'Not yet, at any rate,' he told me. 'I have some work to do here, then I'll rejoin the rig for a bit. I like to keep a finger on the pulse. Listen, Neil…'

'You want something?' I prompted.

'I want you to put Basil Kemp completely in the picture. He doesn't know the score and he may not take it from me. Why should he? We're both new to Africa, new to this country, and he'll brush off my fears, but he'll accept your opinion. He needs to know more about the political situation.'

'I wouldn't call Kemp exactly complacent myself,' I said.

'That's the trouble. He's got so many worries of his own that he hasn't room for mine – unless he can be convinced they're real. You're going up there, I'm told. Lay it on the line for him, please.'

I agreed, not without a sense of relief. It was high time that Kemp knew the wider issues involved, and nothing I had heard lately had made me any less uneasy about the possible future of Nyala. The next morning I picked up Ritchie Thorpe, one of the spare Wyvern men, and Max Otterman flew us up to Lasulu. From there we drove inland along that fantastic road that thrust into the heart of the country. After Ofanwe had it built it had been underused and neglected. The thick rain forest had encroached and the huge trees had thrust their roots under it to burst the concrete. Then came the oil strike and now it was undergoing a fair amount of punishment, eroding from above to meet the erosion from below. Not that the traffic was heavy in the sense of being dense, but some damn big loads were being taken north. Our transformer was merely the biggest so far.

The traffic varied from bullock carts with nerve-wracking squeaking wheels plodding stolidly along at two miles an hour to sixty-tonners and even larger vehicles. Once we came across a real giant parked by the roadside while the crew ate a meal.

It carried an oil drilling tower lying on its side, whole and entire, and must have weighed upwards of a hundred tons.

I pulled in and had a chat with the head driver. He was a Russian and very proud of his rig. We talked in a mixture of bad English and worse French, and he demonstrated what it would do, a function new to me but not to Ritchie. Apparently it was designed to move in soft sand and he could inflate and deflate all the tyres by pushing buttons while in the cab. When travelling over soft sand the tyres would be deflated to spread the load. He told me that in these conditions the fully loaded rig would put less pressure on the ground per square inch than the foot of a camel. I was properly appreciative and we parted amicably.

It was a long drive and we were both tired and dusty when we finally came across Wyvern Transport. By now we had passed through the rainforest belt and were entering scrubland, the trees giving way to harsh thorny bush and the ground strewn with withering gourd-carrying vines. Dust was everywhere, and the road edges were almost totally rotted away; we slalomed endlessly to avoid the potholes. We found the rig parked by the roadside and the hydraulics had been let down so that the load rested on the ground instead of being taken up on the bogie springs. They had obviously stopped for the night, which surprised us – night driving at their speed was quite feasible and much cooler and normally less of a strain than daywork.

I pulled up and looked around. Of the men I could see I knew only one by name: McGrath, the big Irishman who had driven the lead tractor in the parade through Port Luard. Ritchie got out of the car, thanked me for the ride up and went off to join his mates. I called McGrath over.

'Hi there. Mister Kemp around?' I asked.

McGrath pointed up the road. 'There's a bridge about a mile along. He's having a look at it.'

'Thanks.' I drove along slowly and thought the convoy looked like an oversized gypsy camp. The commissary wagon was opened up and a couple of men were cooking. A little further along were the other trucks, including the big one with the airlift gear, and then the camp of Sadiq and his men, very neat and military. Sadiq got to his feet as I drove up but with the light fading I indicated that I would see him on my return from the bridge, and went on past. I saw and approved of the fact that the fuel truck was parked on its own, well away from all the others, but made a mental note to check that it was guarded.

The road had been blasted through a low ridge here and beyond the ridge was a river. I pulled off the road short of the bridge and parked next to Kemp's Land Rover. I could see him in the distance, walking halfway across the bridge, accompanied by Hammond. I waved and they quickened their pace.

When they came up to me I thought that Kemp looked better than he had done in Port Luard. The lines of his face fell in more placid folds and he wasn't so tired. Obviously he was happier actually doing a job than arranging for it to be done. Ben Hammond, by his side, hadn't changed at all. He still had his gamecock strut and his air of defensive wariness. Some little men feel that they have a lot to be wary about.

'Hello there,' I said. 'I just thought I'd drop by for a coffee.'

Kemp grinned and shook my hand, but Hammond said, 'Checking up on us, are you? Mr Wingstead's just been up here, you know.'

Clearly he was saying that where Geoff had gone, no man need go after. His voice told me that he thought a lot of his boss, which pleased me. I sometimes wondered if I was as transparent to other people as they appeared to me.

I jerked my thumb back up the road. 'Sure I'm checking. Do you know what that transporter is worth? Landed at Port Luard it was declared at one million, forty-two thousand, nine hundred and eighty-six pounds and five pence.' I grinned to take the sting out of it. 'I still haven't figured out what the five pence is for. If it was yours, wouldn't you want to know if it was in safe hands?'

Hammond looked startled. Kemp said, Take it easy, Ben,' which I thought was a nice reversal of roles. 'Mister Mannix is quite entitled to come up here, and he's welcome any time. Sorry if Ben's a bit edgy – we have problems.'

I wasn't a bit surprised to hear it, but dutifully asked what they were. Kemp held out a lump of concrete. 'I kicked that out with the toe of my boot. I didn't have to kick hard, either.'

I took the lump and rubbed it with my thumb. It was friable and bits dropped off. 'I'd say that someone used a mite too much sand in the mix.' I pointed to the bridge. 'Milner said the bridges would prove dicey. Is this the worst?'

Kemp shook his head. 'Oh no. This isn't too bad at all. The really tricky one is way up there, miles ahead yet. This one is run-of-the-mill. Just a little shaky, that's all.' He and Hammond exchanged rueful smiles. 'It's too risky to move in the dark and there's only half an hour of daylight left. We'll take her across at first light. Anyway it will be our first full night stop for nearly a week, good for the lads.'

I said, 'I came just in time to see the fun. Mind if I stick around? I brought Ritchie Thorpe up with me.'

'Good show. We can use him. We'll rig a couple of extra bunks after we've eaten,' Kemp said, climbing into his car. Hammond joined him and I followed them back to camp, but stopped to say a few polite and appreciative things to Sadiq on the way. He assured me that any labour necessary for strengthening the bridge would be found very quickly, and I left him, marvelling at the self-assurance that a uniform lends a man.

My mind was in top gear as I thought about the bridge. Someone had made a bit of extra profit on the contract when it was built, and it was going to be interesting to watch the passage of the rig the next day. From a safe vantage point, of course. But if this bridge was run of the mill, what the hell was the tricky one going to be like?

I laid my plate on one side. 'Good chow.'