The President took a chair facing her and folded his arms in his lap. 'And now, why did you want to see me?' he asked.
Urgently Dawnay recited the words she had been rehearsing to herself as she watched the slides. She hoped she was cogent, objective, and fair. She told him of the origin of the computer design, of the bio-chemical experiments which culminated in the creation of the girl, and finally of the reasons why Fleming had contrived the destruction of the machine in Scotland.
The President was quiet for some moments when she had finished. 'I have only your word for all this,' he said quietly.
'It is, as you will understand, somewhat difficult to accept, or, perhaps I should say, understand.'
'I'm sorry it can't be made more clear, your excellency. We don't understand a great deal of it ourselves. Dr Fleming has always suspected its purpose.'
'And do you?'
She pondered on her reply. 'I think there are right ways and wrong ways of using it,' she eventually said.
He darted a glance at her. 'And we are using it in the wrong way?'
'Not you, but Intel.'
'We are in their hands,' he sighed, like a weary old man.
'This is a difficult time.'
He stood up and crossed to the window, pulling the heavy draperies aside and letting an almost blinding shaft of sunlight into the dim room. For a time he looked out on the city which dropped away below the palace. 'When one is in my position, a government has to show results or it does not survive. Intel gives results.'
He returned to the middle of the room but remained standing.
'I am a moderate,' he smiled. 'There are factions here which are fiery, youthful, impatient. They are also powerful.
I need all the help I can get to retain the people's loyalty.'
The door had opened, and the little negro boy had appeared.
In his hand he held a telephone. He plugged it into a wall jack and then stood before the President, holding the instrument free of the cradle. The President took the phone and listened. He said a few words in Arabic and then gave the phone back to the boy.
He walked across the room and stood once more before the window. A soft thud, a long way off, sent a tiny vibration through the old building. It was followed by the harsh reverberation of automatic fire. The President pulled the curtain back across the window and looked at his guest.
'I do not think, Professor, that I shall be in a position to help you. The telephone call was from Colonel Salim, an efficient and ambitious of officer.' He paused to listen to the distant rumble of heavy engines and the racket of caterpillar tracks which rapidly grew in volume on the roadway below the palace. 'That, I imagine, is the proof of what he told me.'
Only half understanding, Dawnay stood up and hesitantly moved to the door, thanking him for his patience in listening.
She remembered too late that she had not asked for a permit to visit the coast.
'Goodbye, Professor,' the old man said. He did not look at her. He had sat down, very erect, very still, in an old-fashioned high backed chair. Dawnay had the impression of a king who had only his dignity left to sustain him.
The negro boy was standing in the passage outside. His eyes were big with fear or perhaps excitement. He almost ran in his anxiety to escort her to the courtyard.
The car she had come in had gone. Instead, two soldiers came across and stood on either side of her. They motioned with their guns that she was to wait near the doorway. Presently an army scout car came to a halt beyond the portico.
The soldiers jerked their heads to show she was to enter it.
A young officer saluted her. 'We take you back, Miss,' he said in halting English.
The driver had frequently to pull out of the way as mobile columns roared towards Baleb. There were a few half-tracks and some light tanks. Their crews were in war kit but they were standing in their vehicles. They obviously did not expect serious shooting.
The gates to the Intel compound were open but an armoured car was stationed outside, and there were groups of helmeted troops everywhere. Dawnay was driven straight to her quarters, where more guards were patrolling. The young officer who had accompanied her indicated courteously but firmly that she was to remain in her room until further orders.
The military coup organised by Salim had been based on three actions - to close all frontier roads and ports, take over control of the capital, and to secure the Intel establishment.
The Intel action, was, of course, a formality, thanks to Janine Gamboul.
The first clue Fleming had as to what was happening came from Abu Zeki. The two men had quarrelled for the second time. Abu had proudly told Fleming that the destruction of the missile equation sheets had been futile because the punched master tape was intact. He had gone on to boast of the power and might his country would have with the defence devices the computer could design.
'Already we are grasping that power. Even now Colonel Salim's troops are taking over our protection.'
'From the President?' Fleming asked.
'The President's a tired, senile old man. He's finished.'
'And Intel?'
'They're taking over with Intel,' Abu Zeki replied. He saw Fleming glance towards the empty sensory bay. 'If you're looking for the girl she's not in the building. She is in our custody.'
Fleming hurried from the building and ran across to the residential area. Two armed guards stood before the door of Andre's quarters. He tried to push between them but they did not budge.
'They'll not let you in; I'm afraid they no longer trust you, Dr Fleming,' said a familiar voice.
He wheeled round. Kaufman was walking slowly towards him, grinning. 'Anyway, the girl is not here,' the German went on. 'She is being cared for. Meanwhile Mademoiselle Gamboul wishes to see you.'
'Where?' Fleming grunted. 'And when?'
Kaufman's smile disappeared. 'Now,' he said. 'You will come with me.' He led the way to his car.
They drove to Salim's house. There were no soldiers there and no servants met them as they went upstairs. Kaufman opened a door and motioned to Fleming to enter. The door closed and he was left alone.
He walked round the familiar room where he had first met Salim, and then wandered out on the balcony. It was a few moments before he moved to the far end where some cane furniture stood around a table. On the table were bottles of whisky and glasses. He felt he needed a drink.
His approach to the table took him past a sun screen and alongside a chaise-longue. He let out an involuntary shocked gasp.
Janine Gamboul was sprawled on her side, her head drooped over the edge and her arm hanging limply to the floor. Her face looked pale as wax, except for the red line of her lipstick and dark pencilling of her eyebrows, and her eyes were half open and glazed.
Fleming's immediate reaction was that she was dead. He bent down and put his hand under her head, lifting it back on to the chaise-longue. She moaned.
Then, as he pulled her arm against her body he saw the glass on the floor. He sniffed it: it smelt of whisky.
He was just about to leave her when she opened her eyes fully and laughed. She hauled herself up with difficulty into a half-sitting position and waved clumsily at him.
'You thought I was dead?' she giggled. 'I'm not, as you see. I told Kaufman to ask you here. I wanted to talk.' With studied effort she put her feet on the ground and stood unsteadily. 'Lemme get you a drink.' She staggered the few paces to the table.
She slopped some whisky into two glasses and then gaped around. 'No siphon,' she muttered thickly. 'Been drinking it neat, but you like soda - yes? Salim must have it in his room.' She managed to pick up the two glasses and waveringly started for the door from the balcony. Fleming stood motionless, watching her.