st seventy miles aening in fact to nothing he said.

    “Are you telling me t believe you? No one listened to you?” “No one listened.” “ give t name.” “Yours?” “I gave t—” “ did you say?” hing.

    “ake up!  did you say?” “I said s U, norter. So guide ted  props after t I don’t t pulling spies in out of t. Everyone ed into to. S seventy miles a listen. Some stray Englisfit in El taj. I must  into one and moved by truck. I il I fell off onto treet, still in it. I harine’s name.

    Yelling to ton’s.

    “to truck again. I  anote spy. Just anoternational bastard.”  Caravaggio s to rise and ry, tritus of a  Cara-vaggio s is ter, people of alk   ever, but   get out of t, its arcecture of morpo pull ao El taj.

    to be Almasy o return to  no longer matters whe war.

    But Caravaggio leans forward.

    “I need to kno?” “I need to knoon. t is, if you murdered Clifton, and in so doing killed .”“t Geoffrey Clifton iselligence.  just an innocent Englisrange group in tian-Libyan desert. t re of ill does. till raise tion. And Intelligence kne your affair on didn’t. t ection, ing up ting for you in Cairo, but of course you turned back into t. Later, o Italy, I lost t part of your story. I didn’t kno person I expected to find  Ladislaus de Almasy. Quite ly, I’ve become more fond of you t of tangle of lig ed up Caravaggio’s c and  to tient trait. In muted lig no up, brig in te daylight.

    urned ts back, facing Almasy. ords did not emerge easily from Caravaggio. o