He barked an order at the bodyguard with the pencil moustache. Deka sighed and brought over a bottle of Macallan 25-year-old single malt and three glasses. He set them down on the desk, sank back into his armchair. Seguma cracked open the whisky, filling his glass to the brim. He offered the bottle to the soldiers.

‘You will join me?’

Bowman said, ‘No thank you, sir. We’re fine.’

‘I insist.’

‘We can’t, sir.’

‘This is good whisky, you know. The best. Very expensive.’

‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but we’re on the job. Me and Dave won’t be drinking.’

Seguma clapped his hands. ‘Excellent! The right answer. Well done.’

Bowman said nothing.

‘I was just testing you both, you see,’ Seguma added.

‘Yes, sir.’

He reached for his tumbler and sipped his whisky. He smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘You’re very professional, I see. Only a good soldier would refuse such an offer.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I know such things, because I am a great warrior too. First in my class at Sandhurst, you know.’

Bowman made no reply. In the background he could hear the two women giggling in the bedroom. Lungu chatted on the phone, shouting over the sounds blasting out of the TV. Seguma took another sip of whisky, pointed to the medals pinned to his jacket.

‘Do you like these?’

‘Very impressive, sir,’ Bowman replied, trying to mask his growing irritation.

There’s nothing we can do, he told himself. We’re on the job. We’ve just got to indulge this guy.

He listened as the president pointed out each medal.

‘This one is for bravery,’ Seguma said. ‘This one, for valour. And this one, this is very special.’ He tapped a fat finger against a silver cross-shaped decoration with an engraved medallion in the centre. ‘Do you know it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The Karatandu George Cross,’ Seguma explained proudly. ‘It is the highest honour our country can bestow. I earned it for an act of outstanding heroism, fighting against my enemies. I believe you have a similar award in your country.’

‘Aye,’ Bowman replied. ‘We do.’

‘Mine is better, naturally,’ Seguma said.

‘Yes, sir.’

The tyrant set down his whisky glass, reached for the bottle and poured himself a refill. Some of the liquid splashed across the desk. He tipped more booze down his throat and burped.

‘Enough talk of medals. Tell me about the guns,’ he said. ‘I like to know the make of the guns my men carry,’ he added.

Bowman swallowed his irritation and talked the president through their hardware. The pistols, the longs. Seguma listened attentively.

‘And you’re absolutely sure there is no threat to me?’ he asked.

Bowman caught a flash of something in his eyes. Something like fear.