to put the damned thing. There was an inside pocket in the breast of the gandoura but it wasn't good enough to take anything as heavy as an automatic pistol. Byrne watched me with a sardonic eye, then said, 'There's a belt and holster in the closet behind you.'
There was a pocket built into the holster to take the spare magazine. I strapped the belt around my waist under the gandoura. There was no problem of access because the arm-holes of a gandoura are cut very low and one can withdraw one's arms right inside. A djellaba is made the same way, and on a cold night among the Tuareg one could be excused for thinking one was among a people without arms.
We left within the hour, just Byrne, Billson and myself in the Toyota, heading for Agadez. Four hours later Byrne swung off the track and we found Hamiada camped in a grove of doum palms. 'This is where you leave us,' Byrne said to Paul. 'Hamiada will take you to the other side of Agadez. We'll join you later tonight.' He had a few words with Hamiada, then we left them and rejoined the track.
We filled up with petrol and water at the filling station in Agadez and I noticed Byrne paying special attention to the tyres. He talked briefly with the owner and then we set off again. Byrne said, 'There's another batch of sightings but they're all duplicate.'
Going by the mosque we were held up for a moment by the giraffe which was strolling up the street. Byrne nudged me. 'Look there.' He nodded towards the Hotel de l'Air. A Range-Rover was parked outside.
'Kissack?'
'Could be. Let's find out.' He swung across the dusty street and parked next to the Range-Rover. We got out and he studied it, then produced a knife and bent down to the rear wheel.
'What are you doing?'
He straightened and put the knife away. 'Just put my mark on a tyre,' he said. 'It'll be comforting to know if Kissack's around or not.' He looked at the hotel entrance. 'Let's go talk to him.'
'Is that wise?'
'He's looking for me, ain't he? And I know it. It would be the neighbourly thing to do. If this is Kissack he has a bad habit of shooting folks without as much as a word of greeting. If a guy's going to shoot at me I'd like to get to know him before he does. That's what I didn't like about the Army Air Force – you got shot at by strangers.'
I said, 'You're the boss.'
'Damn right,' he said. 'Now, pull up your veil, and when we go in there don't sit down – just stand behind me. And don't say a goddamn word under any circumstances.' He reached into the back of the Toyota and pulled out a sword. 'Put that on.'
I slung on the sword in the way I had seen Mokhtar wear his, and followed Byrne into the hotel. So I was a Targui, a good enough disguise. I wasn't worried about my colour; all anyone could see of me were my eyes and my hands, and the backs of my hands were deeply tanned. Anyway, many of the Tuareg were lighter coloured than I was.
Byrne went up to the bar and questioned the barman who jerked a thumb towards an inner room. We went in to find it deserted except for two men sitting at a table. Paul had described them well. Kissack was a tall, thin man with fair hair who was not so much tanned as burned, the way the sun often affects fair-skinned people. Strips of skin were peeling from his forehead. Bailly was swarthy and the sun wouldn't affect him much.
Byrne said, 'I'm Byrne. I hear you've been looking for me.'
Kissack looked up and his eyes widened. 'You are Byrne?'
'Yeah.' Byrne lowered his veil. I wondered if Kissack knew that was a mark of contempt.
Kissack smiled. 'Sit down, Mr Byrne. Have a drink?' He was English, probably a Londoner to judge by his accent.
Thanks.' Byrne sat down. 'I'll have a beer.' Kissack's eyes wandered past him to rest on me thoughtfully. Byrne jerked his thumb at me. He don't drink; it's against his religion. He'll have a lemonade.'
Kissack held up his arm and a waiter came and took the order. 'My name is Kissack. This is M'sieur Bailly.'
Bailly merely grunted, and Byrne nodded shortly. Kissack said, 'I understand you are interested in aeroplanes, Mr Byrne.'
'Yeah.'
'Crashed aeroplanes.'
'Yeah.'
Kissack narrowed his eyes as he studied Byrne. He was getting the answers he wanted, but they were too monosyllabic for his taste. 'May I ask why?' he said smoothly.
'Guess it's because I used to be a flier myself.'
'I see. Just a general interest.'
'Yeah.'
Kissack's eyes nickered to Bailly, who grunted again. It was a sound of disbelief. 'Any particular aircraft you're interested in?'
'Not really. They're all interesting.'
'I see. What's the most interesting aeroplane you've come across so far?'
The waiter came back. He put a beer on the table and handed me a glass of lemonade. Byrne didn't answer immediately but picked up his glass and studied the bubbles. 'I guess it's the wreck of an Avro Avian up in the Tanezrouft. Got quite a history. Name of Southern Cross Minor. Owned by Kingsford-Smith who flew it from Australia to England in 1931. Then a guy called Lancaster bought it to try to beat Amy Mollison's record to Cape Town.' He drank some beer, then added drily, 'He didn't.'
Kissack seemed interested. 'When was this?'
'1933. The wreck wasn't found until 1962. The desert hides things, Mr Kissack.'
'Any other old aeroplanes?'
'None as old as that – far as I know.'
Byrne was playing with Kissack, teasing him to say outright what he wanted. I pushed the glass of lemonade under my veil and sipped. It was quite refreshing.
'Any about as old?'
'Well, let's see,' said Byrne reflectively. There are a couple of dozen wrecks from the war Uttered about in places too difficult to get them out. I wrecked one of those myself.'
'No – from before the war?'
'Not many of those. What's your interest, Mr Kissack?'
'I'm a reporter,' said Kissack. 'Investigative stuff.'
'In the Sahara?' queried Byrne sardonically.
Kissack spread his hands. 'Busman's holiday. I'm just touring around and I guess my journalistic instincts got the better of me.'
Byrne nodded his head towards Bailly. 'He a reporter, too?'
'Oh no. M'sieur Bailly is my guide.'
Bailly looked more suited to be a guide to the murkier regions of the Kasbah in Algiers. Byrne said, 'Is that all you wanted me for?' He drained his glass.
Kissack stretched out his hand. 'How long have you lived here, Mr Byrne?'
'Thirty-five years.'
'Then please stay. I'd like to talk to you. It's nice to be able to talk to someone again in my own language. I have very little French and M'sieur Bailly has no English at all.' He was a damned liar; Bailly was taking in every word. Kissack said, 'Have another beer, Mr Byrne – that is, if you're not in a hurry.'
Byrne appeared to hesitate, then said, 'I'm going no place. All right, I'll have another beer. You want to pick my brains, that's the payment.'
'Good,' said Kissack enthusiastically, and signal led for a waiter. 'You'll be able to fill me in on local colour – it's hard for Bailly to get it across.'
'I'll do my best,' said Byrne modestly.
The waiter took the order and I gave him my empty glass. Kissack said casually, 'Ever come across a man called Bill-son?'
'Know of him. Never did get to meet him.'
'Ah!' Kissack was pleased. 'Do you know where he is?'
'He's dead, Mr Kissack,' said Byrne.
