The rest of the team glided down the ramp as a pair of soldiers marched quickly over from a tented encampment behind a chain-link fence, to the east of the terminal. A lanky, long-necked guy with a shaven head, and a squat man with a badly pockmarked face. They were dressed in loose-fitting camo fatigues, with short-sleeve jackets and AK-47 assault rifles slung over their shoulders. They stopped at the rear of the Skyvan and cast their eyes over the five Brits. Both of them seemed agitated, thought Bowman. Unnerved. The soldier with the pockmarked face kept glancing around, gripping his AK-47 tightly, as if expecting an attack at any moment. Lanky jutted his chin out at Mallet.

‘You’re the team from London, yes?’

‘Aye,’ Mallet said. ‘That’s us.’

‘Come with us. Major Mavinda is waiting for you.’

He walked stiffly off in the direction of the tented area, Pockmark hurrying along at his side. Mallet turned to the others.

‘Tiny, Alex, Patrick. Stay here and watch the heavy kit. Josh . . . come with me.’

Bowman hurried alongside Mallet, leaving the three others behind as they followed the Karatandan soldiers towards the chain-link fence. On the far side of the tarmac stand, a long queue of civilians snaked out from the terminal entrance towards an ancient-looking Boeing 737. Most of the passengers appeared to be local, weighed down with their worldly possessions, clutching plastic shopping bags and backpacks and bulging suitcases. Men argued with one another. Mothers berated their screaming children.

‘Looks like they’re in a big rush to get out,’ Mallet said.

‘Not just them,’ Lanky said. ‘Anyone who has the money is trying to leave Karatandu.’

‘Can’t blame ’em,’ said Bowman. ‘I’d be doing the same thing in their shoes.’

Lanky led them through the gate into a wide open-sided tent. They waited outside while Lanky approached a heavily built officer wearing a red beret. A haze of cigarette smoke hung like a curtain in the air. Soldiers lazed around the tables and chairs. Bowman counted at least thirty of them. Some smoked or drank from plastic bottles filled with some sort of local brew. Others played card games on upturned ammo crates. Two soldiers watched porn on a laptop. Much of their equipment seemed to be in poor condition. Bowman saw rusted AK-47s propped against tables or lying on the dirt floor. The men cut a slovenly appearance. One of the guys wore his water bottle upside down.

‘Let’s hope these lads fight better than they look after their kit,’ Bowman muttered.

Mallet said, ‘We’re not looking for first-rate soldiers. Just guys who can help us out if it goes noisy.’