He was looking behind me. I turned. There were four of them. Quite a party. Broad chests and muscle visible under their uniforms, and patterns of scars down their cheeks. It was no use struggling - there’d be more of them elsewhere in the building, and I wouldn’t have a hope. They’d shoot me in the leg, or send a car to get me. And then I’d have a real job explaining my behaviour.

‘You come this way,’ one of them said, and pushed a rifle into my back.

Do nothing. They just want money, beer, cigarettes. Pay them, get out of here, and get to work.

Do nothing.

They took me down a narrow, unlit staircase and shoved me into a sparse, harshly lit room.

‘Wait here.’

They slammed the door and I listened to their footsteps recede. I looked around the room: it contained two hard-backed chairs, a low table, and some brochures advertising the International Year of African Tourism.

After ten minutes spent reading the brochures, the door opened and the small man in the beret walked in, followed by several of his men. His uniform was immaculate, his beret trimmed with gold braid. In one hand, he gripped a riding crop.

‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I am Colonel Bernard Alebayo of the Third Marine Commando Division. Who are you?’

I took out my passport and offered it to him. He took it, but didn’t open it. ‘Your full name, please.’

‘Robert David Peter Kane,’ I said.

‘That is more like it. Thank you. Cooperate with me and we will get along.’ He smiled genially. He looked very young. ‘Are you in Nigeria for business or pleasure?’

I examined his face. He appeared to be serious.

‘Business,’ I said.

‘And what is your profession, Mister Kane?’

‘If you look at my passport—’

‘I am not interested in your passport at this particular moment,’ he said, smiling sweetly again. ‘I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.’ He spoke English quickly and precisely, accentuating each word in an almost sing-song fashion.

I’d known who he was before he introduced himself: he’d been all over Pritchard’s dossier. Alebayo, ‘The Panther’, was the Nigerian army’s most famous commander. Trained at Sandhurst - like most of the military leaders on both sides of this war - he had a reputation for brutality and unpredictability. He was known to despise do-gooders, politicians and journalists.

‘I’m a journalist,’ I said.

He stroked his chin.

‘For which newspaper?’

I told him.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The famous Times of London.’ He walked around the table, his boots squeaking. ‘Of course, we have our own Times here.’ He swivelled and faced me. ‘Not perhaps as large a publication, or as renowned globally, but, nevertheless, quite respectable on a national level.’ He looked down at his reflection in his boots for a moment. ‘Yes, quite respectable.’