Page 7 of Never

He heard the doors of the truck open and close, then heavy footsteps approaching.

A voice said in Arabic: ‘Get up.’

Abdul opened his eyes. There were two men. One held a rifle, the other had a holstered pistol. Behind them was a pickup truck loaded with sacks that might be full of flour – food for the jihadis, no doubt.

The one with the rifle was younger, with a wispy beard. He wore camouflage trousers and a blue anorak that would have been more suited to a rainy day in New York. He said harshly: ‘Who are you?’

Abdul quickly assumed the hail-fellow-well-met persona of a travelling salesman. He smiled and said: ‘My friends, why do you disturb a man at prayer?’ He spoke fluent colloquial Arabic with a Lebanese accent: he had lived in Beirut until the age of six and his parents had continued to use Arabic at home after they moved to the US.

The man with the pistol had greying hair. He spoke calmly. ‘We ask God’s forgiveness for interrupting your devotions,’ he said. ‘But what are you doing here, on this desert track? Where are you going?’

‘I’m selling cigarettes,’ Abdul said. ‘Would you like to buy some? They’re half-price.’ In most African countries a pack of twenty Cleopatras cost the equivalent, in local currency, of a dollar. Abdul sold them for half that.

The younger man threw open the trunk of Abdul’s car. It was full of cartons of Cleopatras. ‘Where did you get them?’ he said.

‘From a Sudanese army captain called Bilel.’ It was a plausible story: everyone knew the Sudanese officers were corrupt.

There was a silence. The older jihadi looked thoughtful. The younger man looked as if he could hardly wait to use his rifle, and Abdul wondered if he had ever before fired it at a human being. But the older man was less tense. He would be slower to shoot, but more accurate.

Abdul knew that his life was at stake. These two would either believe him or try to kill him. If it came to a fight, he would go for the older man first. The younger one would fire, but he would probably miss. Then again, at this range he might not.

The older man said: ‘But why are you here? Where do you think you’re going?’

‘There’s a village up ahead, isn’t there?’ said Abdul. ‘I can’t see it yet, but a man in a café told me I would find customers there.’

‘A man in a café.’

‘I’m always looking for customers.’

The older man said to the younger: ‘Search him.’

The young man slung his rifle across his back, which gave Abdul a moment’s relief. But the older man drew a 9mm pistol and pointed it at Abdul’s head while Abdul was patted down.

The young man found Abdul’s cheap phone and handed it to his companion.

The older man turned it on and pressed buttons confidently. Abdul guessed he was looking at the contacts directory and the list of recent calls. What he found would support Abdul’s cover: cheap hotels, car repair workshops, currency changers, and a couple of hookers.

The older man said: ‘Search the car.’

Abdul stood watching. The man began with the open trunk. He picked up Abdul’s small travelling bag and emptied its contents onto the road. There was not much: a towel, a Koran, a few simple toiletries, a phone charger. He threw all the cigarettes out and lifted the floor panel to reveal the spare wheel and the toolkit. Without replacing anything, he opened the rear doors. He thrust his hands between the back and the flat of the seats and bent to peer underneath.

In the front he looked under the dashboard, inside the glove box, and into the door pockets. He noticed the loose panel in the driver’s door and removed it. ‘Binoculars,’ he said triumphantly, and Abdul felt a chill of fear. Binoculars were not as incriminating as a gun, but they were costly, and why would a vendor of cigarettes need them?

‘Very useful in the desert,’ Abdul said, beginning to feel desperate. ‘You’re probably carrying a pair yourselves.’

‘These look expensive.’ The older man examined the glasses. ‘Made in Kunming,’ he read. ‘They’re Chinese.’

‘Exactly,’ said Abdul. ‘I got them from the Sudanese captain who sold me the cigarettes. They were a bargain.’

Again his story was plausible. The Sudanese armed forces bought a lot from China, which was their country’s biggest trading partner. Much of the equipment ended up on the black market.

The older man said shrewdly: ‘Were you using these when we came along?’

‘I was going to, after my prayers. I wanted to know how big the village is. What do you think – fifty people? A hundred?’ It was a deliberate underestimate, to give the impression that he had not looked.

‘Never mind,’ said the man. ‘You’re not going there.’ He gave Abdul a long, hard stare, probably making up his mind whether to believe Abdul or kill him. Suddenly he said: ‘Where’s your gun?’

‘Gun? I have no gun.’ Abdul did not carry one. Firearms got an undercover officer into trouble more often than they got him out, and here was a dramatic example. If a weapon had been found now, they would have felt sure Abdul was not an innocent vendor of cigarettes.