‘No,’ I said. ‘Not good. Not good for you. As soon as the British have left, the Russians will step up their support. They will be the Nigerians’ only hope, and make no mistake, they’ll capitalize on it, and fast. They will flood the Federal side with weapons, and the war will be over before you know what’s hit you. Then they will have their stepping stone in Africa . . .’

‘This is all very interesting, Mister Kane,’ said Ojukwu curtly, mashing out his cigarette on the floor with the heel of his boot. ‘But I feel that we are drifting away from the main issue.’

He was looking up at the ceiling, and without his gaze to distract me, I was free to focus on his voice. And that was when it hit me.

‘Take me to Colonel Ojukwu,’ I said.

His head snapped back down and his eyes opened wide.

‘What did you say?’

‘You heard,’ I said. ‘I want to see Ojukwu. You’re an impostor.’

My reading jag in Heathrow on Monday evening had been well worthwhile. Pritchard’s dossier on the war had contained extensive briefing notes on the major figures of each side, and one of the Biafrans in particular had attracted my attention. Simeon Akuji, the Commissioner for Internal Affairs, was Ojuwku’s second cousin and a possible means of communication with him via a personal cipher. Although it hadn’t been spelled out, I had taken it that the link was overseen by Pritchard - especially as Akuji had been educated at Fettes, Pritchard’s alma mater in Edinburgh.

As I had listened to ‘Ojukwu’ pontificating, something had bothered me about him. That he seemed to be performing an act was in character, but then I had realized why his little welcoming speech had jarred: there had been the faintest touch of a Scottish accent to it. My guess had been that Ojukwu had pulled a Monty and had Akuji impersonate him. Judging by the reaction, I had been right. But what was the reason for the subterfuge?