The 92nd Tiger by Michael Gilbert

undefined track between outcrops of rock, wandering inland when the going along the coast became impossible, veering out again as the rugged mass of the djebel forced them back towards the sea.
    It grew steadily hotter. Cowcroft’s reaction to this was to remove his helmet. ‘Wonderful climate,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a day’s illness in five years.’
    ‘Wonderful,’ said Hugo, mopping the sweat from his forehead. It seemed to have got mixed up with a lot of dust thrown up by the Land Rover’s wheels.
    ‘Not much further now.’
    They turned a corner, and Hugo saw a high barbed-wire fence ahead of them. A man who was squatting beside it approached them. His rifle was slung round his shoulder. The police sergeant who was driving the Land Rover braked sharply, and they skidded to a halt.
    ‘Tight security,’ said Cowcroft.
    He produced a pass which had his photograph on it. The man examined it closely, then looked at Hugo. Cowcroft said something in an argot which Hugo could not follow. The man hesitated for a moment, then grunted, turned on his heel, unlocked the padlock which secured the gate and held it open for them.
    ‘I don’t think that’s tight security,’ said Hugo. ‘Suppose we had been saboteurs. Couldn’t we have rushed him, taken his keys and let ourselves in?’
    Cowcroft grinned and said, ‘You might have been lucky. I shouldn’t care to try it myself.’ He was looking up as he spoke and Hugo saw what he had missed before, a platform on wooden stilts, masked against the bushy slope. On the platform was a machine gun. The man behind it saw Cowcroft grinning and grinned back, a flash of white teeth in a dark face.
    ‘I see what you mean,’ said Hugo thoughtfully.
    They drove for a hundred yards down a gentle slope, and drew up in front of a T-shaped formation of wooden huts. A man came out. He was wearing a rather grubby bush-shirt, khaki shorts and desert boots. His face was red, and his sharp nose was redder still, and peeling. He had a sun helmet on the back of his head.
    ‘Good morning, Charlie,’ said Cowcroft. ‘I’ve brought Mr. Greest out to see you. He’s our new military adviser.’
    ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Mr. Wandyke. ‘I’ve got a feeling that military advice is just what we’re going to need soon. Bags of it. Come inside.’
    The office was air-conditioned and was agreeably cool. The table in the middle was littered with papers, drawings, plans, books and coffee cups. A bookcase behind the head of the table was crammed with books. When Hugo got near enough to them to read the titles he saw that they were mostly detective stories and westerns.
    ‘I thought we ought to begin Mr. Greest’s education,’ said Cowcroft.
    ‘You can begin it, by calling me Hugo.’
    ‘—Hugo’s education by showing him what you’re up to out here, Charlie.’
    ‘Haven’t I met you somewhere before,’ said Wandyke.
    ‘Only if you watch television.’
    ‘Of course. You’re the Tiger.’
    Cowcroft looked blank. He said, ‘What Tiger?’
    Hugo had long ago got hardened to this sort of thing. He said, ‘It’s a television series. Half-hour thrillers. It’s been going for some time.’
    ‘Do you mean to say you’ve never seen the Tiger on television?’
    ‘It’s some time since I was last in England,’ said Cowcroft. ‘All we get out here are programmes relayed from Saudi. Dancing girls and French films. Do you mean you’re an actor?’
    ‘I’ve been a number of different things,’ said Hugo. ‘An actor is what I was last.’
    ‘Think of that,’ said Cowcroft. He sounded neither pleased nor disappointed. ‘Fire ahead, Charlie.’
    ‘What would you like me to tell him?’
    ‘Tell him everything.’
    ‘Everything?’
    ‘The whole lot. Ruler’s instructions.’
    ‘If you say so,’ said Wandyke. ‘As long as you realise that what I’m telling you is so far known only to Martin here and the Ruler, and the Board of Metbor, and mustn’t go outside that