The airfield consisted of little more than a few buildings and a cleared strip of bare earth, surrounded on all sides by dense, foul-smelling jungle. As I stepped from the relative cool of my office, the evening air hit my face like a stale, piss-soaked flannel. Beyond the perimeter fence, the trees sweltered, their shaggy tips bent over by the weight of their own drooping leaves. Animal yelps and hollers cracked the fetid air, and flocks of silver manta-ray-like creatures beat skywards on wings of drum-taut skin.

Pushing through the overbearing heat, I made my way to the civilian trading post at the far end of the compound. I had to walk the length of the runway, past the hangars and the half-dozen chubby cargo planes lined up on the tarmac, ready for loading.

I’d been stationed here on Cichol’s equator for eighteen months, ever since the start of the insurgency, but had yet to reconcile myself—and my digestion—to the humidity and the pervasive reek of putrefying foliage. I longed for the colder climates up north. By the time I reached the post, sweat plastered my hair to my head, and my nose and throat felt coated and slimy with the jungle’s stench.

The trading post was a large, single-storey structure constructed from corrugated iron and bamboo. Inside, a counter took up most of one end of the available space, behind which could be seen shelves of canned goods, bottled water and other jungle equipment. The rest of the room had been given over to chairs and tables. An antique jukebox stood against the back wall like an altar from a lost civilisation. Lazy ceiling fans did little to disturb the thick, hot air.

Agent Petrushka was sitting at a corner table, dressed in civilian clothes. When she saw me in the doorway, she stiffened. “Hello.”

I held my hands out to the sides, to show I wasn’t armed. “I’m not here to kill you.”

She let herself relax. “I never thought you were.”

I pulled up a chair and gave her an indulgent smile. “We lost a plane over the southern range this morning. I’m guessing that was down to your lot?”

“I don’t think so.” She worked for the Outward, monitoring our little clandestine operation. “Who was flying it?”

“Harris.”

“Well, there’s your answer then. He was in here until dawn yesterday, drinking bourbon and smoking barracuda weed.”

“You promise?”

She gave a bored shrug. “Those new stealth planes are good. I had no idea you had anyone in the air yesterday. That is, until I noticed the smoke plume from the crash site.”

I signalled to the barman and he brought over a pitcher of beer and a couple of clean glasses.

“Okay, then.”