Jesus Christ Christ, they've cut her throat, thought Catriona.

'NOW!'.

The interrogator's hand rose from the table, the fist unfolded inches from her face. Catriona's head was jolted back, her cheek stung.

She stared at the hand, still only inches from her face, felt a sudden surge of anger. Then she did something that, even as she was doing it, seemed to her the stupidest thing she had ever done in her life. She reached forward, grabbed the woman's wrist, and bit the extended finger as hard as she could.

She remembered Tahir's smiling eyes: Let's try your courage Let's try your courage.

Her head was jolted back again, this time with enough force to send a stab of pain through her neck, but Catriona didn't let go. She seemed to feel, rather than see, the heavy hand corning towards her face. There was another jolt, and the world spun. Something snapped in her mouth, and then she was sitting on the floor, pain shooting down her back and along her jaw, and her mouth full of blood.

The interrogator was standing, a gun in one hand, the other dripping blood. Catriona raised her eyes to the other woman's, wiped a hand across her lips.

Slowly, the big woman put the gun away. Catriona became aware of blood trickling down her neck from her chin, of a ringing in her head. The left side of her face throbbed with a gradually increasing intensity.

'Your friends will be here later tonight,' said the interrogator at last.

'We will see what happens then.'

'My friends?' said Catriona thickly, swallowing blood. The woman could only mean the UNIT team. 'You mean you're letting them into the country?'

The interrogator smiled.

'Of course we are. They will be arrested at the airport.' She rapped on the steel door: it opened, with much clattering of bolts and keys. 'I will leave you to think about that.' She walked out through the door, then looked round; the corridor and the gun-toting guards behind her.

'Maybe I will have you beaten properly later.'

Two female guards strode into the room, hauled Catriona to her feet, dragged her out into a grey, neon-lit corridor.

'Let me go!' protested Catriona. 'Let me go, I can walk!'

One of the guards wrenched at her arm. 'Maybe we can fix that,'

she said. She let go of Catriona for a moment, kicked her leg, hard, just below the kneecap. Catriona just managed to suppress a cry of pain. The guard laughed.

By the time the mist had cleared from her eyes, she was inside a tiny, windowless cell. The door slammed shut behind her, the locks clattered back into place. Catriona stared at the door for a moment, then slowly, carefully, stood up. She swayed; her head throbbed; the ringing in her ears got louder. But she managed to stay upright. She touched the left side of her face; the hand came away without blood on it.

Only a bruise.

She became aware that she badly needed to pee. There was a bucket in the corner of the cell; she used that, then, since there was no furniture in the room, lay down on the floor. It wasn't comfortable - it was bare stone, hard and gritty - but it was slightly cooler than the air in the cell.

'They won't torture you,' she told herself, aloud, staring at her stockinged feet, the dirty and scuffed cloth of her trousers. 'That woman only hit you because you bit her. She knew she couldn't go on after that. She knew she'd disobeyed her orders, and couldn't risk any more of it. So what's going to happen now is that the British government will contact the Kebirians and tell them to b.l.o.o.d.y well let me go. I'll be out of here in the morning.'

By the time she got to the last sentence, her voice wasn't shaking any more.

Good.

She stared at the ceiling, at the flies...o...b..ting the solitary light bulb in its steel cage. She tried to think of how she would start her report on this incident for the Journal. It should run to a whole feature, she reckoned. Three columns. Might even make the weekend magazine.

'The worst thing about prison isn't the fear, it's the humiliation -'

she began, absurdly wishing that she had her ca.s.sette recorder.

Abruptly, the screaming started again, right outside her cell.

Catriona heard a sickening crunch that sounded like bones being broken, and the screaming peaked, slowly faded away into meaningless babbling. She got up, walked unsteadily to the door, banged on it.

'Stop that!' she shouted. 'Stop doing that to her!' There was a moment's silence, then a woman laughed and the screams started again.

Playacting, thought Catriona. It's got to be playacting. They're just trying to scare me. I'm not going to let them succeed. I'm not going to believe that it's real.

She lay down again and closed her eyes.

The screams went on, and on, and on.

Jo was disappointed by the flight. The transport plane might be as big as a 747, but it was noisy, the pa.s.senger compartment had no windows, and there wasn't anything to read. Mike Yates wasn't very communicative - he disappeared at an early stage to chat to the pilot, an old school friend of his. Sergeant Benton had taken the guide to Kebiria away from her and was reading it, propped up against the metal side of the plane. His men were similarly propped up, reading magazines or asleep. Some of them were smoking, which they probably shouldn't have been.

Jo sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, trying to control a feeling of airsickness and wondered why on Earth military aircraft couldn't have proper seats. From time to time she found herself wishing that the Doctor was with her, then remembered why he wasn't, and then wished she hadn't thought about it in the first place.

Abruptly the engine note changed, and the plane tilted slightly.

'That's it,' said Benton, folding up the guide and returning it to Jo.

'Coming in to land. Put the f.a.gs out, lads, and check your straps.'

Jo wondered how he could be so sure what was happening, but nonetheless scrambled to her position and strapped herself in. She glanced at her watch: nearly midnight. She yawned. The first thing she was going to do when they landed, she decided, was find a hot bath and a cup of tea, and then she was going to bed.

Mike Yates appeared on the c.o.c.kpit steps, jumped down. He leaned over and muttered something to Benton before strapping himself in next to Jo. He looked worried, she thought. She wondered if she should ask him what the problem was, but decided it would wait till they landed.

The engines throttled back, and Jo's stomach lurched as the plane began to lose height. There were several jolts as they hit air pockets on the way down, and Jo began to feel sick in earnest. She was greatly relieved when, with a barely perceptible b.u.mp, the wheels. .h.i.t tarmac.

But, feeling sick or no, she was unbuckling her harness before they'd stopped rolling.

Mike put a hand on her arm. 'Hold on, Jo. We might have a bit of a problem.'

She froze, her hand on the buckle. 'What's wrong?'

'We've been diverted to a military airfield - and there was a fighter escort, just to make sure we stayed diverted. I'd better get out first and see what's going on.'

The aircraft shuddered slightly as the engines were throttled back; as soon as they were silent, Jo could hear the scream of jets, close by and getting closer. Mike stood up, went to the main hatch and opened it. Warm, dry air blew in, smelling strongly of jet fuel.

'You have to what?' shouted Mike from the hatchway, evidently addressing someone outside. A bright light shone in through the doorway. The scream of jets increased, then abruptly diminished as the engines throttled back.

'But this is a United Nations plane!' Mike shouted. 'We have permission from your government - '

The other speaker interrupted. Jo could hear the voice now, heavily accented, apologetic. 'My orders ... little choice ... weapons ... '

Mike looked over his shoulder at Sergeant Benton, an expression of incredulity on his face. 'They're putting us under arrest!'

One of the men said, 'Oh, no. Here we go.'

Jo unbuckled her harness, stood up. 'But that's illegal!' she said.

'What are they arresting us for?'

Mike shrugged. 'He just says it's orders. Could be anything. They want all our weapons and they're going to impound the plane.' He paused. 'The Brig will be furious. We've got his helicopter in the hold.'

There was a clatter of metal on metal. Jo ran up to the hatchway and looked out. A searchlight shone in her face, almost blinding her.

She couldn't see the man that Mike was talking to, though after a moment she made out the form of the jet fighter she'd heard. The suited and helmeted pilot sat in the c.o.c.kpit, his figure picked out sharply by the bright light. Beyond the plane, Jo could see the low brick fronts of some buildings and a pink-flowered bush that looked as if it were made of plastic. Beyond that, nothing but darkness. As well as the jet fuel she could smell dust, metal, the sea.

Jo heard the sound of a diesel engine, saw a small truck with a flight of steps on it moving slowly towards the plane. Trotting beside it were two soldiers, both armed with machine-guns. Jo saw more soldiers in the half-shadow around the base of the searchlights, also armed, their guns pointed casually at the plane.

She looked at Mike. 'We haven't got much choice but to go along with them, have we?'

Mike shook his head.

'Can't the pilot radio for a.s.sistance?'

'Too far - all our signals from here have to go through Kebir City.

But the Brig's sure to find out, sooner or later. He'll get us out, don't worry. And they won't dare do much to us - UN personnel, and all that. It just means a night or two in the clink.' He grimaced. 'Sorry, Jo. It might not be very nice.'

The steps connected with the side of the plane; one of the soldiers trotted up them, gun at the ready. He was young, Jo noticed - younger than she was. He looked more nervous than anything else.

' Allez! Allez! ' he shouted. ' ' he shouted. ' 'Mediatement! Allez! 'Mediatement! Allez! ' '

Mike looked at the sergeant. 'After you, Benton.'

But Benton only grinned. 'Rank Hath Its Privileges, sir.'

Jo looked from one to the other, wondered how they could make jokes at a time like this.

' Allez! Allez! ' repeated the young soldier. ' repeated the young soldier.

Mike started down the steps. The soldier frisked him, took his service pistol and the clip of ammunition that went with it.

Jo stepped forward into the light, ignoring Benton's muttered, 'Be careful, miss.' The young soldier caught sight of her, turned and shouted something in Arabic to his invisible superior.

There was a pause. A fat man in a gold-braided uniform stepped into view, stared at Jo for a moment, then shouted something in rapid Arabic.

The young man turned back to her, grinned broadly. ' Ma'moiselle Ma'moiselle,'

he said. ' Vous Vous - uh - you go Kebir City, yes please? We - uh - - uh - you go Kebir City, yes please? We - uh - accommodate you?'

'I prefer to stay with my friends,' replied Jo, speaking French. Her tutor had always told her that her accent was atrocious, but it couldn't be worse than the young man's English.

Another consultation in Arabic and French followed. Mike joined in from the bottom of the steps, where he was standing between two armed guards. Finally he shouted up at her, 'It's no use, Jo. You've got to go to Kebir City. I'm sure you'll be all right. They won't hurt you.

They seem just as confused by their orders as we are.'

'I will not be all right!' Jo began to feel panic take hold. She tried to tell herself that being arrested on Earth, even in a strange country, was hardly likely to be as dangerous as Spiridon under the Daleks, or Solos. Somehow it didn't seem very convincing. 'Tell them I've got to stay with you!' she yelled.

The fat man said something, and Jo heard a brisk voice speaking in English: 'The girl has to go to the Moussadou Moussadou.'

The young soldier was still standing on the narrow steel platform at the top of the steps. Jo turned and smiled at him. 'Please,' she said in French. 'I would like to stay with the Captain.'

But the young man only beckoned her to follow him.

Her shoulders slumped. So much for seeing Africa. She let herself be led down the steps. Mike Yates had disappeared. Behind her, she heard Sergeant Benton mutter, 'Don't worry, miss. It'll all be sorted out in the morning.' He didn't sound convinced. Jo tried to turn to smile at him, but he was being led away. His men were trailing down the steps behind him, dumping their guns in a pile on the tarmac.

' Ou est cette "Moussadou"? Ou est cette "Moussadou"? ' asked Jo of the young man. He looked at her sorrowfully. ' asked Jo of the young man. He looked at her sorrowfully.

'Is - political prison,' he said. 'For enemies of the people.'

He led Jo across the tarmac towards the buildings, the sorrowful expression still on his face. Jo began to wonder if going to Africa had been such a good idea after all.

Six.