'Neat. What mark of Queen Air?'

'The 65-80. Lycoming 380's, no long-range tanks, usual ADF,VOR,ILS, weather radar that's trying to pick up dirty pictures.'

'Radar's improved since my time. What's the weather up to, here?'

I told him as much as I remembered about the met situation -I hadn't picked up a report today – as we walked out towards the taxi rank.

He listened carefully. 'It's funny – it's almost the thing you miss most, not knowing the weather, not getting a report. You can work out a bit for yourself, when you can see the sky, but not knowing what's really happening up there… then you feel cut off. Shut in.'

'Uh-huh.' We were almost at the rank, but then the Czech Tu-104 started its takeoff and we stopped to watch, as pilots always do. It did it the old-fashioned way, getting the nosewheel off early and running nose-high for a while before sagging up into the sky.

'Takes you back,' Ken said. And it did: that was the way we'd learned to handle the early jets in the RAF, Meteors and NF 14's.

'It's an old design. When did it first come out? – '53? – '54?'

'As a bomber, earlier than that…' he watched it howl ponderously away to the north-west, and his eyes were screwed tight against the bright sky.

I offered my sunglasses and he took them; he hadn't seen too much sun in the last two years. His face had a thin, superficial tan of the exercise yard over the deeper pallor of the cell block.

Til buy some in town – if you can afford it.'

I nodded and we walked on to the taxi rank. The car park was pretty much uninhabited; it was a quiet time between flights. Just one man who'd paused to watch the takeoff and was now climbing into a white Morris 1100.

We were heading for town in the back of an old Austin A60 when Ken suddenly said: 'Whatever happened to Linda?'

'Linda? Oh yes, her. She was shacked up with some air traffic controller in Scotland, the last I heard.'

'Damn it.' He went depressed. 'I was probably going to marry that girl.'

'Oh yes? And what about Angela and Judy and-'

'What? I didn't know any Angela or Judy.'

'You would have done, mate; you would have done.'

He thought this over and it seemed to cheer him up a bit. 'Maybe you're right. Which reminds me: I hope you weren't thinking of an early night tonight?'

I'd been thinking of it but certainly not expecting it. 'I'll start organising things when we get to the hotel. Incidentally, you've probably got company waiting there: a certain Spohr, plus daughter.'

'Professor Spohr?' He seemed impressed. 'That's quick.'

'Professor? Where did you meet him? – not in Beit Oren?'

'Yep. He did a year. Came out about six weeks ago.'

'You're getting a better class of jailbird these days. He's ordered champagne and caviar to be waiting for you; what did you do? – save him from drowning in the cell bucket?"

'No, just that most of the time we were the only English-speaking Christians in the place.'

'And you spent a year talking about Christianity? You don't know anything except the churches have pointed tops.'

'Very interesting bloke. He's a mediaeval archaeologist.'

'So what did he go down for?'

'Well, he was excavating a site without permission-'

'They don't give you a year for that.'

They do if you pull a gun on the cops who've come to arrest you.' He was twisting uneasily to look over his shoulder.

'Ah. So this is just an old boys' reunion.'

'Could be.' He was still glancing back.

I said: 'What's the trouble?'

'There's a car…' he said softly.

"The white 1100? It was in the park with us, but this is still the normal route into town.'

'Yes…" He studied the road ahead, trying to remember. We were coming up to a big roundabout. 'If you go right here, you come in over the river on George Grivas Street, is that right?'

'I think so.' He looked at me and I shrugged and then nodded and leant forward to tell the driver to make the turn. 'I know it isn't the quickest way, but my friend wants to see something of the Engomi area.'

So we turned right. So did the 1100.

Ken said: 'Would they have told Cyprus I was coming in?'

'Sure to have done.' After all, you don't pay the airline fare to deport somebody unless you've made sure you won't have to double it by bringing him back when the other place won't take him either. 'But the authorities here wouldn't bother to tail you. All they have to do is check the hotel registers."

'Yees… I'm not going back to jail, you know.' He said it quietly, as much to himself as to me.

I looked across, a bit surprised. 'No reason why you should. Specially if you don't go back to Israel.'

He just nodded, and looked back. The white 1100 was staying about fifty yards back on a fairly empty road. If hewas tailing us, it was quite an efficient job. But just his hard luck that he was behind two pathologically suspicious characters.

We came over the river Pedieos – a steep green gorge but with only a flabby brown trickle at the bottom – and the town began to thicken up. The 1100 closed in, casually.

Our driver slowed to make a left turn that would have brought us along Evagoras Avenue to Metaxas Square, Nicosia 's busiest junction and the closest entrance to the walled city. I tapped him on the shoulder hastily. 'Keep going, keep going. Go down Makarios instead.'

'But it's stupid-'

'It's our money on the clock.'

The big shoulders shrugged but we kept going. And it way stupid, an unnecessary loop, doubling back. And if the 1100 was just as stupid…

He was. Makarios Avenue also brings you down to the Metaxas Square traffic-lights, and from a hundred yards away we could see we'd be caught by a red.

Ken looked at me. 'Shall we dance?'

'If you like. But don't hit him before I do; my record can stand it better.'

We stopped and the 1100 stopped immediately behind and we were out. I heard the taxi-driver's surprised shout dwindle away and then we had both doors of the 1100 open.

I said: 'It's a nice day for a drive, but what makes you think we know the only good route on the island?'

He was maybe my age but more solidly built, with a softedged square face, brown hair that was thinning back from a high forehead, fluffy side-whiskers and very calm blue eyes behind rimless glasses. He just rested his forearms on the wheel and looked coolly from Ken to me, and finally asked: 'What are you doing?' A slightly clipped accent.

'Louder,' Ken suggested, 'and more worried. You're an innocent citizen out for an afternoon drive and we couldbe the Hole-in-the-Wall gang for all you know.'

'I do not think you will rob me here.' We had quite a nice little traffic jam building up around us, with innocent bystanders watching curiously. Our own driver was climbing out.

I said: 'It's a hire car. He's not resident.'

'Sure,' Ken said, leaning in and punching the preset buttons on the car radio and watching the wavelength needle jump along the scale. 'But… that's 292 metres, isn't it?' He turned the on-off switch and the car flooded with a fast-talking gabble in… Hebrew.

Ken said reprovingly: 'That's not clever, is it? Staying pre-tuned to the Voice of Israel. Ha Mosad wouldn't like it.'

'Ha Mosad?' I queried.

'The Establishment. Latest name for the Sherut Bitachon.' The Israeli secret service. 'Ask him what he does for a cover job here.'

'What do you do for a cover job?'

'Not that he'll tell you.' Ken added.

'Then why ask him? We know what he looks like, we can find out his name by reporting his car number.'

By now a couple of cars in the rear rank were hooting impatiently, and our own driver was shaking my arm and making imploring noises.

Ken said: 'What do you think, friend?'

The new friend looked at me and his voice was as calm as ever. 'I think you are Roy Case.'