‘Isn’t this approach unwise?’ I said. ‘My readers will be most interested to know how the Federal army treats the citizens of valued allies.’

‘I think I will decide what is wise here - not you. There have been plenty of misleading reports about me in your newspapers already. I cannot imagine another will do any further harm. That is, if you ever succeed in filing a report on this little meeting.’ He turned to the largest of his thugs. ‘Is the transport ready?’ The thug nodded. ‘Good.’ He turned back to me. ‘Perhaps a visit to one of our prisons would provide some good material for your editor? Some “colour”?’

‘This is outrageous!’ I said, and now my indignation was only half-acted. ‘Call my office in London! Call the British High Commission! I demand—’

‘Please, Mister Kane, save your tantrums. They will not do you any good here.’ He stood a little straighter and adjusted his beret. ‘I must now return to Port Harcourt, where I have many things to attend to. There is the small matter of a war to win. But you will be well looked after by my boys here, I promise. And they may even discover what it is you came here for . . .’

There was a sudden banging at the door, and Alebayo glanced sharply in its direction. He nodded at one of the thugs, who walked over and opened it. Framed in the light was a large white man with a crumpled red face, wearing what looked to be a pair of pyjamas.

‘Let this man go, Bernard!’ he said in a booming English voice.

‘Geoffrey!’ said Alebayo through gritted teeth. ‘How delightful to see you again.’ He strode over to the door and gestured him outside.

The thugs eyed me warily - they were anxious for the order to tear me to pieces. I didn’t much fancy my chances with them.

‘Just follow your orders,’ I told them. ‘And we’ll all be fine.’

They glared at me, and I wondered if I shouldn’t try to make a run for it, after all. Then the door opened again and Alebayo shouted something at the thugs. They leapt up and ran out after him.

I looked in astonishment at the empty room. After about thirty seconds, I stood up myself, picking up my bag from the floor. At the door, I met the man with the red face. A hand was thrust out from a striped cotton sleeve.

‘I’m Geoffrey Manning,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Lagos.’

VI

VI

As we stepped out of the airport, a mob of taxi drivers swarmed around us.

‘Where you go, mister?’

‘I offer you best price!’

Manning waved them away and steered us to a blue Peugeot on the other side of the road.

‘Did you catch the rugby on Saturday?’ he asked as he unlocked his door. ‘The Welsh seemed on good form.’