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‘Yes,’ said Tamara. ‘I really do.’

***

Next day, Tab called to tell her that the French drone had failed to pick up the radio signal from the consignment, and had not sighted a bus anywhere along its route.

Abdul had disappeared.

CHAPTER 22

The Mercedes bus spent five days in a Libyan village with no name, waiting for a new fuel pump to be brought from Tripoli. The inhabitants of the village spoke a Tuareg dialect unknown to anyone on the bus, but Kiah and Esma communicated with the women in gestures and smiles, and managed well enough. Food had to be brought from neighbouring villages, because the one settlement could not cope with thirty-nine more mouths to feed, regardless of how much money was offered.

Hakim demanded that everyone pay him extra, because he had not budgeted for this. Abdul said angrily that he was running out of money, and other passengers said the same. Kiah knew that Abdul was pretending, hiding the fact that he had plenty.

They were all used to Hakim and his armed guards now. They were not afraid to argue and negotiate with him about extra payments. The group had survived many setbacks. Kiah was beginning to feel almost safe. She began to think about crossing the Mediterranean, for that was now the part of the journey that scared her.

Strangely, she was not unhappy. The daily privations and perils had come to seem almost normal. She talked a lot to Esma, who was about her own age. But she spent most of her time with Abdul, who had become fond of Naji. Abdul seemed fascinated by the mental development of a two-year-old: what the boy understood, what he could not understand, and how much he learned every day. Kiah asked him if he would have a son of his own one day. ‘I haven’t thought about that for a long time,’ he said. She wondered what he meant. But she had realized weeks ago that he did not answer questions about his past.

One day they woke to a thick fog, coating everything in a film of cold dew, something that happened in the desert, albeit rarely. They could not see from one house to the next, and the sounds of other people were muffled, footsteps and snatches of talk heard as if through a wall.

Kiah tied Naji to her with a strip of cloth, fearful that if he wandered off he might never be found. She and Abdul sat together all day, with no one else in sight most of the time. She asked him what he would do for a living once they reached France. ‘Some Europeans will pay a man to help them keep fit and strong,’ he said. ‘Such men are called personal trainers, and they can charge up to a hundred dollars an hour. You must look athletic, but otherwise all you have to do is tell them what exercises to do.’ Kiah was baffled by this notion. It made no sense to her that people would pay so much money for nothing. She had much to learn about Europeans.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What will you do?’

‘Once I get there, I’ll be happy to do any work.’

‘But what would you prefer?’

She smiled. ‘I’d love to have a little fish shop. I know about fish. I’m sure they have different kinds in France, but it won’t take me long to learn about them. I’d buy fresh every day and close the shop when I’ve sold them all. When Naji’s older he can work in the shop and learn the business, then take it over when I’m too old to work.’

Next day the fuel pump was at last delivered, by a man on a camel who stayed to help Hakim install it and to make sure it worked properly.

When they set off the following morning, they again headed west. Kiah recalled that Abdul had questioned Hakim about their direction previously, but now he kept his mouth shut. However, he was not the only person on the bus who thought the Mediterranean coast did not lie in that direction. Two of the men confronted Hakim at the next rest stop and demanded to know why they were driving away from their destination.

Kiah listened, wondering what he would say.

‘This is the way!’ Hakim said angrily. ‘There is only one road.’

When the questioners persisted, Hakim said: ‘We go west, then north. It’s the only way, unless you’re on a camel.’ He became sarcastic. ‘Go ahead, get a camel, we’ll see who’s first to reach Tripoli.’

Kiah said quietly to Abdul: ‘Do you believe Hakim?’

Abdul shrugged. ‘He’s a liar and a cheat. I don’t believe anything he says. But it’s his bus, and he’s driving, and his guards have the guns. So we have to trust him.’

The bus made good progress that day. Towards the end of the afternoon, Kiah looked out of the glassless window and noticed the grubby signs of human habitation: dented oil drums, cardboard boxes, a car seat with the foam stuffing bursting out. Looking ahead, she saw in the distance a settlement that did not look like a Tuareg village.

As the bus drew closer, she saw details. There were a few cinder-block buildings and many improvised huts and shelters made of dried-up tree branches and oddments of canvas and carpet. But there were also trucks and other vehicles, and parts of the area were closed off with stout chain-link fencing.

Kiah said: ‘What is this place?’

‘It looks like a mining camp.’

‘A gold mine?’ Like everyone else, she had heard of the gold rush in the central Sahara, but she had never seen a mine.

‘I guess so,’ said Abdul.

The place was filthy, Kiah saw as the bus drove slowly between the huts. On the ground between the dwellings there were drink cans, discarded food and cigarette packets. ‘Are gold mines always so dirty?’ she asked Abdul.

‘I believe that some are licensed by the Libyan government and subject to labour laws, but others are rogue excavations with no official status and no rules. The Sahara is too big to be policed. This place must be unofficial.’