Cairo, February 2nd 1915
A portly British Army captain, service Webley in hand and accompanied by a detachment of a dozen military police, appeared at the other end of the narrow alley.
“What the devil is going on here?” As red as the top of his officer's cap, the captain's walrus-like mustache fluttered when he barked his question.
Although he would have loved to alert the authorities about the enemy spy lying on the ground, Percival did not care to be detained for who knew how long on the account of the murdered Frenchman and the interrogation that would ineluctably follow. With a mental apology, he waved his hand and muttered a quick incantation. (. . .)
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