better change your clothes.'
So I reverted to being a European and the clothing seemed oddly restricting after the freedom of a gandoura. As Byrne drove back to the track he said, 'The tour leader will probably collect all the passports and take them into the fort for inspection. He won't ask for yours, of course. Just mingle with the group enough so it looks as though you're one of them. They'll split up to have a look at Bilma pretty soon and that gives you your chance to hunt up Kissack.'
'That's all right as long as the cops don't do a head count.' Byrne shook his head at that. 'Where am I likely to find Kissack?'
'Anywhere – look for the Range-Rover – but there's a broken-down shack that calls itself a restaurant. You might find him there. Anyway, it's a chance to have a beer.'
He dropped me by the side of the track and drove away after thoughtfully leaving a small canteen of water which looked as though it had started life in the British army.
The German group pitched up three hours later, eighteen people in four long-wheelbase Land-Rovers. I stood up and held out my hand as the first Land-Rover came up, and it drew to a halt. My German, le arned when I was with the Army of the Rhine, was about as grammatical as Byrne's French, but just as serviceable. No foreigner minds you speaking his language badly providing you make the attempt. Excepting the French, of course.
The driver of the first Land-Rover was the group leader, and he willingly agreed to take me into Bilma if I didn't mind a squash in the front seat. He looked at me curiously. 'What are you doing out here?'
'I walked out from Bilma to look at some rock engravings.' I smiled. 'I'd rather not walk back.'
'Didn't know there were any around here. Plenty up north at the Col des Chandeliers. Where are they?'
'About three kilometres back, just off the track.'
'Can you show me? My people would be interested.'
'Of course; only too glad.'
So we went back to look at the engravings, and I reflected that it was just as well that Byrne had taken me there. We spent twenty minutes there, the Germans clicking away busily with their Japanese cameras. They were a mixed lot ranging from teenagers to old folk and I wondered what had brought them into the desert. It certainly wasn't the normal package deal.
Less than half an hour after that we were driving up the long slope which leads to the fort in Bilma. The Land- Rovers parked with Teutonic precision in a neat rank just by the gate and I opened the door. 'Thanks for the lift.'
He nodded. 'Helmut Shaeffer. Perhaps we will have a beer in the restaurant, eh?'
'I'm Max Stafford. That's a good idea. Where is the restaurant?'
'Don't you know?' There was surprise in his voice.
'I haven't seen much of Bilma itself. We got in late last night.'
'Oh.' He pointed down the slope and to the right. 'Over there; you can't miss it.'
As Byrne had predicted, he began collecting passports. I lingered, talking with a middle-aged man who discoursed on the wonders he had seen in the north. Shaeffer took the pile of passports into the fort and the group began to break up. I wandered off casually following a trio heading in the general direction of the restaurant.
It was as Byrne had described it; a broken-down shack. The Germans looked at the sun-blasted sign and the peeling walls and muttered dubiously, then made up their minds and went inside. I followed closely on their heels.
It was a bare room with a counter on one side. There were a few rough deal tables, a scattering of chairs, and a wooden bench which ran along two sides of the room. My hackles rose as I saw Kissack sitting on the bench at a corner table next to a man in local dress – not a Targui because he did not wear the veil. That would be the Arab Konti had seen. Kissack was eating an omelette.
He looked up and inspected us curiously, so I turned and started to talk in German to the man next to me, asking if he thought the food here would be hygienically prepared. He advised me to stick to eggs. When I looked back at Kissack he had lost interest in us and seemed more intent on what was on his plate.
That gave me an idea. I crossed the room and stood before him, and asked in German if he recommended the omelette. He looked up and frowned. 'Huh! Don't you speak English?'
I put a smile on my face and it felt odd because I didn't feel like smiling at this assassin. 'I was asking if you could recommend the omelette. Sorry about that, but I've been travelling with this crowd so long that the German came automatically.'
He grunted. 'It's all right.'
'Thanks. That and a beer should go down well.' I sat at the next table quite close to him.
He turned away and started to talk in a low voice to the Arab. The sun was not dealing kindly with Kissack. His face was burned an angry red and the skin was still peeling from him. I was glad about that; he wasn't earning his murderer's pay easily.
As a waiter came to take my order an aircraft flew over quite low. Kissack made a sharp gesture and the Arab got up and walked out. I ordered beer and an omelette, then I twisted and looked through the window behind me. The Arab was walking towards the fort.
Presently a bottle of beer and a not too clean glass was put in front of me. As I poured the beer I wondered how to tackle Kissack. It was all right for Byrne to talk airily about putting me next to Kissack – that had been done – but what next? I could hardly ask, 'Killed any good men recently?'
But I had to make a start and old ploys are best, so I said, 'Haven't we met before?'
He grunted and looked at me sideways. 'Where have you come from?'
'Up north. Over the Col des Chandeliers.'
'Never been there.' His eyes returned to his plate.
I persisted. 'Then it must have been in England.'
'No,' he said flatly without looking up.
I drank some beer and cursed Byrne. It had seemed a good idea at the time; fellow countrymen meeting on their travels are usually glad to chat, but Kissack was bad-tempered, grouchy and uncommunicative. I said, 'I could have sworn…'
Kissack turned to me. 'Look, chum; I haven't been in England for ten years.' He put a lot of finality in his voice, indicating quite clearly that the subject was closed.
I drank some more beer and waited for my omelette. I was becoming annoyed at Kissack and was just about to put in the needle when someone called, 'Herr Stafford!' I froze, then looked up to see Shaeffer who had just come in. I glanced sideways at Kissack to see if the name had meant anything to him, but apparently it didn't and I breathed easier.
'Hi, Helmut,' I said, hoping he wouldn't show surprise at easy familiarity with his given name from a casual acquaintance. 'Have a beer.' As he sat down I immediately regretted my invitation. Shaeffer could unknowingly drop a clanger and reveal that I was not a part of his group. The only thing going for me was that his English was not too good.
'Everything all right at the fort?' I asked in German.
He shrugged. 'They're too busy to bother with us now. A plane came in from Agadez to take an injured man to hospital. I left the passports; I'll pick them up later.'
The waiter put an omelette in front of me and I ordered a beer for Shaeffer. Kissack ordered another beer for himself so he'd be staying a while. I turned to him. 'You know, I have seen you before.'
'For Christ's sake!' he said tiredly.
'Wasn't it in Tammanrasset? You were driving a Range-Rover.'
That got through to him. He went very still, a glass halfway to his lips. Then he turned and looked at me with stony eyes. 'What are you getting at, chummy?'
'Nothing,' I said coolly. 'It's just that a thing like that niggles me. Nice to know I wasn't mistaken. You were in Tarn, then.'
'And what if I was? What's it to you?'
I tackled my omelette. 'Nothing.' I turned to Shaeffer and switched to German. 'I forgot to tell you. Rhossi, your guide, is here in Bilma. Someone told me he was waiting for a German party so I assume it's you. Have you seen him?' Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kissack staring at me. I hoped his lack of German was complete.
Shaeffer shook his head. 'He'll be camped at Kalala near the salt workings.'
