been beaten, outbluffed and outmanoeuvred. During all the rehearsals and preparation, this sort of opposition hadn’t been allowed for. A sudden nervousness shivered through him. It was fortunate he had taken such elaborate precautions.
The boy insisted he felt well enough to exercise in the garden but he returned to the cottage within minutes, coming unsteadily to the table at which Karen was already sitting. He eased himself gratefully into a seat and Karen saw that he was shaking with the effort. The squat guard, Greening, who had escorted Tewfik remained for a few moments at the door and then went outside again.
“You all right?” she said.
“Just weak, that’s all.” For once there wasn’t the usual embarrassment. Instead he looked around to ensure they weren’t being overheard and then said, “And I want them to think I’m worse than I am.”
Karen had looked with him towards the door, impatient for Levy’s return; he had said he would only be away for an hour and it had already been almost twice as long as that.
“We’re definitely farther south,” continued Tewfik. “I can tell by the temperature and the things that are growing in the garden.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose we are.” She wasn’t interested where they were, only that she could stay here and that it wouldn’t end quickly.
“Have you heard anything… something that might give us an idea where this is?”
“No,” said Karen. “Nothing.”
“It’ll still be France,” he said. “They wouldn’t have risked a border crossing. And beyond central France, I guess. There’s quite a lot of pine and fir around. Have you noticed that?”
“No,” replied Karen honestly. “I haven’t.”
Tewfik was too involved in his own thoughts to notice her lack of interest. “I tested them today,” he said. “They don’t think there’s any risk.”
“Risk?”
“Of my getting away. They still think I’m ill.” He smiled at her encouragingly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t go without you.”
22
Deaken hadn’t rested at all. He remained nervously apprehensive at the sudden, hidden sounds around him. Towards first light, he was attacked by swarms of mosquitoes which stung so badly that he had tried to cover his face with his jacket and sat, cowering, beneath its inadequate protection.
Dawn came at 4:50 in the morning, an almost imperceptible darkening of the tree and shrub outlines against the increasing greyness and then abruptly dissolving into glowing reds and apricots. Deaken rose to his feet, cramped and aching, shook out his jacket and carefully ran his hands over his stubbled face; his skin was lumpy and throbbing from the insect attack.
He moved slowly out to the edge of the coppice, crouched against overhanging branches and staring down at the coarse grass and bracken underfoot. Each footstep precipitated an eruption of dust and fresh squads of flying things which buzzed angrily around him. Deaken fanned them away furiously. The chill of the night had not been melted by the morning sun, and Deaken shivered, realizing he was damp from the dew. He stopped at the treeline and stared out over the barren plain.
There was no sign of the road.
His coppice was like a furred wart against the smooth, unbroken face of the plain, without the slightest elevation or undulation which might have provided a vantage point to pinpoint the broken, metalled line of the highway.
He was lost, even in daylight.
He tried desperately to orient himself. He could pick out the tree against which he had spent the cramped night. He thought he had come upon it directly at right angles. Which meant that if he walked away from it in a straight line, he would hit the road. But what if it hadn’t been at right angles?
“Shit!” he said aloud. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
He shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the vast emptiness. To his left, maybe not more than four hundred yards away, a dancing class of high-stepping gazelles paused in their foraging, gazing around with ear- pointed tenseness. After a moment their heads dropped back to their feeding.
“Shit!” Deaken shouted again. This time they didn’t even look up.
The sun appeared yellow over the rim of the horizon, but it was not high enough yet to dispel the chill in Deaken’s body. Christ, he felt awful: tired and dirty and itchy. Awful. Thirsty too. But not hungry. He didn’t feel as if he wanted to eat again. When had he last eaten? Not since the plane, bringing him here. Only yesterday-less than twenty-four hours, to be precise. It seemed much longer; why did everything seem so much longer than if actually was? He checked his watch again. Six.
Where was this bloody road? Like a novice swimmer venturing out of his depth, Deaken moved away from the trees, halting after only a few yards; to his right, close enough to make him jump, a disturbed squabble of birds winged suddenly into the brightening sky. This time the gazelle herd scattered in their high-floating, slow-motion run. The sun was strong enough to affect the nighttime dampness now, hollows he would not normally have recognized puddling with a white gauze of mist. Deaken frowned towards the rising sun, trying to gauge its strength. Metalled roads overheated in the African glare send up a miragelike shimmer; would he get the marker that way, from a shiver of heated air? No good, thought Deaken. That would take hours. High above, so high and so far away that there was no sound, a silver flicker of an aircraft trailed by with agonizing slowness. Washed and shaved and perfumed and pressed, passengers and crew would be confident, even careless, of their timetable and destination.
All around the mist thatches were being dried out by the heat. Knowing at least the direction from which he had approached the outcrop of trees, Deaken turned a full 180 degrees, seeking the telltale quiver of air which might indicate the road. Nothing. Just the gazelle grazing again. An occasional hovering bird poised over some unseen prey. Miles and miles of flat, tobacco-coloured ground, with the occasional upthrust thumb of an anthill.
Very soon Deaken was too hot, and made for the shelter of the trees, consumed by a bitter sense of continued impotence. He was certain Kaolack had been mentioned during the stifling car ride. A major town, he remembered from the aircraft map. If he was right about Kaolack, then the road had to be one of the main routes through the scorched and arid country, an artery in constant dawn-to-dusk use. So where were the cars and lorries and buses?
Another fifteen minutes, Deaken decided. If there was no identifying movement by then he would take a chance and strike out directly from the coppice. It would remain a marker anyway, so if he got too far away without locating the highway, he could always return and try another route.
Why fifteen minutes? Why not right away, without wasting any more time?
Occasionally scurrying things-only rats or field mice, he hoped-darted noisily through the underbrush in front of him as he edged hesitantly forward. He jerked back at a sting worse than the others, high over his eye. At once a puffiness formed, soft under his fingers, the swelling quickly closing his left eye.
The bus was already firmly on the plain by the time he noticed it. There was a surprised moment of total immobility, impressions kaleidoscoping through Deaken’s mind-he was going in the wrong direction, parallel rather than towards the road.
He started to run, waving his arms wildly and yelling to attract the driver’s attention, careless now of any danger underfoot or of the pain pumping through him.
There was a horrifying surrealism about it all. The bus seemed to be travelling slowly, as the aircraft had earlier, and his progress through the snagging scrub seemed equally slow. Realizing that he would never reach the road in time to stop the bus, Deaken halted, snatching off his jacket and waving it above his head. The speed of the bus didn’t alter and he began running again. He ran with his head bent sideways, able to see the shape of the occupants through the slatted side windows and their luggage bundled on the rimmed rack of the roof.
Deaken stopped again, cupping his hands to his mouth and shouting, “Stop! Help! Stop!” The vehicle
