‘Yes, well my superiors feel that would be putting far too much temptation in the way of the Rashid,’ Kirov said.
Salim stopped smiling. ‘This was a firm promise.’
Most of his men, sensing trouble, raised their rifles. Kirov snapped fingers and thumb on his right hand, there was a sudden burst of fire from the heavy machine gun, raking the wall above Salim’s head. As the echoes died away, Kirov said patiently, ‘Take the gold, I would earnestly advise it.’
Salim smiled and flung his arms wide. ‘But of course. Friendship is everything. Certainly not worth losing for the sake of a trifling misunderstanding.’
He produced a key from a pouch at his belt and unlocked the padlock, first on the wooden halter which held Levin. Then he moved to Villiers. ‘Sometimes Allah looks down through the clouds and punishes the deceiver,’ he murmured.
‘Is that in the Koran?’ Villiers asked, as Hamid removed the halter and he stretched his aching arms.
Salim shrugged and there was something in his eyes. ‘If not, then it should be.’
Two soldiers doubled forward on the sergeant’s command and ranged themselves on either side of Levin and Villiers. They walked to the Sandcruiser. Villiers and Levin climbed inside. The soldiers followed, Kirov bringing up the rear.
Villiers and Levin sat down, flanked by armed guards, and Kirov turned and saluted as the engine rumbled into life.
‘Nice to do business with you,’ he called to Salim.
‘And you, Kirov Sahib!’
The Sandcruiser moved away in a cloud of dust. As they went up over the edge of the first sand dune, Villiers looked back and saw that the old Rashid was still standing there, watching them go, only now his men had moved in behind him. There was a curious stillness about them, a kind of threat, and then the Sandcruiser went over the ridge and Bir al Gafani disappeared from view.
The concrete cell on the end of the administrative block at Fasari was a distinct improvement on their previous quarters, with whitewashed walls and chemical toilet and two narrow iron cots, each supplied with a mattress and blankets. It was one of half a dozen such cells, Villiers had noticed that on the way in, each with a heavy steel door complete with spyhole, and there seemed to be three armed guards constantly on duty.
Through the bars of the window, Villiers looked out at the airstrip. It was not as large as he had expected: three prefabricated hangars with a single tarmacadam runway. The five MIG 2.35 stood wingtip to wingtip in a line in front of the hangars, looking, in the evening light just before dark, like strange primeval creatures, still, brooding. There were two Mi-8 troop-carrying helicopters on the far side of them and trucks and motor vehicles of various kinds.
‘Security seems virtually non-existent,’ he murmured.
Beside him, Levin nodded. ‘Little need for it. They are, after all, in friendly territory entirely surrounded by open desert. Even your SAS people would have difficulty with such a target, I suppose.’
Behind them, the bolts rattled in the door. It opened and a young corporal stepped in, followed by an Arab carrying a pail and two enamel bowls. ‘Coffee,’ the corporal said.
‘When do we eat?’ Villiers demanded.
‘Nine o’clock.’
He ushered the Arab out and closed the door. The coffee was surprisingly good and very hot. Villiers said, ‘So they use some Arab personnel?’
‘In the kitchens and for sanitary duties and that sort of thing. Not from the desert tribes. They bring them from Hauf, I believe.’
‘What do you think will happen now?’
‘Well, tomorrow is Thursday and there’s a supply plane in. It will probably take us back with it to Aden.’
‘Moscow next stop?’
There was no answer to that, of course, just as there was no answer to concrete walls, steel doors and bars. Villiers lay on one bed, Levin on the other.
The old Russian said, ‘Life is a constant disappointment to me. When I visited England, they took me to Oxford. So beautiful.’ He sighed. ‘It was a fantasy of mine to return one day.’
‘Dreaming spires,’ Villiers observed. ‘Yes, it’s quite a place.’