself to a handful of chips. “So you’ve taken my advice and decided to leave,” he said.
    “Yes.” Alex hadn’t told Smithers anything. “How did you know?”
    “I’m afraid I was tipped off the moment your Miss Starbright booked the flights over the Internet,” Smithers explained. “We keep a very careful watch on the movements of our agents, Alex. Half past three this afternoon. You’re right. That doesn’t leave us time for lunch.”
    “I came to say good-bye.”
    “That’s very decent of you.”
    For some reason, Alex felt a sudden twinge of guilt. “I hope you don’t think I’m walking out on you, Mr. Smithers,” he said.
    “Not at all, my dear boy. Although I do wonder if this has something to do with the explosion in Cairo yesterday afternoon? The House of Gold. There has been a great deal of excitement about that—and not just in London. I don’t suppose you were in any way involved?”
    Quickly, Alex brought Smithers up to date, starting with the office break-in, the contents of Gunter’s desk, then the phone call and the events on the paddle steamer. This time, he didn’t leave anything out, and after he’d finished describing the waterboarding, Smithers pounded the table with his fist, making the rest of the chips jump.
    “I like the Americans,” he exclaimed, “but sometimes they’re completely