The streets of the compound were quiet and deserted, but I caught a few glimpses of the site’s new purpose: a couple of camouflaged armoured cars and a Land Rover parked outside one of the bungalows, and a small obstacle course that had been set up on the other side of what had once been tennis courts. It was still raining, and Isabelle was having trouble with her new outfit, which was sticking to her in all the wrong places. God knows what Scarface made of her get-up; he didn’t say a word, just gestured which turnings we were to take and kept a close eye on our movements in case we decided to make a run for it. There was little chance of that, unfortunately - the only thing to do now was to talk Alebayo into letting us go as soon as possible. At one point, we passed a street that led to the entrance into the compound. It was a massive iron gate, and I managed to count eight guards before we had to make a turn.

After about a ten-minute walk, we arrived at our destination: a grand villa standing on the crest of a small hill. We walked up a path through the large and well-kept garden, passing jacarandas and palm trees. As we got nearer to the house, the sound of music spilled out onto the lawn, an American soul number with swishing drums and a plangent male voice singing about the end of the world. The doors to the place were open, and a handful of soldiers were pulling crates off a jeep in the forecourt. It looked a little like preparations were being made for a party - I half-expected to see a marquee being erected.

Scarface took us into the house, which still had the appearance of a private home - presumably this was where the managing director had lived. The paintings and mirrors still hung on the walls and there were vases filled with flowers. We walked down a short corridor, passing several soldiers on the way, their boots pinging off the tiled floor as they went about their business. Nobody gave us a second glance.