'We can leave her like this for a while,' Sayed announced, discarding the silk scarf and wiping his palms on the back of his cut-off jeans. 'Let's go and have a cold drink and see what the Englishman wants us to do.'

'What about the weights?' Raoul glanced at the girl's swollen sex lips and the tiny chains that hung taut over the edge of the bench. 'Shouldn't we take them off now?'

'No, the bitch can stay like that,' Sayed replied. 'So much for the English spy! She's just like the other girls, give them pain with their pleasure and they love it! We'll come back in an hour and water her.'

'Bye bye, English girl. Enjoy your rest!'

A warm breeze was blowing off the shallow, crystal clear water, where a handful of fishing boats bobbed gently, tied with long, old ropes of hemp to the crumbling stone wall of the harbour wall. A few seagulls circled lazily above the early morning fishermen and pearl divers who prepared their boats with no sense of urgency. It was already close to a hundred degrees and by midday it would be far, far hotter. In such heat, those who had to work, worked slowly and those who did not have to work sat in the shade and sipped mint tea or treacle sweet, thick black coffee.

Two figures stood on the harbour wall, a dozen yards apart, casting shadows over the sapphire water. One of the figures tossed a date stone into the water and a dozen tiny fish darted towards it. He then turned, and satisfied that no one unwanted was paying him any attention, he walked up to the other man.

'The Honourable Miles Kingston, I presume?' the Arab asked, in a near perfect Oxford English accent.

'Sheikh Auda bin Yasel. I've heard much about you. It's a pleasure to meet you.' They shook hands.

'Just Auda, is sufficient, please. And how might I be of assistance?'

The two men talked for ten minutes, the Arab listening mostly and nodding with agreement as the Englishman spoke.

The Arab was lean and very tall; his face intent and with his hooked nose and intense eyes he reminded the Englishman of a hawk. He wore high leather boots and traditional Arab garb, in loosely flowing black silk. As well as a headdress he had a long cloak of silk that was slung over his left shoulder. A scimitar hung from at his left hip from an ammunition belt that held dozens of rifle bullets. A rifle was slung over his right shoulder and partly concealed by the folds of his tunic, there was a sheathed dagger at his waist.

'Very well, half now,' said the Englishman, 'I don't suppose you can provide me with a receipt can you? We are supposed these days to be accountable.'

'I will write one out for you later. Meantime...' he gestured for the Englishman to give him payment.

'Of course, here's your advance then,' the Englishman drew an envelope from his safari suit jacket pocket. 'You will start straight away? Only time is of the essence, you understand?' As he spoke he thumbed through the money in the envelope, withdrew some then handed the envelope to the Arab.

'Your English expression has an Arab counterpart. Don't worry Englishman, I shall start straight away.'

'There's half. You'd better check it.'

The Arab glance at the envelope then slid it into the folds of his tunic without bothering to open it.

'Rest assured I trust you. That is a great difference between our peoples. We naturally trust until it proves provident not to. You on the other hand are instinctively mistrustful. Besides,' the Arab flashed a smile, 'do they not say that English gentlemen are men of honour?'

'They might, but I wouldn't recommend that you count on such an assumption'

The two men parted company, the Englishman walking back to a parked RangeRover; the Arab going to the end of the harbour wall and calling down to a muscular, young black man who was sat lounging in a sleek sports boat that was tied up to the harbour wall.

'Use some of that to fill the fuel tanks and stock us up on ammunition. Buy enough food for two days as well. I am going to the airport to meet my guest.'

The Arab tossed the envelope that the Englishman had given him down into the cockpit of the boat and the youth caught it. He was bare chested and wore tight, faded jeans and sandals. From a heavy belt around his waist hung a sheathed diver's knife. He grinned and nodded, showing several gold fillings amongst his gleaming white teeth, as he smiled. He wiped the perspiration from his shaven head and swung his legs down from the map ledge where he had them stretched out and crossed.

The Arab had turned and was walking back down the harbour wall when the Negro youth drew silently alongside him.

'What have we got to do?' he asked, not bothering to look at the Arab, his Ray-Ban-shielded gaze fixed on the land ahead.

'The Englishman wants me to find an agent of theirs, who went missing on arrival at the airport. He suspects Major Mosafa and a renegade Englishman, Sir Rodney Stonefield of abducting her. While I am at the airport, I'll see what I can find out. I'll meet you at the souk at six. Look for me around Abdullah's spice stall. You know the one I mean?'

'Yes Auda. I know it.'

The two men parted company at the end of the harbour wall, the youth crossing the palm tree lined boulevard, the Arab turning left and following the paved track beside the beach in the direction of the gleaming steel and glass buildings of the modern quarter of the capital.

Major Mosafa was sat in his leather swivel armchair, half his attention on the reports before him on his desk and half his attention on the queue of passengers at the airport customs desk. Having access for security purposes to all the passenger lists he had scanned them and found amongst the passengers one possible victim: a nineteen year old English girl who was travelling alone to El-Saram for two weeks. Mosafa glanced up at the queue. There was no single, young girl in sight. He looked back at the reports before him.

The pro-democracy movement was still carrying out their peaceful demonstrations outside the compound of the American managed oil-refinery. There was no cause for alarm there; allowing such activity even suggested that the King was tolerant of people who opposed him. What was more troubling was that the pro-democracy movement was now gaining support amongst the desert nomads. These camel riding, tent living tribes had never been incorporated satisfactorily into modern El-Saram and whilst they were taxed, they were given nothing back. Naturally enough they had little sympathy with the King.

Mosafa glanced up again at the secret window concealed as a mirror just in time to see a slim, tall girl standing at the customs desk. She had a mane of blonde hair, smooth, tanned skin and large blue eyes. A white T-shirt tucked into jeans clung tightly around her full breasts, showing the outline of her bra. Mosafa glanced at the name that was being keyed into the customs computer by his security staff. It was the English student. Mosafa pressed one switch on his desk and a discreet green light came on behind the customs desk. Seeing their signal, the female customs officer, smiled apologetically as she asked the girl to step to one side, whilst her backpack was checked. Mosafa leant back in his chair and smiled to himself. He wondered how Sir Rodney was getting on with the English secret agent.

Ten minutes later Mosafa had his desk cleared of all pressing matters except for one. This was a report from one of his Captains at a remote garrison in the west advising him of a local rumour that the garrison was to be attacked and its arsenal of weapons seized by the rebel activists. Mosafa tried phoning the Garrison Commander to question him about this but found the number was out of order. He then tried to call the local army barracks in that region but found that its number too was unobtainable. Wondering what his security staff had done with the English girl, he irritably punched into his phone the number for the Police station in the town nearest to the garrison. This number he found engaged so he slammed the phone down, cursing and telling himself he would sort it out later.