There were five of them. They all had black beards, fierce expressions and were pointing rifles at us. The patches on the sleeves of their uniforms bore an illustration of an orange sun dawning - or was it setting?

Biafrans. But these ones weren’t starving and there were no flies in their eyes.

‘Come with us,’ one of them said softly. ‘You come with us now.’

XIX

XIX

We were led through the palm trees to a mud track, where a battered old Land Rover was parked, camouflaged by fronds and netting. Senegal and Boxer sat in the rear, guarded by about a dozen men, all of whom looked to be armed and - always a bad sign with soldiers - bored. None of their uniforms matched, and they wore an assortment of headgear: helmets, berets, caps and what looked like beach hats. A black metal pole was attached to the front passenger window of the vehicle, holding aloft a radio transmitter, and one of the soldiers held a receiver on his lap, the announcer’s voice leaking out from it in an unbroken stream. We were pushed into the back, and then the jalopy stuttered into life and we started moving slowly down the track.

Pritchard’s dossier had mentioned that Biafra had a guerrilla force. I wondered what Isabelle would have made of them - how they would have fitted with her idea of the Biafrans as utterly powerless victims. Their uniforms and weaponry were tattered and piecemeal, and half of them, I now noticed, seemed to be stoned. But they had crept up on Gunner and me without either of us noticing, and had sprung their trap smoothly and efficiently. With several rifles pointed firmly in my direction, I had little choice but to stay put and watch for an opportunity to escape. I wasn’t all that hopeful it would arrive - I’d faced a similar situation just a few hours ago, when Alebayo’s men had driven me to Port Harcourt under a similar armed guard.

Gunner, Senegal and Boxer were seated near me, all of them staring expressionlessly ahead, lost in their own thoughts. No doubt they were repenting their decision to follow me - if it came down to it, they would probably accuse me of kidnapping them or some such story. I wasn’t sure what my own story should be. My thinking was impaired, by pain, fatigue, hunger, thirst - and the nagging thought that I might lose my hearing again. The smell of the marijuana was making me even woozier, and I hadn’t stopped sweating since leaving the Shell camp. Every so often, my guts gave a sudden lurch, and vomit would rise in my throat.