Binaud grunted; his eyelids slid down to a half-shuttered secretiveness and he flashed his teeth in an accidental smile. “What’s this then?”

“Come along.”

They shepherded Binaud around to the side of the building. The others were standing by the station wagon. Three of them pulled revolvers and they put Binaud in frisk position with his hands on top of the car while they went over him with care.

The search produced a pocket revolver and two knives. After they had disarmed him Lime said, “It’s a little public here. Let’s take him on board one of the boats.”

They walked him out onto the pier and prodded him down the ladder into the forward compartment of a cabin cruiser. The boat rode gently up and down against the old tires that hung on the pier as fenders. One of the men lit the lantern.

Lime said to Binaud, “Sit down.”

Binaud backed up slowly until the backs of his knees struck the edge of a bunk. Sat and watched them all, his eyes flicking from face to face.

“We’re looking for Sturka,” Lime said.

“I don’t know that name.” Binaud had a high wheezing husky voice. Gravelly; it made Lime think of “Rochester” Anderson’s voice.

“They came to you a few days ago—it was probably Wednesday night. They’d have wanted you to take them somewhere, by boat or by plane.”

“A great many people hire my boats and my plane. It’s my business.”

“These had a prisoner.”

Binaud shrugged and Lime turned to Chad Hill. “He thinks anything we could do to make him talk would be nothing compared to what Sturka and Djelil would do to him if he did talk.”

“Offer him money,” Chad said in English.

Binaud understood that; his eyes became crafty.

Lime said in French, “Two hundred thousand dinar, Binaud. The price of a good airplane.”

He had the man’s attention at any rate. He added, “You’ve nothing to fear from Djelil—he’s the one who sent us to you. As for Sturka he can’t come out of this alive. You know who his prisoner is.”

“No. I do not.”

“You mean they kept his face hidden.”

Binaud said nothing. Lime sat down on the bunk facing him. They were crowded into the small cabin; Binaud showed his distress. Lime said, “Two hundred and fifty thousand dinar. Call it twenty-five thousand pounds. In gold sovereigns.”

“I do not see any money in front of me.”

Lime spoke in English without looking up. “Get it.”

One of the men left, going up the ladder; the boat swayed when the man stepped onto the pier. Lime said, “We have it with us. There wouldn’t have been time to do it another way. You can understand that.”

“Can I?”

“The prisoner is Clifford Fairlie. If you didn’t know that already.”

No indication of surprise. Binaud sat silent until the agent returned. The leather case was very heavy. They opened it on the deck and two of the agents started counting out the big gold coins, making neat stacks.

Lime said, “Now what about Sturka?”

“I know no one by that name.”

“Call him any name you like then. Don’t you want the money, Binaud?” Lime leaned forward and tapped the man’s knee. “You realize the alternative. We’ll squeeze it all out of you. When it’s finished there won’t be much left of you.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” Binaud told him, and met his eyes. “Why don’t you do that anyway? It would save you the money.”

“We haven’t time. We’ll do it if you force it, but we’d rather do it fast.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me and take the money back?”

“You don’t,” Lime said, “but what have you got to lose?”

The coins were counted out to the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds and the rest went back into the case. Binaud watched every movement until the case was shut; finally he said, “My information probably is not worth that much money you know.”

“If it helps at all, the money is yours.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“We’ll see.”

“I didn’t know their names. I didn’t know the man was who you say he was. The prisoner.”

“Where did you take them?”

“I didn’t. They had their own pilot.”

Lime felt a sour taste. “Describe him.”

“A Negro. Large, heavy, always chewing on something.”

“When was this arranged?”

“Ten days ago perhaps.”

“Who arranged it with you? Djelil?”

“No. It was a man named Ben Krim.”

“Benyoussef Ben Krim,” Lime breathed. “Again. What story did he give you?”

“None, Monsieur. He reserved my airplane for the night of the twelfth. It was to be filled with fuel. He said he would provide his own pilot. I only had to row them out to the plane.”

“Was Ben Krim with them when they came?”

“No.”

“How many were there?”

“Four,” Binaud said, and frowned. “No, five. The prisoner and four others. One was a woman, one was the Negro. The other two were dressed in burnouses, I did not see their faces.”

“What condition was the prisoner in?”

“He appeared unharmed. I recall his face was masked.”

“Masked?”

“You know. White tape and plasters.” Binaud made gestures across his eyes and mouth.

“Did they explain him?”

“Not really. They said something about the OAS. I thought perhaps he was an OAS they had captured. The Berbers still hold grudges you know.”

It was very glib and it was probably a lie. But it really didn’t matter. Lime said, “Now I see you have recovered the airplane. How?”

“I had to go down to a wadi to pick it up. Beyond the mountains.”

“Where?”

“Have you a map?”

Chad Hill provided one from his pocket and they unfolded it on the bunk beside Binaud. Binaud inserted his lower lip between his teeth and leaned over the map. Presently his index finger stabbed a point. “Here.”

It was south-southeast of Algiers perhaps four hundred miles. Beyond the Atlas Mountains and the Tell—out in the arid plateaus of the bled, on the fringe of the Sahara. Binaud explained, “A friend drove me down.”

“Now think carefully. How much fuel had been used?”

“The Catalina? I do not recall.”

“The tanks weren’t full though.”

Binaud was thinking hard. “No. There was enough to get me back here—more than enough. If there had been any question I’d have worried and I’d remember that. There’s no petrol at that wadi.”

“A landing strip?”

“No. Just the plain. No trouble landing and taking off on it, though.”

“You came straight back here from the wadi?”

“Yes of course.”

“And then I imagine you filled the tanks when you got here.”

“Yes I did.”

“How much fuel did she accept?”

“Ah. I see—yes.” Binaud put his mind on it. “One hundred and forty liters, I believe it was. Yes, I’m quite sure of it.” It was the kind of thing a man like Binaud would remember. He added, “And the distance from the wadi to here was perhaps five hundred and fifty kilometers. But then one has to clear the Atlas Mountains and that takes added fuel. I should say it required forty or fifty liters, the flight home.”

“Then they put enough miles on her to consume a hundred liters or so,” Lime said. “They had to cross the mountains the same as you. So we’ll figure the same rate of consumption.” He was talking mainly to himself.

“They probably covered about five hundred miles altogether. Approximately eight hundred kilometers.”

Some of that mileage would be the distance between Sturka’s lair and the wadi of course. But how much? Ten miles or two hundred?

More likely it was a fair distance. It left a depressing amount of earth to cover. Draw a half circle around El Djamila with a radius of four hundred and fifty miles or so.… Even if you narrowed it to a wedge with the wadi at the center of its base you had forty or fifty thousand square miles.

It wasn’t quite a dead end but it was tough. Lime stood up and took Hill aside. “We’ll have to get people into all the villages out there. Find out if they heard that plane go over Wednesday night. Try and find out where it landed.”