The Brigadier started to walk back along the cold, silent, neon-lit corridor towards his office, where he kept his own gun. But he had only taken a few steps when he remembered two things. Firstly, that he had locked the drawer where he kept the gun, and thrown away the key.

And secondly, why he had done it.

He hesitated, staring at his boots, feeling the chill of the corridor soak into him.

No use, he decided. It had to be done. He had to be armed.

Then he heard the footsteps.

He ran to the office door, which was slightly inset from the wall.

Pressed himself against it, so that he was almost out of sight.

Waited.

The footsteps came closer, stopped. The Brigadier heard a sniffing sound, like a huge bloodhound catching the scent.

Then: 'Is that you, Brigadier?' The Doctor's voice.

The Brigadier didn't speak. After a moment, the sniffing sound was repeated. Then the Doctor stepped into view.

'Ah! There you are, Brigadier!' He smiled. 'We need to get to the lab as quickly as possible, to help Jo.' As he spoke, the Brigadier smelt the perfume on his breath: roses and cloves. He realized, now that he thought about it, that the smell had been around in the building since he'd first entered it.

No, thought the Brigadier. This isn't the Doctor. Or if it is there's something very wrong with him.

Aloud he said: 'I need to get my gun.'

'You won't need that, old chap, just come along with me.' The Doctor reached out a hand.

The Brigadier felt behind him for the lock, scrabbled with his keys.

Jo!' shouted the Doctor. 'I might need a hand here!'

The Brigadier jumped past the Doctor suddenly, ran flat out down the corridor. He had to get to a phone, warn the Ministry, get some extra men - Jo was ahead of him, running towards him.

'Help!' she screamed. 'Help me, Brigadier!'

No, he thought. She's not Jo, she doesn't need your help - He swerved out of her path, just in time to avoid the arc of the hammer in her hand. He heard it crash into the wall behind him.

'Quickly!' The Doctor's voice.

The Brigadier pa.s.sed the open door to the lab, saw a uniformed figure - Private Sh.o.r.egood - Private Sh.o.r.egood, with blood pooled around his head - And a gun clutched in his outstretched hand.

The Brigadier heard the clatter of footsteps approaching in the corridor. They seemed to be running faster than was humanly possible.

He stepped into the lab, picked up Sh.o.r.egood's gun. As he did so, he saw the other bodies, piled up carelessly against the benches. The insect-like things crawling over them.

His men. Dead. Food for some obscene aliens.

There was a sniffing sound behind him. The Brigadier turned, saw Jo in the door.

Not Jo. She had just tried to kill him.

He raised his gun. Fired.

She dropped, clutching her chest. Blood spurted out through her hands, over her blue T-shirt.

Blood.

Human blood.

The Doctor appeared in the doorway as Jo dropped to the ground.

He stepped over the body, looked at the Brigadier.

'Now, really old chap, that wasn't very sensible.'

Not the Doctor. The Doctor wouldn't speak like that. Wouldn't react like that.

And the Brigadier knew then.

Knew that he had to complete the prediction, or the Doctor would kill him.

He fired again, watched the Doctor drop to the ground, twitch and lie still.

Then he pushed the safety catch back on the gun and walked out of the laboratory with a cold expression on his face.

Book Three

Dance of Death

Eighteen

FTahir Al-Naemi didn't wake up straight away when Yamin shook his shoulder. For a moment he actually tried to turn over on his bedroll and ignore the intrusion.

Then, when he woke up properly, he was furious with himself.

Even as he pulled on his boots, listened to Yamin's report of approaching jeeps, asked how many, heard the shouts outside, checked the clip of his Kalashnikov for ammunition - even then he was thinking, this is the second time in twenty-four hours that I've been caught napping.

Am I getting too old? he wondered. Is thirty-six past the age for fighting?

Outside, the night was not entirely dark: a half-moon gave enough light to give the desert shape and shadow, if no colour. I had been sleeping too long anyway, thought Tahir confusedly. He could see the vehicles approaching: plumes of dust to the east, half obscuring the yellow light of headlamps.

His father was standing outside the tent, looking through binoculars at the road.

'Well?' asked Tahir.

'Jeeps, Land Rovers,' said the old man. 'Eight of them.' He paused.

'There are women and a child I think. It's hard to tell.'

Tahir relaxed a little, went back into the tent and found his own binoculars. But when he came out again someone was shouting, 'GAF! It's the GAF!'

There was a clatter of metal as guns were readied. Tahir ignored it, sighted his binoculars. Sure enough, there was the green-and-red flag of the Libyan-backed people, fluttering on the radio aerial of the lead jeep.

His father called the GAF traitors; but as far as Tahir could understand it their only treachery was to take foreign money, and to have started the fight earlier than his own people.

The convoy was slowing down now, spreading itself out on the dusty ap.r.o.n of rock below the encampment. Tahir could see the figures in the lead jeep well enough to pick out their faces in the reflected light of the headlamps. One of them looked like - probably was - Al Tayid.

Tahir drew in a breath, strode forward across the sand. He took out his pistol, fired a shot into the air; several of his men did the same, and then they were all up, crowding forward, shooting skywards. A figure in one of the jeeps reached up and fired a shot, but was waved down by Al Tayid Al Tayid.

Tahir waved his own men down. 'They have women with them,' he shouted. 'And children. We should be careful.'

The shots stopped.

'I am not sure about this,' said his father's voice into the silence.

'Why should he bring any of his civilian people?'

Al Tayid got out of his jeep and ran across to Tahir and his father. got out of his jeep and ran across to Tahir and his father.

He embraced the older man first, kissing him on both cheeks; then did the same to Tahir.

'My brothers in the desert!' he said. 'I am so glad to see you!'

'Why have you brought your women?' said the Sakir Sakir briskly. 'We cannot accommodate them.' briskly. 'We cannot accommodate them.'

Al Tayid glanced at him sharply. 'You may have to,' he said. 'These are all of my people. All the Free Giltaz that remain, apart from those who are with you, and those abroad.' glanced at him sharply. 'You may have to,' he said. 'These are all of my people. All the Free Giltaz that remain, apart from those who are with you, and those abroad.'

'All?' Tahir looked at the figures disembarking from the jeeps, noticing for the first time the absence of any joy there. The dull, dejected looks on the faces of even the younger men. He looked back at Vincent Tayid.

'We were raided,' he said simply. 'First by Benari, then by his friends.'

Tahir frowned. 'The Moroccans?'

Vincent shook his head, looked at the Sakir Sakir. ' Al Harwaz Al Harwaz.' He paused. 'We were hoping that you could help us.'

The Brigadier watched as a loading truck manoeuvred its way across the crowded tarmac towards the waiting Hercules, its diesel engine grunting with every change of gear. In the brilliant floodlights, the vehicles and men scattered around the plane looked too sharp and clear to be real; it was as if they were plastic toys, moving around on clockwork motors. Even the plane itself seemed plastic, Airfix. It was hard to believe it could really fly. That it would really fly to Morocco.

Voices shouted orders, and a crate of ammunition was taken off the loading truck and carried up the ramp. The Brigadier did something he very rarely did, and allowed himself a fantasy: that the orders were being shouted by children, that the plastic-looking trucks and jeeps were really just toys, that the whole thing somehow wasn't his responsibility, his operation.

That he hadn't shot the Doctor and Jo.

But they hadn't been the real Doctor and Jo. He was sure that Jo hadn't been human any more. That the Doctor hadn't been - whatever he normally was. That they were different, alien, dangerous.

He was sure.

Almost sure.

He remembered the red blood flowing through Jo's hands, staining her shirt.

Human blood.

'- report, sir?'

The Brigadier frowned, looked up and saw Sergeant Osgood.

'Medical report?' he asked. 'Yes, yes. Straight away. I've been waiting.'

'Sir?' Osgood looked puzzled. 'I don't know about a medical report, sir. I just wondered how often you'd like me to report from Rabat whilst you're in Kebiria.'

'Oh - ah, yes. Every - ' The Brigadier stopped, shook his head, realizing that he had no idea how often he wanted Osgood to report.

'Use your own judgement, Osgood,' he said finally.

Osgood nodded. 'And the satellite radio unit? Can we take it?'

Again, the Brigadier couldn't think. There was the satellite radio unit. There were other things. They all had to be got on the plane. But it wasn't important, it just couldn't be as important as whether - 'Liaise with Johnson,' said the Brigadier wearily. 'He's in charge of loading.'

Osgood hesitated, saluted, set off at a trot towards the loading ramp of the plane. The Brigadier stared after him, knowing that he should have made a decision. He couldn't just stand here worrying all the time. He hadn't shot the Doctor and Jo. He couldn't have done. The real Doctor and Jo were still in Kebiria - weren't they? That was why he was going back out there. Wasn't it?

Or was he just trying to prove - What?