The Benzedrine was really kicking in now: every pore on the Snowdrop’s face was in focus and my fatigue had miraculously vanished.

He stepped back from the window and took a small notepad from his belt.

‘Name?’

My stomach tightened, and a fresh supply of sweat broke across my neck and back.

‘We probably won’t be on there,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘Has Pritchard arrived yet? I’m with his group.’

He looked at me.

‘And you are . . .?’

‘Paul Dark. Government liaison.’

He frowned, and I knew why. Never change your story. I had started by saying I was with the Red Cross, before suddenly claiming to be a British government agent. I’d had to, because he had a list of authorized personnel and I wasn’t on it and I didn’t have time for the inevitable runaround that path would have led to: Snowdrop disappearing to fetch someone higher up the chain, bluster about phone calls received from people whose names I couldn’t quite remember, and so on. No choice but to switch horses quickly and hope that the hint of top-secret hooha carried enough authority to sway him - and that Pritchard was curious enough to come out and get me, despite apparently warning every soldier in the country to lock me up on sight. I cursed myself for letting the local roadblocks lull me into complacency. The British prime minister was visiting - of course they would have something professional in place.

‘Can’t say I know of anyone by that name, sir,’ said Snowdrop, and put his pad away. ‘I’m afraid I cannot allow you to come through here—’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, stop mucking me around!’ I said. ‘It’s vitally important I get through before the PM arrives. Find Henry Pritchard and tell him . . .’

I trailed off. A man with a jovial red face and a Saint George bow tie had made his way through the checkpoint and was striding towards us.

‘Gosh - you have been in the wars, haven’t you? So to speak.’ He chuckled into his chins.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve caught some rare new disease, apparently.’

His eyes widened. ‘Contagious?’

‘Could be.’

He wiped his brow with a dirty-looking handkerchief. ‘Best keep out of your way, then!’ He squinted into the sun, which was almost directly above us. ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen, eh?’

David had gone off with Snowdrop to park the Land Rover, and Manning was leading me through the compound’s main courtyard. All the usual pageantry and pomp of a state visit had been rolled out: Union Jacks hung from every available flagpole and a banner welcomed the British prime minister in foot-high letters above the main gate. Shirtsleeved photographers circled each other trying to find innovative angles to shoot it, while doctors in spotless white coats muttered abstractedly to journalists as they glanced anxiously at the wards that wrapped around the place like a quad.