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wasn’t far, four metres at most – climbed back up to the ledge, got behind him. He’d been distracted by Al Shams, had allowed himself to be drawn in, to lose focus. Had Abdulkader tried to warn him? He hadn’t heard a thing.
    After four restless hours he continued on his way, dread marshalling within. Al Shams had made it clear: go to the villages, deliver the message to Petro-Tex, or Abdulkader would die. Bring the Army, and Abdulkader would die. That Al Shams could track his movements, verify his actions, Clay had no doubt.
    By mid-morning he was approaching the village of Um’alat along the broad flat wadi of the same name. Goats scattered as he passed, dust rising in puffs from their hooves. A lone camel, its front legs hobbled, foraged among the stunted acacia that snaked along the grey cobbles of the main channel. Here the wadi narrowed and turned north toward the escarpment. The village, a tight cluster of tall, mud-brick buildings set on the wadi bank, rose through the dust and heat like some pre-Islamic apparition. He rolled Abdulkader’s Land Cruiser to a stop just outside the main gate, turned off the engine and stepped to the ground.
    Within seconds he was surrounded by children – miniatures of the men who’d taken his friend, dark-haired, dressed in rags. They laughed and smiled, followed him as he walked toward the main gate, tugged at his sleeves. An older boy approached, dressed like a man in a
thaub
and a tweed jacket, sandals fashioned from car-tyres and goat leather, a Kalashnikov slung over his right shoulder. The boy raised his hand to his forehead and said in English: ‘Follow.’
    They were expecting him.
    The boy led Clay to a low, whitewashed building on high ground overlooking the village. Inside, the single room was packed with tribesmen, all standing, all talking – the Bani Matar, Sunni Muslimsof the Shafa’i sect. This ancient clan had dominated this part of the Masila since the time of Persian rule and the dawn of Islam. They had endured the Caliphate, seen off the Ottoman occupation, fought the British, survived Egyptian chemical weapon attacks in the 1960s, and outlasted the Soviets. Tough didn’t even begin to describe them.
    The boy led him through the maze of bodies to a small stool at the far end of the room. Opposite, waiting, sat the
mashayikh
, the sheikh. The room went quiet. Clay sat, opened his notebook to a blank page, glanced up at the tribesmen packed like judge, jury and mob into every corner of the mud-brick room, and listened.
    The
mashayikh
reached for the Kalashnikov leaning against the wall, swung it level and balanced it across his knees. The trigger pointed out like an accusing finger, the whole of it beautiful, hateful, a work of calculated, merciless perfection. Clay stared at it, entranced, unable to break away.
    ‘Mister Straker,’ the
mashayikh
’s voice broke through, heavily accented, frayed.
    Clay looked up, breathing hard.
    The
mashayikh
fixed him with a long stare. ‘My people are worried,’ he said after a time. ‘The children are ill.’ Grumbled translations rippled out across the room. ‘It has begun in Al Urush, six months ago. A sickness. The children bring up food, their skin breaks open. Now it is worse.’
    Of course it could have been anything, despite Al Shams’ assertions: gastrointestinal infection, an outbreak of measles, flu, who knew. There were always complaints manufactured to claw money from the operators: goats run down by pipe trucks, camels poisoned by fictitious gas clouds, crops ruined by oil-tainted water that sprung mysteriously from the ground. He had heard it all before, in villages and settlements just like this all over the region, with no claim too spurious.
    And so, as the Arab spoke of the inadequate compensation, of the lack of jobs for the young men, of the corrupting influence of the oil workers, Clay Straker’s thoughts were elsewhere. He watched the
mashayikh
’s mouth move behind the short-cropped