The music became louder with every step, and the instruments and voice started to mesh together. Scarface pushed open some double doors and we entered a large hangar-like room. It was dark, but I could make out desks, chairs, filing cabinets, telephones, several standard radio sets and a few SSBs. I could make out a faint glow from the rear of the room, and Scarface indicated we should head for it. As we got nearer, I saw that the light was emanating from a small area sunk a couple of feet into the floor. There was a campbed, a wardrobe and a mahogany table. On top of the latter was an antique gramophone player, from which the closing notes of the song blared, and a lamp, which cast a small pool of light on the tatty leather armchair in the centre of the ‘room’. Seated in this was Colonel Alebayo, his head tilted back, apparently asleep. He was wearing a black and gold kimono-type number and matching slippers. His uniform lay folded neatly on the bed, his cap resting on top of it.

We stood at the edge of the pit for a few seconds, watching him. Then Scarface coughed. Alebayo’s eyes snapped open, his head jerked upright and he jumped to his feet. Without looking at us, he strode the two feet to the table, stopped the needle and replaced the record in its sleeve.

‘The prisoners are here, sir,’ said Scarface unnecessarily, and gestured for us to walk down the three steps that led into the den.

Alebayo turned. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with a hint of a smile. ‘I can see that.’ Scarface thought about replying, but Alebayo waved him down. ‘At ease, at ease.’

Isabelle and I took up position side by side in front of the armchair, like two schoolchildren summoned before the headmaster. As he and his men had done earlier in the aircraft, we silently dripped rain onto the floor.

Alebayo seated himself again and looked us over. It was very quiet in here, more noticeably so after the din of the music. Alebayo’s face was as smooth and placid as a marble bust - it reminded me of the masks I’d seen in the market in Lagos.

‘Mademoiselle Dumont . . .’ he said, finally, and his voice was lilting, almost tender. ‘I’m sorry - are you married?’

She shook her head. Alebayo stretched an arm out from the depths of a satin sleeve and plucked a piece of paper from the table. His voice rose: ‘Mademoiselle, this is your authorization to be at the front. Is that correct?’

She glanced at it. ‘Yes.’

‘You have been a reporter for a long time?’

‘Four years,’ she said.

Alebayo nodded, and turned to me. ‘And how about you, Mister Kane? Where is your authorization?’

‘He’s my photographer,’ put in Isabelle.