The inside of the plane looked just like the one I’d flown in from London, only the seats were filled with sombre-looking soldiers instead of diplomats and aid workers. But it still bore many of the markings of civilian travel, right down to the emergency information card and sick bag in the seat pockets.

‘Which division are we with?’ I asked Isabelle a few minutes after we had taken off.

She gave me a puzzled glance. ‘The first,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘No reason,’ I said. I stood up and placed my bag in the overhead locker. ‘Thanks again for your help, by the way - you needn’t have.’

‘It was nothing.’ She rummaged around in her bag until she had found a camera. ‘Take this,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘If you’re coming as my photographer, you may as well take some pictures. That’s a Nikon F- the best. Just point it at anything you think is interesting and press here.’

I strapped the camera around my neck and peered over at her window: the city was receding rapidly below us, the sun reflecting off the water as we swung inland.

‘So what brings you back to me?’ asked Isabelle. ‘What is your mission in Enugu?’

‘I’m not telling you that!’ I said. ‘I don’t want it all over the French papers tomorrow.’

She gave a short, indignant laugh. ‘So I risk my neck for you and you are not even gentleman enough to share with me the reason . . .’

There was a flirtatious upturn to her mouth, but anger lay just below the surface. She didn’t realize that my not telling her was protection, for both of us.

‘Perhaps later,’ I said, picking the tourist map from the seat pocket in front of me. ‘How long do you think it will take to reach Enugu?’ I asked. It was very close to Udi.

‘Get ready,’ she said.

I glanced over at her: she was looking down the aisle. I raised my head a little and saw that one of the soldiers was walking towards us. He was a tall, lanky fellow, and from the way the others stepped out of the way as he passed, I guessed he was in charge.

‘You are journalists?’ he asked when he reached us. He wore a thick sweat-stained camouflage jacket with a grenade dangling from each pocket, and the word ‘GUNNER’ was written across his helmet in white paint.

‘Yes,’ said Isabelle. ‘I am a reporter.’

‘And I’m her photographer,’ I said, holding up the camera.

Gunner gave me a sharp look.

‘You are English?’

I nodded.

‘BBC?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re with a French agency—’

‘You want interview me?’

I looked at him - he seemed serious.

‘I’m sorry?’ I said.

‘Interview. I give you exclusive,’ he said.

I tried to explain that I was just Isabelle’s cameraman. ‘I don’t do interviews,’ I said.