I must not make the same mistake Isabelle had, I told myself. This was not my war. Biafrans were being held prisoner across the country - so were Nigerians. Their fate wasn’t my cross to bear, and there was no especial reason why I should have been concerned about the fate of a squadron of deserters, even with women and children attached. War was hell, and this one was no exception. Listening to Gunner talk about what he had seen and what he believed, I was reminded for a moment that I, too, had once been young and felt I could shake the world’s foundations. Well, I hadn’t done it. I wasn’t sure it was even possible to do. Part of me wanted to argue against his young man’s idealism, to tell him that he wasn’t going to change anything by talking. But I forced myself to keep quiet: I still needed his help, and I’d soon have to persuade him all over again. I had to get to the nearest town and find transport. The scant cover that I was his prisoner was a lot more likely to get me there than going it alone.

And what would I find once I reached Udi? I wondered. From what I knew so far, it didn’t look comforting. Anna was apparently not only still alive, but engaged on a mission to assassinate the British prime minister.

And yet, and yet . . . could it really be? I still had no solid proof of her guilt. There was no way I could even be completely certain about the photograph of her in Lagos: photographs could be forged. Perhaps they had found someone who looked rather like her, and Slavin’s defection had been an elaborate operation to hook me in. But no, that couldn’t be right. Why bother? Sasha was in touch with me whenever he needed. If they had wanted to cut me loose, they could have done so in London. But the assassination story didn’t fit either . . . There were still too many unanswered questions. Had Anna really survived, and, if so, what had been her role in Father’s death? How had Slavin found out about me? And how did the plot against Wilson fit into the situation?

I put these problems out of my mind - the answers lay in Udi, and I had thirty-seven hours and twenty minutes to get there. Perhaps the thing to do was to work our way back to the road we’d come from? Would they still have men posted on it? Possibly. It wasn’t worth the risk. We’d have to find another road, or intersect the same one further along . . .

I realized that Gunner had stopped talking. His face was frozen, grim, and I looked up to see what had made it so.