'Me? I never!' said Byrne righteously.

We left and, just outside the office, passed a man carrying a sub-machine-gun. Once in the street I said, 'He doesn't like you. What was all that about?'

'Just a general principle. The boys in the Maghreb don't like foreigners getting too close to the Tuareg. That guy is an Arab from Sidi-bel-Abbes. It's about time they recruited their police from the Tuareg.'

'Can he get you into trouble?'

'Fat chance. The Commissioner of Police lives in Hesther Raulier's pocket.'

I digested that thoughtfully, then said, 'What did you say to him in Arabic?'

Byrne smiled. 'Just something I wouldn't want to say to your face. I told him you were a goddamn stupid tourist who didn't know which end was up. I also managed to slip in that we were waiting for a roll of film to be developed. With a bit of luck he'll check on that.'

We went shopping. Byrne seemed well known and there was a lot of good-natured chaffing and laughter – also a lot of mint tea. He bought salt, sugar and flour, small quantities of each in many places, spreading his custom wide. He also bought a map for me and then we went back to the hotel for a final beer.

As we sat down he said, 'No trace of Kissack, but the word is out to look for him.'

The map was the Michelin North and West Africa, and the scale was 40 kilometres to the centimetre, about 63 miles to the inch. Even so, it was a big map and more than covered the small table at which we were sitting. I folded it to more comfortable proportions and looked at the area around Tammanrasset. The ground we had covered in the last few days occupied an astonishingly small portion of that map. I could cover it with the first joint of my thumb.

I observed the vast areas of blankness, and said, 'Where are we going?'

Byrne took the map and put his finger on Tammanrasset 'South from here, but not by the main road. We take this track here, and as soon as we get to Fort Flatters we're in Niger.' He turned the map over. 'So we enter the Air from the north – through Iferouane and down to Timia. My place is near there. The Air is good country.'

I used my thumb to estimate the distance. It was a crow's flight of about four hundred miles, probably six hundred on the ground and, as far as I could see, through a lot of damn all. The Air seemed to be mountainous country.

I said,'What's an erg?'

Byrne clicked his tongue. 'I guess it's best described as a sea of sand.'

I noted with relief that there was no erg on the route to the Air.

We drank our beer leisurely and then wandered down the street to pick up the photographs. Suddenly Byrne nudged me. 'Look!' A policeman came out of a doorway just ahead and crossed the road to go into the paste de police. 'What did I tell you,' said Byrne. 'He's been checking those goddamn pictures.'

'Hell!' I said. 'I didn't think he'd do it. A suspicious crowd, aren't they.'

'Keeping the Revolution pure breeds suspicion.'

We collected the photographs, picked up the Toyota at a garage where it had been refuelled and the water cans filled, and drove back to Abalessa.

Mokhtar reported no problems, but Billson suddenly became voluble and wanted to talk. He seemed a lot stronger and, since he hadn't been able to talk to Mokhtar, it all came bursting out of him.

But Byrne would have none of it 'No time for that now. I want to get out of here. Let's go.'

Again we picked up speed as we hit the asphalted section of road and, because we had to go through Tarn, Billson was put in the back of the truck and covered with a couple of djellabas. The road to the south left Tarn from Fort Lapperine and, as we turned the corner, I was conscious of the man standing outside the paste de police, cradling a submachine-gun in his arms, and sighed with relief as we bumped out of sight.

About four miles out of town Byrne stopped and went to the back of the truck where I joined him. He uncovered Billson, and said, 'How are you?'

'I'm all right.'

Byrne looked at him thoughtfully. 'Can you walk?'

'Walk?'

Byrne said to me, There's a police checkpoint just around the corner there. I bet that son of a bitch back there has told them to lay for me.' He turned to Billson. 'Yes, walk. Not far – two or three kilometres. Mokhtar will be with you.'

'I think I could do that,' said Billson.

Byrne nodded and went to talk to Mokhtar. I said to Bill-son, 'You're sure you can do it?'

He looked at me wanly. 1 can try.' He turned to look at Byrne. 'Who is that man?'

'Someone who saved your life,' I said. 'Now he's saving your neck.' I went back and got into the cab. Presently Byrne got in and we drove on. I looked back to see Billson and Mokhtar disappear behind some rocks by the roadside.

Byrne was right. They gave us a real going-over at the checkpoint, more than was usual, he told me afterwards -much more. But you don't argue with the man with the gun. They searched the truck and opened every bag and container, not bothering to repack which Byrne and I had to do. They pondered over my passport for a long time before handing it back and then we had to fill in more fiches, again in triplicate.

'This is damn silly,' I said. 'I did this only this morning.'

'Do it,' said Byrne shortly. So I did it.

At last we were allowed to go on and soon after leaving the checkpoint Byrne swerved off the main track on to a minor track which was unsignposted.

The main road goes to In Guezzam,' he said. 'But it would be tricky getting you over the border there. Fort Flatters will be better.' He drove on a little way and then stopped. 'We'll wait for Mokhtar here.'

We got out of the truck and I looked at the map. After a few minutes I said, 'I'm surprised they're not here by now. We were a fair time at the checkpoint and it doesn't take long to walk three kilometres.'

'More like eight,' said Byrne calmly. 'If I'd told him the truth he might have jibbed.'

'Oh!'

Presently Mokhtar emerged on to the side of the road. He was carrying Billson slung over his shoulder like a sack. We put him in the back of the truck and made him as comfortable as possible, revived him with water, and then drove on.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

We drove to the Air in easy stages, doing little more than a hundred miles a day. It was during this period that I got to know Paul Billson, assuming that I got to know him at all because he was a hard man to fathom. I think Byrne got to know him a lot better than I did.

In spite of his garrulity at Abalessa, he felt a lot less like talking after passing out while going around the checkpoint, but he was a lot better that evening when we made camp.

We now had tents which were carried on a rack on top of the truck, and while Byrne and Mokhtar were erecting them I dressed Billson's wound. It was clean and already beginning to heal, but I puffed some penicillin powder into it before putting on fresh bandages.

He was bewildered. 'I don't know what's going on,' he said pathetically. 'Who are you?'

'I told you – Max Stafford.'

That means nothing.'

'If I said that I was responsible for security at Franklin Engineering would that mean anything?'

He looked up. 'For God's sake! You mean you've chased all the way out here because I left Franklin's in a hurry?'

'Not entirely – but you get the drift. There's a lot you can tell me.'

He looked around. We were camped on the lee side of a ridge almost at the top. I had queried that when Byrne picked the spot; camping on the flats at the bottom of the ridge would have been better, in my opinion. Byrne had shaken his head. 'Never camp on low ground. More men die of drowning in the Sahara than die of thirst.' When I expressed incredulity he pointed to mountains in the north-east. 'You could have a thunderstorm there and not know it. But a flash flood sweeping through the wadis could come right through here.' I conceded his point.