Nevertheless, he determined to fight it.
'Every dictator in history has argued like that - to force people into actions for their own good,' he said. 'And I'm supposed to think that it will be all right if we help impose the will coming from somewhere in Andromeda through Intel or these people in Azaran or any other dirty little power-drunk agency you choose. It's ridiculous!'
'That's only the means,' she said. 'What's important is the end.'
He crashed his fist on the console desk, making her flinch.
'No,' he shouted. 'I fought it before at Thorness, and I fought you at first - because the world must be free to make its own mistakes or save itself.' He looked at her with a mixture of remorse and fury. 'That's why I trusted you to handle this.'
'I only did what was logical.'
'I should have left you - left you to die,' he whispered.
She turned back to the console. The screen had darkened, its aluminium coating grey and lifeless. 'I shall die very soon anyway,' she said.
All his fears for her returned and he could only stand in silence with his hand on her shoulder. Neither of them moved. Then he heard the printer in the output bay tapping rapidly once more.
He strode across and read the figures appearing on the steadily emerging roll. The equations were terribly familiar, taking him back to an afternoon at Thorness more than two years before.
Mesmerised, he read the stream of figures which continued to emerge. He sensed that Andre had come across and was standing beside him.
What is this?' he demanded.
'Basic calculations for a missile interceptor,' she said in a matter-of-fact voice. 'Surely you remember the Thorness project? There are a few minor modifications in this one.'
He whirled on her. 'Why have you programmed the machine for this?'
'Abu Zeki wanted the calculations,' she said. 'They need means of defence. It's all part of the plan.'
He ripped the paper from the ejector and crumpled it in his hand. 'For God's sake, stop,' he begged her. 'I didn't save you to work for them, to obey every filthy order they give you. You still have freedom to choose what you'll do.'
She made some reply, but the roar of jet engines screaming at high speed over the building drowned her words.
'What?' he said when the racket had died away.
'I said it's too late,' she repeated. 'I have chosen. It's already started.'
Fleming turned away from her and walked quickly down the corridor to the main doors. The pallid heat struck him in the face as he ran into the open space clear of the buildings.
The compound gates were closed. A light tank stood in front of them. On the main road a convoy of army lorries was roaring at high speed towards Baleb.
Slowly he returned to the residential area, hoping to find Dawnay. He badly needed some kind of normality among all this madness.
Dawnay wasn't in her room, and he went to her laboratory.
A white-overalled Arab girl assistant was bending over a microscope.
'Professor Dawnay?' she said in answer to his enquiry.
'She is not here. She went to see the President half an hour ago,' she added calmly. 'Now there is revolution.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
STORM CENTRE
MADELEINE DAWNAY'S visit to the President was an impulsive action, resulting from an argument with Kaufman.
The German was constantly roaming around the establishment, keeping himself informed of any tit-bit of information which might help to ingratiate himself with his superiors.
Although all senior staff were in theory employees of the Azaranian Government, in practice it was Intel which made the decisions. Consequently Kaufman, as the senior Intel representative regularly available, was regarded as a liaison officer by the directors.
Dawnay's bio-chemical experiments had progressed far enough for field-testing. Study of the terrain suggested that a coastal area near the Persian Gulf would be a good one. But she wanted to analyse the tidal strip to ascertain what effect wind and sea had had on the soil. On one of Kaufman's visits to her laboratory she asked for him to arrange transport for her to make a series of trips, imagining it would be a routine matter.
The German immediately became suspicious. He demanded to know the reason, and her natural retort that he would not understand seemed to anger him.
But Dawnay could be very obstinate when she chose. She insisted that if she was to carry out her work the arrangements must be made. Kaufman muttered that he would have to get a government permit.
'Fine,' Dawnay said. 'You can jump in your car and get it right away, can't you ?'
He frowned. 'At this moment, almost impossible.'
This was more than Dawnay was inclined to take. She removed her overall and picked up her sun hat. 'If you enjoy putting up ridiculous obstacles then I'll see the President myself.'
'I wouldn't count too much on the President,' he said, 'but by all means go if you want.' He went to the reception desk to call her a staff car. When it came he opened the door for her with a studied flourish.
On the short journey to the Presidential palace Dawnay's anger seethed and she reminded herself of Fleming's pessimistic views on the whole set-up. She determined to discuss more than a trip to the coast with the President. After all, she told herself, he was head of State and if a challenge came Intel could no more win than mammoth oil companies in half a dozen little states had been able to do.
The streets seemed very empty, although this did not particularly arouse her interest. She had visited the capital so rarely that she had no means of comparison.
The car slowed at the palace gates until it was waved on by a lounging sentry. The man showed no interest in it.
Dawnay alighted and passed through the doorless portico.
A bearded Arab in native costume bowed and put his hands to his forehead in greeting. The palace was beautiful and very old, unspoiled by any attempt to repair the crescent arches or the filigree stonework with plaster.
A little incongruously, the old Arab picked up a house telephone fixed to the wall behind a pillar. After some murmured words he returned to Dawnay and said in halting English that his master would see her.
A little negro boy tripped down the stairs, greeted her with a dazzling smile and in his soft soprano voice asked her to follow him. They went to the first floor and along a labyrinth of passages, silent with age-long peace. The boy knocked on big double doors and threw them open.
The president advanced towards Dawnay, his hand extended.
His creased face, she thought, was that of a very old man - older than she knew he actually was. But his eyes were bright and intelligent, and he was meticulously neat and tidy, his beard trimmed short, and his large sensitive fingers soft and gentle when they shook hands. The jarring note was his Western dress - an old-fashioned though well-cut tweed jacket and breeches of the kind English aristocrats wore on weekends fifty years before. Dawnay envisaged some London tailor carefully repeating a bespoke order originally given in the spacious age of pre-1914.
His courtesy was as genteely old-fashioned as his appearance.
Delighted to be entertaining an English lady, he explained that he had been looking through his film slides and hoped she would be interested in seeing some of them.
'Photography is my hobby,' he said. 'A way to have mementoes of my country - it's people, its valuable archaeological and historical features, and of course the improvements which, with Allah's help, I have been able to make.'
The negro boy was already standing beside the projector.
At a nod from his master he switched off the ceiling lights and began the screening. Dawnay hid her impatience and made polite and appropriate remarks as her host carefully explained each picture. The show ended at last. The boy switched on the lights and was told to leave.