'What's this about Tin Hinan?'

'Over here.' I followed him. 'She was found down there.' I peered into the small stone chamber which had obviously been covered by a hand-worked stone slab that lay nearby. 'It's still a mystery. The Tuareg have a story that a couple called Yunis and Izubahil were sent from Byzantium to rule over them; that would be about the year 1400. Some of the jewellery found on her was East Roman of that period, but some of the coins dated back to the fifth and sixth century. And there were some iron arm rings which the Byzantines didn't wear.'

He changed his tone and said abruptly, 'We're not here for a history lesson – get busy with your snapshots. Put me in one of them, and I'll do the same for you. Fool tourists are always doing that.'

So I ran off a spool of pictures and Byrne took a couple of me and we went away although I should have liked to have stayed longer. I have always liked a good mystery which, I suppose, was the reason I was in the Sahara anyway.

Abalessa was about sixty miles from Tamm anrasset and we made it in just about two and a half hours, being helped during the last stretch by the asphalted road from the airstrip to Tarn. That ten-mile bit was the only paved road I saw in the whole Sahara and I never found out why it had been put there.

Byrne pulled up outside the Hotel Tin Hinan. 'Go in and make your peace,' he said. 'I'm going to nose around. I'll meet you back here in, maybe, an hour. You can have a beer while you're waiting.'

'Am I staying here tonight?'

'No, you'll be with me. But you'll probably have to pay for your room reservation. Give me your film.'

So I took the film from the camera, gave it to him and got out, and he drove away blasting the horn. There was the predictable confusion in the hotel with reproaches which I soothed by paying the full room charge even though I had not used it. The manager's French was bad but good enough for me to hear that the police had been looking for me. I promised faithfully to report to the poste de police.

Then I went into the courtyard, sat at a table, and ordered a beer, and nothing had ever tasted so good. Nothing had changed in Tammanrasset since the day 1 had flown in and seen it with new eyes. The Tuareg walked down the sandy street in their languid, majestic manner, or stood about in small groups discussing whatever it was that Tuareg discuss. Probably the price of camels and the difficulty of shooting gazelle. A lot of them wore swords.

Of course, there was no reason why Tarn should have changed. It was I who had changed. Those few days in Atakor and Koudia had made the devil of a difference. And now it seemed I was to go down to Niger – to a place called Agadez and where was it? Ah yes; the Air ou something or other. I didn't know how far it was and I wondered if I could buy a map.

There were other things I needed. I looked down at myself. The natty tropical suiting the London tailor had foisted on me was showing the strain of desert travel. I gave the jacket an open-handed blow and a cloud of dust arose. With those travel stains and my unshaven appearance I probably looked like a tramp; any London bobby would have run me in on sight. But I saw no chance of buying European-style clothing in Tarn. I'd ask Byrne about that I finished the beer and ordered a coffee which came thick and sugary and in very small quantity, which was just as well, and I decided I'd rather stay with the mint tea. I was halfway through the second beer when Byrne pitched up. His first act was to order a beer and his second to drain the glass in one swallow. Then he ordered another, and said, 'No one called Kissack has been around.'

'So?'

He sighed. 'Don't mean much, of course. A guy can change his name. There's a party of German tourists going through.'

He laughed. 'Some of them are wearing Lederhosen.'

I wasn't very much amused. In the desert Lederhosen weren't any more ridiculous than the suit I was wearing. I said, 'Have you any maps? I'd like to know where I'm going.'

'Don't use them myself, but I can get you one.'

'And I can do with some clothes.'

He inspected me. 'Wait until we get further south,' he advised. 'Nothing much here; better in Agadez. Your prints will be ready in an hour; I put the arm on the photographer.' He drained his glass. 'Now let's go tell the tale to the cops.'

Outside the entrance to the paste de police he said, 'Got your passport?'

I pulled it out of my pocket and hesitated. 'Look, if I say I'm going to Niger it's going to look funny when he finds no Niger visa in here.'

'No problem,' said Byrne. 'He won't give a damn about that. Niger is another country and it's not his worry what trouble you find yourself in there. He'll be only too happy to get you out of Algeria. Now go in and act the idiot tourist. I'll be right behind you.'

So I reported to the plump uniformed policeman behind the desk, and laid down my passport. 'I've been waiting for you, M'sieur Stafford,' he said coldly. 'What kept you?' He spoke heavily accented French.

'Merde!' said Byrne. 'It was only a couple of days.' I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised that Byrne spoke French, but I was. It was ungrammatical but serviceable.

'Three and a half, M'sieur Byrne,' said the policeman flatly.

'I thought he'd reported – I only found out last night, and we came straight in.'

'Where were you?'

'Abalessa.' He added something in a guttural language totally unlike that in which he spoke to Mokhtar. I took it to be Arabic.

'Nowhere else?'

'Where else is there to go out there?' asked Byrne.

I said, 'I suppose it's my fault. I jumped at the chance to go out there as soon as I met Mr Byrne. I didn't know I had to report here until he told me last night.' I paused, and added, 'It's quite a place out there; I'm not sure it's Roman, though.'

The policeman didn't comment on that. 'Are you staying in Tammanrasset long, M'sieur Stafford?'

I glanced at Byrne. 'No; I'm going down to Agadez and the Air.'

'With M'sieur Byrne?'

'Yes.'

He suddenly seemed more cheerful as he picked up my passport. 'We have much trouble with you tourists. You don't understand that there are strict rules that you must follow. There is another Englishman we are looking for. It all wastes our time.' He opened the passport, checked me against the photograph, and flicked the pages. There is no visa for Algeria here,' he said sharply.

'You know it's not necessary,' said Byrne.

'Of course.' The policeman's eyes narrowed as he looked at Byrne. 'Very good of you to instruct me in my work.' He put his hands flat on the table. 'I think a lot about you, M'sieur Byrne. I do not think you are a good influence in. the Ahaggar. It may be that I shall write a report on you.'

'It won't get past the Commissioner of Police in Algiers,' said Byrne. 'You can depend on that.'

The policeman said nothing to that. His face was expressionless as he stamped my passport and pushed it across the desk. 'You will fill out fiches in triplicate. If you do not know how I am sure M'sieur Byrne will instruct you.' He indicated a side table.

The fiche was a small card, somewhat smaller than a standard postcard and printed in Arabic and French. I scanned it, then said to Byrne, 'Standard bureaucratic stuff – but what the hell do I put down under "Tribe"?'

Byrne grinned. 'A couple of years ago there was a guy here from the Isle of Man. He put down Manx.' He wilted a little under my glare and said, 'Just put a stroke through it'

I filled in all three fiches and put them on the policeman's desk. He said, 'When are you leaving for Niger?'

I looked at Byrne, who said, 'Now. We just have to go to Abalessa to pick up some gear.'

The policeman nodded. 'Don't forget to report at the checkpoint outside town. You have an unfortunate habit of going around it, M'sieur Byrne.'