Kane was riding a bull camel, a large and powerful black animal which moved across the flat plain outside the gorge at an incredible rate.
Pieces of twisted metal and fuselage from the Catalina were strewn over a wide area, and as they passed the fire-blackened wreckage, he looked at it in wonder. It seemed impossible that they could have destroyed it so completely, and already the memory of the incident had lost its sharpness as if it had never happened.
As they left the plain and entered the sand dunes, he lifted a fold of his head-cloth across his face as a protection against the fierce heat that rose to meet them.
The desert rolled ahead in great waves of sand as far as the eye could see, and he eased himself into a more comfortable position in the wooden saddle and urged the camel on. Speed was the only thing which could help them now. That and the fact that Skiros would not be expecting pursuit.
He glanced back and saw Jamal, close behind, followed by Cunningham, his face half-covered by a fold of his robe. The Englishman raised a hand in a half-salute, and Kane turned and concentrated on the trail ahead.
The camel never faltered in its stride, great legs covering the ground tirelessly, and he lapsed into a state that was somewhere between sleeping and waking, eyes half-closed against the glare.
He wondered what the German’s next move would be. He would probably make for Dahrein, secure in the knowledge that no one was left to follow him. He could afford to spend several days there, clearing up his affairs before moving out ahead of any enquiries set on foot by the American Consul.
What he would do with the women was debatable. Kane recalled the conversation he had overheard outside the tent on the previous night. What had Skiros said? That he looked upon Marie Ferret as a personal challenge.
Kane shivered at the thought and pushed it firmly away from him. Sufficient unto the day. For the moment it was enough to concentrate on reaching Bir el Madani. He slouched into a more comfortable position in the saddle and urged the camel on.
The morning passed as in a dream and they rolled on into the afternoon like great ships floating over the sand. On several occasions they had to dismount to lead their camels up the steep sides of some of the larger dunes, and they stopped once to share their water and a handful of dried dates.
Cunningham looked tired and his eyes were sore and red-rimmed, the thin, sensitive face coated with sand. Kane swallowed his ration of water, grimacing slightly at the acrid, unpleasant taste, and looked anxiously at him. ‘You managing okay?’
Cunningham’s face split into a tight grin. ‘A little tired, but I’ll be fine. Don’t forget I passed this way going in the opposite direction.’
They remounted and rode on. The sun was high in the heavens, beating fiercely across their backs with a flail of fire, and Kane bowed his head on his chest and let the camel find its own way. He was tired – very tired. Too much had happened during the past three or four days. Too much for any man.
He decided that he must have ridden unconscious for the rest of the afternoon, because he was suddenly aware that the sun was dropping in the west and a slight wind stung his face. Jamal had ridden up beside him and was pulling at the reins of his camel.
Kane slid to the ground and sat down, shaking his head from side to side to bring himself awake. His mouth was dry as a bone and full of dust and, as Cunningham threw himself wearily down beside him, Jamal produced one of the goatskins and handed it round.
They had two good swallows each and then it was empty. The Somali tossed the useless skin away and walked back to his camel and stood holding its bridle, staring impassively into the distance.
Cunningham’s face was drawn and haggard, the skin stretched tightly across the cheekbones. When he spoke, his voice was a dry croak like an old man’s. ‘What are we going to do – keep going through the night?’