Flyaway

'This man called me a liar.' I was suddenly infuriated with Kissack and I wanted to belt hell out of him. I stooped, grabbed his shirt, and hauled him to his feet. The table went flying and a glass smashed on the floor. Kissack made a grab for the inside of his jacket so I rammed my elbow into his side and felt the hardness of a gun.

Then Shaeffer grabbed me from behind and hauled me away. 'Herr Stafford; this is no place to make trouble,' he said, his mouth close to my ear. 'The prison here is not good.'

Kissack had his hand inside his jacket. I shook off Shaeffer's hands and stuck a finger at Kissack. 'You don't want the coppers here, either – not with what you have there. You'd have too much explaining to do.'

The barman came from behind the bar carrying a foot-long bar of iron, but stopped as Shaeffer said something in Arabic. Kissack withdrew his hand and it came out empty. 'I don't know what you mean.' His eyes flickered towards the barman. 'Hell; this is a lousy place, anyway.' He dipped his hand into his pocket and tossed a couple of bank notes on to the floor, then walked towards the door.

From a distance someone said in German, 'Brawling Englishmen -1 bet they're drunk.'

I said to Shaeffer, 'Tell the owner I'll pay for any damage. Your Arabic sounds better than his French.'

He nodded and rattled off some throat-scratching Arabia The barman nodded curtly without smiling, picked up the money, and returned to the bar. Shaeffer said, 'You should not cause fighting here, Herr Stafford.' He shook his head. It is not wise.'

'I was provoked.' I looked through the window and saw Kissack walking towards the mud-coloured huddle of houses that was Bilma. I had blown it. I hadn't got a damned thing out of him that was of any use. What's more, I had probably given him grounds for suspicion.

But perhaps something could be retrieved if I was quick about it. I went to the bar and laid a bank note down. The barman looked at me unblinkingly so I put down another. I had to add two more before he nodded curtly. Then I went out fast, looking for Kissack. If I could get him alone he was going to tell me quite a few things, gun or no gun.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bilma is constructed on something like the lines of Daedalus's Labyrinth; no streets, just a warren of alleys and passages, and if I had met the Minotaur I wouldn't have been particularly surprised. It was difficult keeping up with Kissack and twice I lost him and had to cast about. Not that he was being evasive – he didn't look behind him to see if he was being followed or anything like that. In fact, I think he was lost himself at times, not very difficult in Bilma, and I swear we passed the same corner three times.

I followed him deeper and deeper into the maze. There were very few people about and those I encountered regarded me incuriously. They looked to be the same kind that I had seen at Fachi and whom Byrne had called Kanuri. Every so often I would pass a more or less open space where sheep or goats were penned or where chickens scratched, but in general there were just mud walls set with secretive doors every so often. A good shower of rain would have dissolved Bilma in one night, sending it back to the earth from which it had arisen.

At last I peered around a corner to see Kissack open a door and vanish inside. I walked up and looked at the door and then at the expanse of windowless wall. It wouldn't be too difficult to climb but doing the burglar bit in broad daylight would be unwise – even a blank-minded Kanuri would regard that as anti-social, and I was uncomfortably aware of an old toothless crone who had stopped at the end of the alley and was looking at me.

While I was debating the next step my mind was made up for me by a voice saying in French, 'Why didn't he wait at the restaurant?' It floated from the corner I had just turned.

That did it. There was just one thing to do so I opened the door and slipped inside. I found myself in a courtyard just big enough to hold Kissack's Range-Rover and very little else. Around the sides of the courtyard were hovels made of the ubiquitous mud.

Behind me, on the other side of the door, the voice said, 'Is this it?' There wasn't much else to do but what I did. I hurled myself forward and dived under the Range-Rover, being thankful for the generous ground clearance. I was only just in time because the door opened wide just as I got hidden and several men came into the courtyard. I twisted my head, counted feet, and divided by two – four men.

'Where is Kissack?' said the man who had queried about the restaurant. He still spoke French. 'Kissack!' he bellowed.

'In here.' Kissack's voice came from one of the mud buildings.

The French-speaker switched to English. 'You come out here.' A door slammed and Kissack's feet came into view. 'If you think I'm going into that flea-ridden kennel you're mistaken.' The tone was distasteful and the accent standard BBC grade announcer's English.

'Hello, Lash,' said Kissack.