‘Sometimes. Plenty of diplomats, from all over, are members of the Yacht Club. The Russian ambassador joined last year - chap called Romanov. Charming fellow, actually, and quite a good sailor—’

‘Is Slavin a member?’

‘Not that I know of. But anyone who is could sign him in. And it’s quite a big bash tonight, so perhaps he’d want to go.’

I found it hard to believe Moscow would allow anyone important out on the cocktail circuit: it was almost an invitation to defect. Still, Slavin was planning to defect, so perhaps they had as tight a rein out here as the Service appeared to, employing buffoons like Manning. Perhaps Lagos was just one big pyjama party.

Or perhaps I was just tired. Manning was worried about the rocket he was going to get from his wife and was probably using the slightest possibility that Slavin would be at the same party as a pretext to stop my goose chase around Lagos. But it was a possibility, however slight, and now he’d put the thought in my head it was hard to dismiss. It would be too painful to bear if we were staking out his house while he was lording it up over the road in his nightgown and slippers.

‘How far away is this party of yours?’

Manning jollied up. ‘A fifteen-minute drive - less at this time of night. It’s over on Lagos Island.’ He pointed in the direction we’d come. As he did, I noticed the field lying in darkness by the side of the road.

‘What’s that? A golf course?’

‘Yes. Part of the Ikoyi Club. I’m a member there, too. Not a bad little course, as it happens. Henry—’

I didn’t want to hear about Pritchard’s birdie on the ninth, so I opened the door and climbed out.

‘Wait here,’ I said.

As I approached the gate, I saw that behind it and to the right, partly shielded by bushes, was a small hut, wooden and painted blue. I pressed a buzzer, and after a few seconds a bulb went on and a man emerged from it. He was wearing grey flannel trousers and a sweater with epaulettes.

‘Who goes there?’ he called. His handsome face was half-lit by the bulb, highlighting deep symmetrical scars down his cheeks. I could see the silhouette of his rifle: from the way he gripped it, he looked to be an amateur. Surely a KGB colonel would have more protection than this?

‘Who goes there?’

‘Is Mister Slavin in?’ I asked.

He peered out at me. ‘He expecting you, sir?’

That was good. ‘Sir’ was good.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m here for the party.’

He didn’t register either way, but he raised his rifle a little. I’d guessed wrongly: there might still be people in there, but he wasn’t convinced it classed as a party.