NINETEEN

      When Paul Billson heard what we were going to do he took it as his due. He didn’t even thank us, and I could have picked him up and shaken him as you would try to shake sense into a puppy. But that was the man, and he wasn’t going to change. Byrne settled down to draw up his leaflet and I wandered away to think about things – mostly about Byrne, because I was fed up with thinking about Paul.

      From what I had seen of Byrne’s camels he seemed to take pride in breeding a superior animal. If his information on the price of camels was correct and a pack camel would cost £100, then it would be reasonable to assume that his might average, say, £150. That would make him worth £45,000 in stock alone, regardless of his other interests. He had said he ran salt caravans; I didn’t know if that was profitable but I assumed it was. Then there was whatever he got from Hesther Raulier for looking after her affairs in the desert, and there were probably other sources of income.

      It seemed likely that Byrne was a wealthy man in his society. I don’t know how far the Tuareg had been forced into a cash economy – I had seen very little money changing hands – but even on a barter basis Byrne would be rich by desert standards.

      Next day Byrne and I went into Agadez, Paul staying behind on Byrne’s insistence. ‘I don’t want you seen in Agadez,’ he said. ‘You’d stand out like the Tree of Ténéré. You spend the day here – and stay put. Understand?’

      Paul understood. It wasn’t what Byrne said, it was the way he said it that drove it home into Paul’s skull.

      As we drove away Byrne said, ‘And Hamiada will see that he stays put.’ There was a touch of amusement in his voice.

      I said, ‘What was that you said about a tree?’

      ‘The Tree of Ténéré?’ He pointed east. ‘It’s out there. Only tree I’ve ever heard of being put on the maps. It’s on your map – take a look.’

      So I did, and there it was – L’Arbre du Ténéré, about a hundred and sixty miles north-east of Agadez in the Erg du Ténéré, an area marked yellow on the map – the colour of sand. ‘Why should a tree be marked?’

      ‘There’s not another tree in any direction for about fifty kilometres,’ said Byrne. ‘It’s the most isolated tree in the world. Even so, a fool French truck driver ran into it back in 1960. It’s old – been there for hundreds of years. There’s a well there, but the water’s not too good.’

      So the map indicated – eau trés mauvaise à 40 m.

      It was a little over a hundred miles to Agadez over roughish country. Even though we were able to pick up speed over the last forty miles of reasonable track it took us five hours, averaging twenty miles an hour for the whole trip.

      Agadez seemed a prosperous little town by Saharan standards. It even had a mosque, something I had not seen in Tam. We parked the truck outside the Hotel de l’Aīr and went inside to have a beer, then Byrne went to the bank to have his leaflets printed. Before he left he said, ‘You might like to do some shopping; it’s better here than in Tam. Got any money?’

      It occurred to me that Byrne was laying out considerable sums during our travels and he would need recompense. I dug out my wallet and checked it. I had the equivalent of about a hundred pounds in Algerian currency, another four hundred in travellers’ cheques and a small case stuffed with credit cards.

      Byrne looked at my offerings and said, ‘None of that is much use here. You give anyone a strange piece of paper or a bit of plastic and he’ll laugh at you.’ He produced a small wad of local currency. ‘Here. Don’t worry, I’ll bill you when you leave, and you can settle it with Hesther in Algiers.’

      And I had to make do with that.

      I walked along the dusty street and found that American influence had even penetrated as far as Agadez – there was a supermarket! Not that an American would have recognized it as such but it was passable, although the stock of European-style clothing was limited. I bought a pair of Levi’s and a couple of shirts and stocked up with two cartons of English cigarettes. Then I blinked at an array of Scotch whisky, not so much in astonishment that it was there at all but at the price, which was two-thirds the London price. I bought two bottles.

      I took my booty and stowed it in the Toyota, then had another beer in the hotel while waiting for Byrne. When he came back we took the Toyota to a filling station to refuel and there, standing next to the pumps, was a giraffe.

      I stared at it incredulously. ‘For God’s sake! What the hell …’

      The giraffe bent its neck and looked down at us with mild eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Byrne. ‘Haven’t you seen a giraffe before?’

      ‘Not at a filling station.’

      Byrne didn’t seem in the least surprised. ‘I’ll be a little while here. This is where we start the distribution of our message.’

      I nodded wordlessly and watched the giraffe amble away up the main street of Agadez. As Byrne opened the door I said, ‘Hang on. Satisfy my curiosity.’

      ‘What about?’

      I pointed. ‘That bloody giraffe.’

      ‘Oh, that. It’s from the zoo. They let it out every morning, and it goes back every night to feed.’

      ‘Oh!’ Well, it was an explanation.

      We arrived back at Byrne’s place in the Aīr the next day, having camped on the way. I was getting to like those nightly camps. The peace was incredible and there was nothing more arduous to think about than the best place to make the fire and the best place to sleep after testing the wind direction. It was a long way from the busy – and now meaningless – activities of Stafford Security Consultants Ltd.

      At that particular camp I offered Byrne a scotch, but he shook his head. ‘I don’t touch the hard stuff, just have the occasional beer.’

      I said, ‘I can’t get over the fact that it’s cheaper than in England.’