In a small interview room, he meticulously searched her belongings. Mia stayed calm. It was probably a new protocol – nothing to do with her or the mission. While Christianity was discouraged in Papua, the long-running self-funded hospital was tolerated. Paul had explained that, provided they maintained a strictly apolitical stance on Papuan autonomy, their future was assured.

Zipping up Mia’s medical bag, the officer seemed curious rather than threatening.

‘So, you’re a doctor?’

‘Yes. And I very much enjoy working in your country.’

Up at the mission it was easy to forget the oppression. Its remoteness from mining and logging operations which the OPM targeted – and the Trans-Papua Highway, built to service them – was one of the reasons she loved being there. It was, she told friends, like Shangri-La, the lost world she had loved imagining in James Hilton’s novel Lost Horizon.

The officer surprised her by politely opening the door.

‘You are free to go. Have a nice stay.’

The arrivals hall was deserted, and Mia’s optimism deflated. Where was he? Finding a payphone, she tried the mission. Again, the number rang out, and once again she checked with the operator, who said the line was not out of order. Mia frowned. Perhaps Paul had got the dates wrong? Maybe his plane had had an issue? But why, then, hadn’t he left a message? Trying not to worry, she made her way to the airline desks and approached a representative from one of the small air charter firms she knew made deliveries to the mission.

‘Hello, I need to get up to the Ford Mission. I can pay for a private charter if necessary.’

The young man smiled apologetically. ‘All flights to the western Jayawijaya region are cancelled until further notice.’

‘Even medical services?’

He nodded.

‘But why?’

Glancing around, he lowered his voice. ‘I believe it is military operations.’

Mia frowned. The mission was wholly dependent on air. Medical supplies would be running low – and what about emergencies?

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe a few weeks.’

She thought of Paul, Millie, Avis and the nursing team cut off up there, in God only knew what kind of danger.

‘Can I help you with anything else, madam?’

‘No, thank you.’

She needed somewhere private to regroup, and caught a taxi to the closest hotel – a sterile resort with a large diamond-shaped pool, full of Indonesian tourists and businessmen. There were no indigenous staff apart from some men sweeping the paths. Remembering that Paul shared medical supplies with the hospital at Oksibil, a town on the other side of the mountains, Mia found the number and gave them a call.