The diplomats introduced themselves to Mallet, then took Seguma to one side. The guy with the bird’s nest hair sat with his knees crossed, gesticulating, talking animatedly, while the woman with the dimpled chin handed over documents for the president to read. It was clear that they were calling the shots. This is how it’s going to work, they seemed to be saying. Seguma stayed tight-lipped throughout. He wasn’t in any position to argue. A few hours ago his closest adviser had been thrown to his death. The people he was dealing with were deadly serious. He wasn’t about to haggle over the small print.

Then a smartly dressed official entered the lounge and announced that the jet was ready to depart. He led the party through the gate towards a waiting Renault minivan. They clambered inside with their bags, the Renault bowled across the skidmarked tarmac stand to a Gulfstream G650. One of the long-range jets. Capable of making the short hop from Northolt to Nice, and then on to Gabon without stopping to refuel.

They boarded and stowed their bags in the aft luggage compartment. Dimpled Chin and Bird’s Nest sat upfront with Seguma. The soldiers made themselves comfortable in the rear section of the cabin. The flight attendant was male, to Loader’s obvious disappointment.

As the Gulfstream taxied across to the runway, Bowman was gripped by a growing sense of unease. They were heading into the unknown, he realised. Any number of things could go wrong. But he felt something else, too. A renewed sense of determination.

Mike Gregory had saved his career once. He’d helped Bowman to turn his life around. Took him under his wing when he’d first joined the Regiment. Now, after all these years, Bowman had the chance to return the favour.

I owe the guy, Bowman reminded himself. I’m not going to let him down. I’ll do whatever it takes to rescue him.

I just pray we’re not too late.

Nineteen

Nineteen