'No – from before the war?'

'Not many of those. What's your interest, Mr Kissack?'

'I'm a reporter,' said Kissack. 'Investigative stuff.'

'In the Sahara?' queried Byrne sardonically.

Kissack spread his hands. 'Busman's holiday. I'm just touring around and I guess my journalistic instincts got the better of me.'

Byrne nodded his head towards Bailly. 'He a reporter, too?'

'Oh no. M'sieur Bailly is my guide.'

Bailly looked more suited to be a guide to the murkier regions of the Kasbah in Algiers. Byrne said, 'Is that all you wanted me for?' He drained his glass.

Kissack stretched out his hand. 'How long have you lived here, Mr Byrne?'

'Thirty-five years.'

'Then please stay. I'd like to talk to you. It's nice to be able to talk to someone again in my own language. I have very little French and M'sieur Bailly has no English at all.' He was a damned liar; Bailly was taking in every word. Kissack said, 'Have another beer, Mr Byrne – that is, if you're not in a hurry.'

Byrne appeared to hesitate, then said, 'I'm going no place. All right, I'll have another beer. You want to pick my brains, that's the payment.'

'Good,' said Kissack enthusiastically, and signal led for a waiter. 'You'll be able to fill me in on local colour – it's hard for Bailly to get it across.'

'I'll do my best,' said Byrne modestly.

The waiter took the order and I gave him my empty glass. Kissack said casually, 'Ever come across a man called Bill-son?'

'Know of him. Never did get to meet him.'

'Ah!' Kissack was pleased. 'Do you know where he is?'

'He's dead, Mr Kissack,' said Byrne.

'Are you sure of that?'

'Well, I can't say I am,' admitted Byrne. 'There was no death certificate. But I reckon he's dead, all right.'

Kissack frowned. 'How do you know?'

'Hell!' said Byrne. 'He must be. His airplane crashed over forty years ago. You don't suppose he's still walking across the desert like the children of Israel?'

Kissack said in a choked voice, That's not the Billson I meant.'

'No?' said Byrne. 'I thought you were still on the airplane kick.' The waiter put a beer in front of him and he picked it up.

'Your Billson,' said Kissack softly. 'When did that happen?'

'Was in 1936 during the London to Cape Town Air Race.' He shrugged. 'And he's not my Billson.'

'Do you know where that aeroplane is?'

'Nobody knows where it is,' said Byrne. 'I told you – the desert hides things. Hell, you could hide an air fleet in three million square miles.' He drank some beer. 'Not that I wouldn't be interested in it if someone found it.'

'You wouldn't be looking for it?' asked Kissack.

'Why in hell would I be doing that? I've better things to do with my time. When that airplane is found it'll be in a goddamn nasty part of the desert, else it would have shown up by now. I've better things to do than risk my neck like that.'

Kissack put his hand to his breast pocket. From it he extracted a piece of paper which he unfolded and laid on the table. It was one of Byrne's leaflets. 'I'm unable to read this myself but Bailly translated it for me,' he said, 'I found it remarkably interesting.'

'Yeah, I suppose a reporter might.'

'And you still say you're not looking for that aeroplane?'

'Not specifically – no.' Byrne pointed to the leaflet. 'That's something I distribute every three-four years – more in hope than anything else. I told you, I was a flier during the war. Flying in North Africa, too. I'm interested in desert airplanes, especially since I put one there myself. Might write a book about them.'

'A scholarly monograph, no doubt,' said Kissack sarcastically. 'Some Aspects of Air Disasters in the Sahara.'

'I know it sounds nutty,' said Byrne. 'But it's my hobby. Most folks' hobbies seem nutty to someone or other. Ever thought how crazy stamp collecting is?'

'Expensive, too,' said Kissack. 'Ten camels must be worth a lot of money.'

'Might seem so to you' Byrne shrugged. 'I breed them.' He grinned at Kissack. 'Get them at cost price, as you might say. And it ain't much, spread over three or four years.'

Kissack wore a baffled look. The yarn Byrne was spinning was just mad enough to be true. He took a deep breath, and said, 'The man I'm looking for is Paul Billson.'

'Paul Billson.' Byrne tasted the word along with some beer. 'Paul Billson.' he shook his head. 'Can't say I've heard of him. Any relation?'

1 don't know,' said Kissack flatly. He prodded the leaflet with his forefinger. 'Get any results from that?'

'Not so far. Just the same goddamn list I got last time I put it out'

Kissack looked at him for a long time wordlessly. Byrne stirred, and said, 'Anything more you'd like to know?'

'Not for the moment,' said Kissack.

Byrne stood up. 'Well, you know where to find me again if you want me. Up near Timia. Nice to have visited with you, Mr Kissack. Hope I've been of help.' He nodded pleasantly to Bailly. 'Bonjour, M'sieur Bailly.'

Bailly grunted.

As we drove away from the hotel I said, 'Well, now we know.'

'Yeah,' said Byrne laconically. After a while he said, That guy gives me a real creepy feeling.'

'Why should he be looking for Paul? He must have written him off as dead.'

'It must have come as a hell of a shock to him,' said Byrne. 'He knocks off Paul, then the whole goddamn Sahara is flooded with questionnaires about crashed airplanes – and coming from Niger, for God's sake! He must have been a confused boy.'

'But he was quick off the mark.' I thought about it. 'Good thing we didn't bring Paul into town.' I laughed. That was a crazy yarn you spun him.'

'It won't hold him long,' said Byrne. 'He'll ask around and find I've never done a damnfool thing like that before. I'm hoping he'll go up to Timia – that'll give us some space between us. If he wastes his time on Timia we'll be the other side of Bilma before he finds out he's lost us.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

We drove east out of Agadez for about five miles, then left the track to rendezvous with Hamiada at the place appointed. Hamiada had already made camp and had a tent erected. We stayed there the night and slept early in preparation for an early start to cross the Tenere. Next morning I gave Billson the jeans and shirts I had bought 'You can't wander around the Sahara in a business suit,' I said. 'You'd better wear these. I think they'll fit.'

He rejected them and I said, 'Paul, you're a damned fool! Kissack, back there, has your description and he knows what you're wearing.' I shrugged. 'But please yourself.'

Paul changed his clothing fast.

I noticed that Hamiada had cut a lot of acacia branches which he tied in bundles and put in the back of the truck. When I asked Byrne about this he said, 'If we want hot food we have to have fuel.' He nodded towards the east 'There's nothing out there.'

Hamiada left, taking the camels and going back to Timia. We went in the opposite direction, at first due east, and then curving to the north-east. For the first fifty miles it wasn't too bad; the track was reasonably good and we were able to hold an average speed of about thirty miles an hour. But then the track petered out and we were on rough ground which gradually gave way to drifts of sand, and finally, the sand dunes themselves.

'So this is what you call an erg,' I said.

Byrne laughed shortly. 'Not yet.' He indicated a crescent-shaped dune we were passing., 'These are barchan dunes. They're on the move all the time, driven by the wind. Not very fast – but they move. All the sand is on the move, that's why there's no track here.'

Presently the isolated barchan dunes gave way to bigger sand structures, rolling hills of sand. The mountains of the Air had long disappeared below the horizon behind us. Byrne drove skilfully, keeping to the bottom of the valleys and threading his way among the dunes. I wondered how he knew which way to go, but he didn't seem worried. As we went he discoursed on the different types of sand.