'The villa! she whispered. 'Duraid! Oh please God, no! No!
She pushed herself to her feet and began to stagger towards her burning
home.
acheet switched off both the headlights and the engine of the Fiat
before they reached the turning into the driveway of the villa and let
the car coast down and stop below the terrace.
All three of them left the Fiat and climbed the stone steps to the
flagged terrace. Duraid's body still lay where Bacheet had left it
beside the fishpond. They passed him without a glance and went into the
dark study.
Bacheet placed the cheap nylon tote bag he carried on the tabletop.
'We have wasted too much time already. We must work quickly now.'
'It is Yusuf's fault,' protested the driver of the Fiat. 'He let the
woman escape.'
'You had a chance on the road,' Yusuf snarled at him, 'and you did no
better.'
'Enough!' Bacheet told them both. 'If you want to get paid, then there
had better be no more mistakes.'
With the torch beam Bacheet picked out the scroll that still lay on the
tabletop. 'That is the one.' He was certain, for he had been shown a
photograph of it so that there would be no mistake. 'They want
everything - the maps and photographs. Also the books and papers,
everything on the table that they were using in their work.
Leave nothing.'
Quickly they bundled everything into the tote bag and Bacheet zipped it
closed.
'Now the Doktari. Bring him in here.'
The other two went out on to the terrace and stooped over the body. Each
of them seized an ankle and dragged Duraid back across the terrace and
into the study. The back of Duraid's head bounced loosely on the stone
step at the threshold and his blood painted a long wet skid mark across
the tiles that glistened in the torchlight.
'Get the lamp!' Bacheet ordered, and Yusuf went back to the terrace and
fetched the oil lamp from where Duraid had dropped it. The flame was
extinguished. Bacheet held the lamp to his ear and shook it.
'Full,' he said with satisfaction, and unscrewed the filler cap. 'All
right,' he told the other two, take the bag out to the car.'
As they hurried out Bacheet sprinkled paraffin from the lamp over
Duraid's shirt and trousers, and then he went to the shelves and
splashed the remainder of the fuel over the books and manuscripts that
crowded them.
He dropped the empty lamp and reached under the skirts of his dishdasha
for a box of matches. He struck one of them and held it to the wet run
of paraffin oil down the bookcase. It caught immediately, and flames
spread upwards and curled and blackened the edges of the manuscripts. He
turned away and went back to where Duraid lay. He struck another match
and dropped it on to his blood- and paraffindrenched shirt.
A mantle of blue flames danced over Duraid's chest.
The flames changed colour as they burned into the cotton material and
