I said, 'Even if Scotland Yard or the Director of Public Prosecutions take no action the newspapers would love it. The Insight team of the Sunday Times would make a meal of it. Think of all the juicy bits – Lady Brinton dying of cancer in virtual poverty while her husband lived high on the hog. Your name would stink, even in the City where they have strong stomachs. Do you think any decent or even any moderately indecent man would have anything to do with you after that?'

I stuck my finger under his nose. 'And another thing – Paul Billson knows nothing about this. But I can prime him with it and point him at you like a gun. He'd kill you – you wouldn't stand a flaming chance. You'd better get out your cheque book.'

He flinched but made a last try. 'This figure is impossible. You don't suppose I'm as fluid as all that?'

'Don't try to con me, you old bastard,' I said. 'Any bank in the City will lend you that amount if you just pick up the telephone and ask. Do it!'

He stood up. 'You're a hard man.'

'I've had a good teacher. You make out two cheques; one to the Peter Billson Memorial Trust for a million and a half. The rest to me – that's my twerve-and-a-half per cent commission. Expenses have been high. And I get Gloria's shares, and you sell out of Stafford Security. I don't care who you sell your shares to but it mustn't be Charlie Malleson.'

How do I know you won't renege? I want all the papers you have.'

'Not a chance in hell! Those are my insurance policies. I wouldn't want another Lash turning up in my life.'

He sat down and wrote the cheques.

I walked the streets of London for a long time that afternoon with cheques in my pocket for more money than I had ever carried. Alix Aarvik and Paul Billson would now be all right for the rest of their lives. I had put the money into a trust because I didn't want Paul getting his hands on it – he didn't deserve that. But the not-too-bright son of a not-too-bright mother would be looked after.

As for me, I thought 12i% was a reasonable fee. It would enable me to buy out Charlie Malleson, a regrettable necessity because I could no longer work with him. Jack Ellis would continue to be a high flier and he'd get his stake in the firm, and we'd hire an accountant and pay him well. And Byrne would get something unexpectedly higher than the. ridiculous fee he'd asked for saving lives and being shot at.

At the thought of Byrne I stopped suddenly and looked about me. I was in Piccadilly, at the Circus, and the lights and crowds were all about me in the evening dusk. And it all seemed unreal. This, the heart of the city at the heart of the world, wasn't reality. Reality lay in Atakor, in Koudia, in the Air, in the Tenere, on the Tassili.

I felt an awful sense of loss. I wanted to be with Byrne and Mokhtar and Hamiada, with the cheerful man who, because his name used to be Konti, was a murderer. I wanted to say hello again to the giraffe in Agadez, to sit beside a small fire at an evening camp and look at the stars, to fed again the freedom of a Targui.

I stopped and pondered, there among the hurrying crowds of Londoners, and decided to give Byrne his fee in person. Besides, it would also give me the opportunity of swapping dirty limericks with Hesther Raulier.