"I'd like to check my account."

Sally pushed her book to Kaysar Aziz and watched him flick back its cover and discreetly check the laser-stamped photograph embossed on the inside. Equally discreetly, Aziz fanned a dozen of the most recent stubs. The amounts scrawled in a variety of cheap pens got smaller each time.

"If you could just wait here." He vanished through an oak door to check her balance, something he could have done quicker by flicking alive a flatscreen angled into the countertop. This was discretion apparently.

She knew the answer the moment Kaysar reappeared, long before he had time or need to frame his reply.

"Empty?"

"I'm sorry . . ."

Sally shrugged. "Not your problem if my father's a prick."

His blink was lightning-fast.

"Cancelled," Sally explained. "Until I come home. He's been threatening it for months. Now he has . . . You got a loo round here?"

Aziz looked blank.

"Toilet," Sally said. "Which way?"

Rinsing her hands to wash off the soap, Sally started on her face and realized, too late, that she was splashing water down her front. The decision made itself. Unwrapping her scarf she shoved it into the pocket of her jeans and pulled her damp T-shirt over her head, revealing bite marks below one breast and a barbed-wire tattoo round her upper left arm. The tattoo was a mistake, an old one. The jury was still out on the navel stud and the gold dumbbell through her left nipple.

The body of an animal, Wu Yung had said, and that was when Sally knew she'd finally outgrown him. The old man meant lean and muscled like a predator but he'd missed the essential truth. What he thought was a compliment was merely a statement of the obvious. And the fact Wu Yung never realized this disappointed her. She was an animal as was he, as were Bozo and Atal, that overprivileged, underchallenged little idiot with his kangaroo-skin shoes.

Homo sapiens. One point three percent off being a chimpanzee. A species outside evolution and seriously in need of an overhaul.

Sally sighed.

When she'd wrung out as much water from her hair as she could Sally wrapped it still damp in her scarf, splashed cologne onto her breasts from a bottle on a glass shelf above the basin, struggled back into her T-shirt and turned to go. That was when she noticed an elderly Arab woman sitting in an alcove.

Gazes met and held, pale blue and darkest brown and Sally nodded, shrugging off the lack of a nod in return.

To make a point she left her last US dollar in the saucer by the door.

"Well, that went perfectly," Sally announced as she slumped into the chair opposite Per and reached for her Leica.

"You got your money?"

"Yeah." Sally picked up the dregs of Per's espresso and downed it in a single gulp. "Every last penny in my account."

"What now?" Per asked.

"We go our separate ways I guess."

"And your way is where?"

"Into the desert."

Per smiled. "You've been practising that," he said.

"Practising what?" Sally demanded, her puzzlement real.

"That line," said Per, brushing aside his floppy hair. He put one hand to his pale eyes to shade out a sun already kept at bay by a café umbrella and pretended to peer into the far distance. "Searching for your famous weasel?"

Sally nodded and Per laughed.

"I don't believe you," he said. "Not even an Englishwoman chases into the desert after a weasel."

"I do," said Sally. "Chasing things is how you find them."

"But they're not even rare," Per protested. "I know, I looked them up." He pulled a battered Nokia from his rucksack and flipped up the number pad to reveal a foldout keyboard and pop-up screen. "So what are you really after?"

"Really?"

Per nodded.

"Lions," said Sally, smiling at his expression. "Barbary lions. The kind that ate Christians in the Roman circus."

"What do they look like?"

"Much like this," Sally said and she pulled a tatty newspaper clipping from the back of her wallet. It showed a lion cub so pale it almost looked grey. "The last known Barbary lion was shot in Morocco eighty years ago."

"So how are you going to find one?"

"By looking," Sally said flatly. "There've been rumours for years that a pair exist in captivity at a private zoo."

"Whose?"

Sally smiled. "The Emir's own," she said. "Apparently he sees nobody, but I think he might see me. He's partial to single blondes . . ." She tapped quote marks either side of the words, stressing the irony.

"You want company?"

Sally was about to point out the contradiction between what she'd just said and his question when she noticed the local newspaper tucked into the side pocket of Per's rucksack. It was folded open towards the back and she could just about see the small-ad headings from where she sat, not that she needed to. The boxed-out advertisement for Hertz told her all she needed to know.

"You're going to hire a car?"

"Too expensive," said Per. "I'll buy one."

"This works out cheaper?"

"Depends what I buy. Get a Mahari and it'll run like clockwork, Soviet clockwork . . . Four-cylinder, two-stroke, made in Portugal," he added, seeing Sally's blank look.

"And that runs like . . ."

"It was a joke," he said patiently. "Maharis break down daily but even a child can mend them. What I actually want is a Jeep." Tossing the paper across, Per said, "Take a look." He'd ringed three possibles and put lines through two of those. "Too old," he said, jerking his head towards the first one. "And the other's too expensive. The last one looks okay though."

As she expected the price was substantially more than Sally had. "You off to see it now?" she asked hopefully.

"I wish." Per shook his head. "I called and the first time they can do is ten o'clock tomorrow. Which means finding somewhere for the night."

"Not a problem," said Sally. "There were a dozen guesthouses near Gare de Tunis. We can try there." And so they did, although they ended up with separate rooms because the woman behind the desk refused to rent them a double. She did this through the simple expedient of refusing to understand what Sally and Per were asking for.

One room was under the roof of a narrow four-storey guesthouse that advertised itself as L'Hôtel Carthage, the other on the second floor, up a flight of stairs from the reception area. Both looked onto a narrow side street parked with cars but only the lower one had a shower and loo. Sally chose the roof because her window had a better view. That was what she told Per anyway, in fact the main thing her room had going for it was being a third cheaper than the room Per took.

"You want to go eat?"

"Not really hungry," said Sally. "Although you could always pick up a bottle of red if you go out." She watched Per nod and smiled to herself. Now she had a reason to drop by his room later if that was the route she decided to take; it would be, but Sally was planning to spend an hour or two fooling herself first.