Catriona didn't like the sound of it, or the look in the man's eyes.

'Look,' she said levelly. 'I'm a reporter. I work for the Journal Journal newspaper in London. I will -' She broke off as she saw the change in the man's expression. Realized her mistake too late. newspaper in London. I will -' She broke off as she saw the change in the man's expression. Realized her mistake too late.

They might not recognize a name, a face, but they would remember that it was a Western reporter who - The gun swung up to cover her face. 'You are the reporter, then?

The reporter who kills Kebiriz?' He shouted in Arabic to the driver, who was still sitting behind the wheel of the jeep. Catriona heard her own name, hideously accented, then the word 'a.s.sa.s.sin'.

She wanted to say, I'm not an a.s.sa.s.sin, I'm innocent. But she knew she had lost that right. For ever.

'Get out of the car,' said the man, opening the door. There was a quite new tone in his voice. 'And keep your hands above your head.'

'You're mixing me up with someone else,' said Catriona desperately. 'I don't know anything about it.' She was aware of how inadequate, how predictable, how pathetic, her lies sounded. And she could tell from the soldier's contemptuous expression that he was aware of it too.

It doesn't stop with the killing, she thought. It doesn't stop with the guilt. It goes on.

She got out of the Land Rover, felt the sun's heat hit her like a wave. The gun prodded into her back; she raised her hands above her head and walked towards the jeep. She could hear the driver on the radio, repeating her name. As she got to the jeep, he looked up, over her shoulder at his comrade.

'It's her,' he said in Arabic, then in French to Catriona, 'Miss Talliser, you are under arrest, on charges of murder and treason. Do you have anything to say?'

Catriona swallowed, shook her head. The other soldier opened the door. She got in and the man got in after her, prodded her in the neck with the gun.

'No trouble or I shoot you, straight away,' he said.

Catriona risked a sidelong glance at his face, saw that the sweat was running down it, dripping off his chin. She realized that he was afraid of her. She wondered what stories the Kebirians were telling, that made a soldier afraid of an unarmed woman. She also wondered if, in the unlikely event that she got a chance, she would kill these two in order to get away.

With a sensation of cold horror, she realized that she probably would.

- good good honey honey good good to be honey to be good good good good honey honey good good to be honey to be good good sweet honey to be good good honey to be sweet sweet sweet honey to be good good honey to be sweet sweet - - 'Find the key,' said Aunt May calmly, wiping the flour off her hands with a chequered towel. 'Find the key.'

The Doctor's got it, thought Jo. The Doctor's got the key, he's bound to have, he's always got the key. He always knows.

She felt hard grit against her palms.

- good good to be honey good good to be sweet to be honey good good good to be honey good good to be sweet to be honey good good good - - Someone was leaning over her. She could see the girl through her closed eyes. She was wearing a blue T-shirt and brown trousers. She was called Jo.

'I'm so sorry you have to die,' said the other Jo. 'But it's all right, you see, because I'll live. I'll be you, and I'll do lots of wonderful things.' She winked cheerfully and turned away.

'No!' shrieked Jo, 'Stop!' But no sound came out: her mouth wouldn't move. She tried to open her eyes, but, this time, she couldn't.

- good good honey honey honey dancing good good dancing good good honey honey honey dancing good good dancing honey dancing to be sweet to be dancing the code dancing the code honey dancing to be sweet to be dancing the code dancing the code dancing the code dancing the code - - 'Doctor,' she said, or tried to say, hoping he could hear her even though she wasn't breathing. 'Doctor, help me.'

But the Doctor wasn't there.

Fifteen.

FIt had been a long drive from Algiers, and Marwan Hamwai was tired. He had that pulsing pain between his eyes again, the pain that made the dusty road beyond the windscreen of his truck lose its reality and become an abstraction of glaring white and heat-shimmer.

Marwan wanted to turn it off, make it go away, so that he could go to sleep.

He glanced at his watch - real gold, 9 carats, all the way from Switzerland - and saw that it was already half-past ten.

No good. He had to have the load at Ibrahim's by twelve noon, and there were over a hundred kilometres to go. He couldn't stop. He would just have to stay awake, somehow.

He tried thinking about his wife, n.a.z.ira. Her bare wrists glimpsed under the cuffs of her chador as she walked across the kitchen. The smile in her eyes when he lifted her veil in the privacy of their room and kissed her. Her swelling belly under the bedclothes, proof that he was a man, that he could father a son.

Or a daughter. He might even prefer a daughter; it would be useful for the eldest to be a girl, she could help her mother with the other children when she was older. And she would have black hair and black eyes, l.u.s.trous like her mother's, and she would marry a rich man - The truck jolted violently, the tyres screeched. Marwan grappled with the wheel, pulled the vehicle round the curve and back on to the metalled part of the road.

'You stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' he muttered, pinching his right wrist, hard, with his left hand. 'You want the baby to be fatherless? You want n.a.z.ira to be a widow?' He thought again about stopping. Perhaps he could go back to Wadi Sul-Hatar. Deliver the load later in the afternoon. Ibrahim would be furious - but Marwan reckoned he would be better off bawled out than dead.

But then, n.a.z.ira would worry about him if he was late back, and if she worried too much when she was pregnant - That was when he saw the hitchhikers. They were standing by the side of the road, there, in the middle of the desert, two Europeans: a blonde woman in a blue T-shirt, and a grey-haired man in what Marwan at first thought was a burnous with the hood folded down.

As he drew closer he saw that it was an altogether stranger garment, a cape over a bright-coloured frilly shirt, like something out of the movies.

'Crazy gear,' he muttered. 'Must be hippies.'

Ordinarily Marwan wouldn't have stopped. He didn't like Westerners much, hippies even less. They were a nuisance; they got drunk in the streets; they encouraged the beggars. But a bit of company would keep him awake, keep his eyes on the road. He pulled up, wound down the window.

The man spoke, without waiting for a greeting. His French was fluent, Parisian, without the trace of an accent. 'Would you be so good as to take my a.s.sistant and I to Kebir City? We could pay you.'

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thousand- sulfa sulfa note. note.

Marwan stared: it was more than a week's wages. Still, Westerners didn't appreciate the value of money, that was well known.

For the sake of form, Marwan grinned dismissively, said, 'Five thousand, my friend.'

The man reached into his pocket again, pulled out four more notes and handed them over with a smile.

This is my lucky day, thought Marwan. I should have asked for ten.

He grinned at the Westerners, opened the pa.s.senger door. They got up: the man first, in his crazy costume, and then the girl.

'You in the movies?' asked Marwan as he put the truck into gear.

He was feeling friendly now, with that money in his pocket; he was feeling like practising his French. And perhaps they would give him another tip when they got to Kebir City.

'No, we're not in the movies, I'm afraid,' said the man.

'Our work's cla.s.sified,' said the girl. She smiled at Marwan, her brown eyes radiating an impossible sincerity.

He grinned back. 'The CIA?'

'We can't really talk about it, I'm afraid,' said the man. 'But it's extremely important that we get to Kebir City as soon as possible.'

Marwan nodded. They had to be having him on, they were hardly likely to be real spies in that get-up. But he didn't mind going along with them. After all, they were paying him well enough.

'Well, then,' he asked, looking at the girl. 'What do you think about Mr Nixon in America, and the Watergate scandal?'

'The water gate?' asked the girl. Her face was blank.

Marwan frowned. Surely everyone everyone in the West had heard of the Watergate scandal. He glanced at the man, who frowned and said, in the West had heard of the Watergate scandal. He glanced at the man, who frowned and said, 'That's impossible! Think about it, man. How can you make a gate out of water?'

Marwan looked away nervously, fixed his eyes on the dusty road.

Obviously these people were quite mad. He wondered if he should stop and tell them to get off before it was too late. But then he noticed for the first time a sweet, cloying scent that came from them.

Of course. That was it. It wasn't like hashish, but he guessed it was one of those fancy Western drugs that some of his wilder friends talked about. He glanced at the couple again, saw that they were staring ahead, their faces blank, almost as if they were switched off.

Well, that explained it then. These people were stoned; there wasn't much point in trying to talk with them. Marwan shrugged inwardly, thought about the five thousand sulfa sulfa in his pocket, and gave his attention to the road ahead. in his pocket, and gave his attention to the road ahead.

Catriona watched the hazy concrete towers of Kebir City rising ahead of her and tried not to think about how frightened she was.

She kept remembering the face of the woman interrogator. She kept half-dozing, and waking again, wincing from imaginary blows.

Perhaps there would be a trial, just for appearance's sake. Perhaps Mike Timms would start a campaign for her release, like the campaign she'd persuaded him to start for Vincent. Leo would raise the issue in parliament and Paul Vishnya would write to the Secretary-General, and meanwhile the Kebirians would execute her by firing squad, blood pouring from her chest as she fell to the concrete floor, and they would be right and Mike Timms would be wrong because I killed her Jesus Christ I killed her I killed her Jesus Christ I killed her - - A violent jolt as the jeep ran over a pothole brought her back to the present. Catriona stared at the buildings around her in a distracted way, to her horror recognized the white concrete bulk of the police headquarters.

The jeep drew up with a screech of tyres, and the older of the two guards got out. Two men moved from the entrance of the building, grabbed him and bundled him inside.

It took a moment for Catriona to realize what had happened. Only when she saw two more men run towards the jeep, heard the driver shouting something in panicky Arabic, saw them grab hold of his arms and physically drag him out of his seat - 'What the h.e.l.l's going on?' she shouted.

Then she smelled the roses and cloves. The sweet, alien, honey smell.

The driver was screaming, begging for mercy as they carried him away. Catriona shuffled sideways until she was against the door of the jeep, clambered over the back of the driver's seat. Her knee landed on something hard: a gun. She picked it up, aimed it towards the retreating backs of the policemen.

They're aliens, she told herself. You can do it now.

But before she could bring herself to squeeze the trigger, they had gone inside. Catriona started to run towards the entrance, then stopped.

- Jesus what am I doing I've got to get out of here get away from Jesus what am I doing I've got to get out of here get away from them them - - But she couldn't leave the Arabs to the aliens. She knew she couldn't.

There were more 'policemen' issuing from the entrance, their feet clicking on the stone steps. 'What are you doing to them?' she shouted, raising the gun.

The aliens ignored her.

She tightened her finger on the trigger: nothing happened.

The aliens continued their advance. Catriona pushed at the trigger but it wouldn't move. She realized that the safety catch was on. She flicked it upwards. It didn't seem to move enough, but there was no time left; the aliens were almost within arm's reach. She aimed the gun, pulled the trigger.

The gun almost jumped out of her hand. The shot hit one of them in the chest. Cracks spread from the point of impact, as if the figure - clothes and all - were made of china. But it carried on walking.

Catriona stepped back, fired again - again - again. The last shot toppled one of the pair, but it carried on trying to walk lying down, slowly spinning round like a broken toy.

The other one kept advancing, though part of its face was missing.

Catriona turned and ran.

- I need to get a car I've got to get away from here NOW get to I need to get a car I've got to get away from here NOW get to the British Emba.s.sy or the airport or anywhere but I've got to get out the British Emba.s.sy or the airport or anywhere but I've got to get out of here of here - - She saw a woman in a chador and veil push herself against a wall, protecting her child with her body. On the other side of the wide pavement, a small, balding, middle-aged man was crouched down beside a parked car, his hands covering his face.

- of course the gun I've got a b.l.o.o.d.y gun in my hand of course the gun I've got a b.l.o.o.d.y gun in my hand - - She noticed that the car door was open.

She ran up to the man, shoved the gun against his throat.

'Your car?' she asked.

The man nodded, terror in his eyes.

'Give me the keys.'

The man handed her the keys. Catriona got into the car, pushed the key into the ignition.

The man shouted, 'Here! She is here!'

Catriona started the engine, looked across at the little man. She could see the 'policeman' only yards away on the pavement behind him, approaching slowly, with thick, brown fluid leaking from his damaged face.

'Here!' shouted the little man.

'Run away!' shouted Catriona. 'Run like h.e.l.l, you fool!'