‘Alebayo?’ He stood up suddenly. ‘What does he have to do with this?’ He leaned over the bed and stared into my face. He had very sad eyes, like a type of dog you want to adopt.

‘Alebayo captured me,’ I said. ‘A French journalist died . . .’

‘Oh,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘That. I know about that already. Let’s not waste each other’s time. Where does the Prime Minister want to meet?’

The Prime Minister? What was he talking about? Was this one of my hallucinations? I tried to block everything out and examine his words. Who did he think I was, and what did he want me to tell him? What was it he had said when he had come in? ‘Hello, Mister Kane. Welcome to Biafra.’ So he knew my cover name. That meant he had talked to Gunner - presumably that was how he had heard about Isabelle’s death, too. But there was something else there, some clue. What was it? Why was the leader of the Biafran army in an underground hospital in the middle of the bush? He was apparently waiting for a message from the British prime minister to set up a meeting between them - presumably to talk peace.

Ojukwu was smoking, studying me.

‘There is a plot to kill the Prime Minister,’ I said. ‘In Udi.’

He didn’t react, just carried on smoking his Three Fives cigarette. Where did he get them from, I wondered, in the middle of a war?

‘This is not the message I was expecting,’ he said softly.

‘It’s the one you’re getting,’ I replied. ‘The Russians are planning to assassinate him at the Red Cross camp on Friday afternoon. Help me get there.’

He examined me for a moment, then slumped back as far as he could in his chair, as mystified by me as I was by him. ‘But why should I do that? Your prime minister is my enemy, and so are the Russians.’

I shook my head. ‘You’re not thinking it through,’ I said. ‘Think of the effect of killing him. Think of what it will do to public opinion in Britain. They are already opposed to this war. There are marches, petitions, debates . . .’

He nodded slowly.

‘So how do you think they will react if their prime minister is killed out here?’

He opened his hands, waiting for the answer.

‘They’ll be furious!’ I said. ‘Not only are their taxes buying arms for this horrific war that is starving innocent children - now their prime minister has been murdered here. They will demand the immediate withdrawal of any assistance to Nigeria, and they will get it. The next prime minister would immediately withdraw from this war.’

‘Good,’ said Ojukwu, scratching his beard. ‘But this is not . . .’