To waylay a gang of tourists,' he said to my surprise. 'How's your German?'

'Adequate – no more.'

'Maybe it'll do. Kissack's in Bilma. He took Bailly to what passes for a hospital and spun a yarn about an auto accident to explain Bailly's foot. It passed because there's no doctor. Bailly is being flown out tomorrow.'

'He could hardly report being assaulted – not after what he did to us. But why don't we report to the police?'

'And how would we explain you? You're in Niger illegally.' Byrne shook his head decisively. 'Hell, we'd be tied, up for months, with or without you. Besides, I'd like to settle with Kissack myself and in my own way.'

'So where do German tourists come in?'

'It struck me that Kissack doesn't know about you.'

I thought about that and found it was probably true. I hadn't told anyone in England where I was going. As far as anyone knew I was sunning myself in Jamaica, as Charlie Malleson had suggested, instead of doing the same in an improbable place like Bilma. And even though I had been close enough to Kissack to touch him he only knew me as an anonymous Targui. The only times he had seen me were in the Hotel de l'Air and over the sights of a rifle in the Tenere.

Byrne said, 'I want to put you next to Kissack. Find out what he's doing.'

'But the German tourists?'

'I was talking to a Tenere guide, a Targui I know called Rhossi. He says there's a German crowd coming in from the north and they should be hitting Bilma this afternoon – he's going to take them across the Tenere. It's a government regulation that all tour groups must have a guide in the Tenere.'

I wasn't surprised. 'So?'

There aren't many Europeans in Bilma so you can't just walk in to chat with Kissack. The local law would spot you and want to see your papers. But if you arrive with a gang of Germans you can merge into the background. I'm going to drop you about five miles out of Bilma and you can bum a lift.'

It would work. Any party of Europeans would give a lone European hitch-hiker a lift for a few miles. 'What do I tell them?'

'Hell, tell them anything you like. No. There's some rock carvings about seven miles out just off the road. Tell them that you walked out of Bilma to look at them, but now you're tired and you'd appreciate a lift back.' He thought for a moment. 'You'd better see the carvings.'

So we went to look at rock carvings up the rough track north of Bilma. I suppose they were more engravings than carvings, cut into the vertical sides of rocks but not too deeply. The subjects were interesting; there were many cattle with spreading horns, a rider on a horse which was unmistakably a stallion though the rider was depicted as a mere stick figure, and, surprisingly, an elephant drawn with a fluent line which Picasso would have been proud of.

'An elephant?'

'Why not?' asked Byrne. 'Where do you suppose Hannibal got the elephants to cross the Alps?'

That question had never troubled me.

Byrne said, 'The North African elephant went extinct about two thousand years ago. I've seen skeletons, though. They were midgets – about half the size of an Indian elephant.'

I looked at the barren waste around us; there wasn't enough vegetation to support a half-sized rabbit. I looked back at the engraving. 'How old?'

'Maybe three thousand years. Not as old as the paintings in the Tassili.' He pointed to a series of marks – crosses, circles, squares and dots. 'That's more recent; it's Tifinagh, the written form of Tamachek.'

'What does it say?'

'I wouldn't know; I can't read it.' He smiled. 'Probably something like "I love Lucy", or "Kilroy was here". You'd better change your clothes.'

So I reverted to being a European and the clothing seemed oddly restricting after the freedom of a gandoura. As Byrne drove back to the track he said, 'The tour leader will probably collect all the passports and take them into the fort for inspection. He won't ask for yours, of course. Just mingle with the group enough so it looks as though you're one of them. They'll split up to have a look at Bilma pretty soon and that gives you your chance to hunt up Kissack.'

'That's all right as long as the cops don't do a head count.' Byrne shook his head at that. 'Where am I likely to find Kissack?'

'Anywhere – look for the Range-Rover – but there's a broken-down shack that calls itself a restaurant. You might find him there. Anyway, it's a chance to have a beer.'

He dropped me by the side of the track and drove away after thoughtfully leaving a small canteen of water which looked as though it had started life in the British army.

The German group pitched up three hours later, eighteen people in four long-wheelbase Land-Rovers. I stood up and held out my hand as the first Land-Rover came up, and it drew to a halt. My German, le arned when I was with the Army of the Rhine, was about as grammatical as Byrne's French, but just as serviceable. No foreigner minds you speaking his language badly providing you make the attempt. Excepting the French, of course.

The driver of the first Land-Rover was the group leader, and he willingly agreed to take me into Bilma if I didn't mind a squash in the front seat. He looked at me curiously. 'What are you doing out here?'

'I walked out from Bilma to look at some rock engravings.' I smiled. 'I'd rather not walk back.'

'Didn't know there were any around here. Plenty up north at the Col des Chandeliers. Where are they?'

'About three kilometres back, just off the track.'

'Can you show me? My people would be interested.'

'Of course; only too glad.'

So we went back to look at the engravings, and I reflected that it was just as well that Byrne had taken me there. We spent twenty minutes there, the Germans clicking away busily with their Japanese cameras. They were a mixed lot ranging from teenagers to old folk and I wondered what had brought them into the desert. It certainly wasn't the normal package deal.

Less than half an hour after that we were driving up the long slope which leads to the fort in Bilma. The Land-Rovers parked with Teutonic precision in a neat rank just by the gate and I opened the door. 'Thanks for the lift.'

He nodded. 'Helmut Shaeffer. Perhaps we will have a beer in the restaurant, eh?'

'I'm Max Stafford. That's a good idea. Where is the restaurant?'

'Don't you know?' There was surprise in his voice.

'I haven't seen much of Bilma itself. We got in late last night.'

'Oh.' He pointed down the slope and to the right. 'Over there; you can't miss it.'

As Byrne had predicted, he began collecting passports. I lingered, talking with a middle-aged man who discoursed on the wonders he had seen in the north. Shaeffer took the pile of passports into the fort and the group began to break up. I wandered off casually following a trio heading in the general direction of the restaurant.

It was as Byrne had described it; a broken-down shack. The Germans looked at the sun-blasted sign and the peeling walls and muttered dubiously, then made up their minds and went inside. I followed closely on their heels.

It was a bare room with a counter on one side. There were a few rough deal tables, a scattering of chairs, and a wooden bench which ran along two sides of the room. My hackles rose as I saw Kissack sitting on the bench at a corner table next to a man in local dress – not a Targui because he did not wear the veil. That would be the Arab Konti had seen. Kissack was eating an omelette.

He looked up and inspected us curiously, so I turned and started to talk in German to the man next to me, asking if he thought the food here would be hygienically prepared. He advised me to stick to eggs. When I looked back at Kissack he had lost interest in us and seemed more intent on what was on his plate.

That gave me an idea. I crossed the room and stood before him, and asked in German if he recommended the omelette. He looked up and frowned. 'Huh! Don't you speak English?'