She repeated, with a curious wooden expression, ‘Come on, we’re leaving.’
He began to think more clearly. His watch was still stopped. He looked at the clock above the departure desks and saw that it was just after seven o’clock. There was a sluggish movement in the hall: people arranging their luggage and queueing up for the toilets and for coffee. The airhostess and the CRS men, in smart dark-blue, were still on duty, and the wind still roared outside.
He stood up, rubbing his eyes, and looked at her. Her face was cold and empty, like a grainy black-and-white photograph. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said dully, still half-asleep.
‘We’re leaving,’ she said again. ‘You can’t stay here anymore.’
He opened his eyes wide and shook his head. He wondered if he were still dreaming: ‘But what are you doing here? How did you know where I was?’
‘I went to the hotel to find you. You didn’t get my letter?’
He frowned: ‘I’m sorry — I’m not really awake yet.’ He pressed his hand to his forehead: ‘I don’t quite understand what’s going on.’
‘You’re coming with me, Monsieur Ingleby.’ Her eyes had a blank icy look; and for a full ten seconds they stood facing each other without moving or speaking.
‘I can’t go with you,’ he said at last, ‘I’m booked on the first flight today. I’ve got a deportation order.’
‘There will be no flights today,’ she said, hitching the bag higher on to her shoulder, ‘the CRS captain has just told me.’
He swallowed dryly, tasting the bitter aniseed on his breath, wishing he had a toothbrush and razor. The stubble on his chin felt like an extra skin. He said, ‘I must go and wash, I can’t talk to you like this.’
She called after him, ‘Hurry! We haven’t much time.’
There was a queue outside the toilets, and it took him several minutes before he found a vacant cubicle. The lavatory seat had been torn off, and he sat for what seemed a long time on the cold china rim, his head in his hands, trying to arrange his thoughts into some order.
He remembered what Mallory had said about her. Even if she were not Broussard’s stepdaughter, all logic warned him against her. But logic was no longer with him. Again he felt that perverse compulsion to stay close to those who threatened him — to explain to them what had happened, to seek protection by telling only the truth. There was no protection awaiting him from the CRS or from Pol or the man called Wynne-Cadin. But there was just a chance that Anne-Marie might be able to help him.
He stood over the washbasin and splashed tepid water on to his face and into his eyes, flattening down his hair with wet hands.
She was waiting for him outside. He looked at her more carefully now. She was wearing a tight sea-green dress. Her hair was scraped back and her face had a stiff drawn look with scoops of shadow under the eyes as though she had not slept.
She looked at him with a vacant stare. ‘I’ve got my car outside,’ she said, starting to walk across the hall towards the entrance.
‘Wait a minute! Anne-Marie!’
She paused, her shoulders hunched slightly forward: ‘Yes?’
‘Where are we going?’ He stood beside her, wanting to lean on her, to seek her support while the crowded hall seemed to be revolving round him.
‘I know a way out of the country,’ she said, ‘I’m going to take you.’
She turned and strode on, and he followed her, past the brasserie where they were selling paper mugs of steaming coffee and salami sandwiches. He said, ‘I must have something to eat.’
She turned again, her eyes flashing darkly: ‘I told you, we don’t have much time.’ She glanced round the brasserie, at a group of CRS by the door, and added, ‘Come on, please! I don’t want to be seen around here.’
He remembered the deportation order just in time, changing it to his breast pocket before they reached the CRS at the entrance. ‘What are the chances of a plane today?’ he asked, as the guard flipped through his passport.
The man shrugged: ‘I don’t know anything. The crews are still on strike.’ He looked again at Neil’s passport:; ‘You’re a journalist? You want to leave today?’
‘Yes.’ Beside him he saw Anne-Marie watching them both with eyes narrowing into fierce slits.
The CRS man went on, ‘You’ll have to take your chance here. It depends on when they get the special crews from France.’
‘What are the roads like? Are the frontiers open yet?’
‘I wouldn’t try going by road,’ he said grimly, ‘there are a lot of Arab Front terrorists about. All the roads in the Bled are dangerous — especially after what happened yesterday with Ali La Joconde and his friends. Beaucoup d’effervescence!’ He turned to Anne-Marie: ‘Are you both together?’
She nodded and flicked a dog-eared identity card at him. Neil tried to catch a glimpse of the surname on it — whether it began with a ‘B’ — but she was too quick. The CRS man saluted and she walked past him through the entrance. Neil caught her up, and on an impulse of affection tried to take her hand. She snatched it away as though he had touched her with a flame. Her fingers, with their pearl-white nails, felt small and cold.
She ignored him completely as they walked down the concrete steps into the sunlight where the dust swept stinging into their faces. They walked with their heads down, shielding their eyes, and Neil called to her above the wind, ‘You heard what the CRS man said — that it’s dangerous to try and drive out?’
‘The CRS know nothing!’ she cried. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’
They had to walk nearly a quarter of a mile,
