The glasses brought the distance into sharp relief, and what he saw made his heart beat faster.
It was a settlement of tents and makeshift wooden huts. There were numerous vehicles, most of them in ramshackle shelters that would screen them from satellite cameras. Other vehicles were shrouded in covers patterned with desert camouflage, and by their shape might have been truck-mounted artillery. A few palm trees indicated a water source somewhere.
There was no mystery here. This was a paramilitary base.
And an important one, he felt. He guessed it would house several hundred men and, if he was right about the artillery, those men were formidably well armed.
This might even be the legendary Hufra.
He lifted his right foot to remove the phone from his boot so that he could take a photograph, but before he could do so he heard from behind the sound of a truck, distant but approaching fast.
Since leaving the made-up road he had seen no other traffic. This was almost certainly an ISGS vehicle heading for the encampment.
He looked around. There was nowhere to hide himself, let alone a car. For three weeks he had risked being spotted by the people he was spying on, and now it was about to happen.
He had his story ready. All he could do was tell it and hope.
He looked at his cheap watch. It was now two o’clock in the afternoon. He figured the jihadis might be less likely to kill a man at his prayers.
He moved quickly. He returned the binoculars to their hiding place behind the door panel. He opened the trunk and took out an old, worn prayer rug, then slammed the lid and spread the rug on the ground. He had been raised Christian, but he knew enough about Muslim prayer to fake it.
The second prayer of the day was called zuhr and it was said after the sun passed its zenith, which could be stretched to mean any time from midday to mid-afternoon. He prostrated himself in the correct position, touching the rug with his nose, hands, knees and toes. He closed his eyes.
The truck roared closer, labouring up the slope on the far side of the ridge.
Abdul suddenly remembered the device. It was on the passenger seat. He cursed: it would give him away instantly.
He jumped to his feet, flung open the passenger-side door, and snatched up the device. With a two-fingered grip he released the catch of the hidden drawer in the sole of his left boot. In his haste he dropped the device onto the sand. He picked it up and lodged it in the shoe. He closed the compartment and hurried back to the rug.
He knelt down again.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the truck breast the rise and come to a sudden stop alongside his car. He closed his eyes.
He did not know the prayers by heart, but he had heard them often enough to mumble an approximation.
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.