An elderly doorman greeted them with a polite nod as they entered the foyer. Seguma’s personal bodyguards split off from the rest of the group and headed through a pair of doors on the right, towards the main lobby area. The heightened threat to the principal had resulted in a change of plan. Jallow and Deka would now guard the front of the hotel. Lomas and Studley would base themselves on a side street, watching the rear staff entrance and fire exits. Bowman and Kember, meanwhile, would remain inside the ballroom during the party. Okello, the president’s other bodyguard, would watch the vehicles parked in a secure area near the hotel. Bowman had expected some resistance to the plan from the bodyguards. But to his surprise they had agreed without a word of protest.

Seguma snatched a champagne glass from a silver tray and swept through a wood-panelled door on the left. Bowman walked alongside the principal down a short corridor and through another set of doors into the ballroom. Which was huge. The size of two basketball courts. The walls were lined with mirrors; the domed ceiling decorated with gold leaf. There was a dance floor to the north, in front of the head table. To the west, on the far side of the room, a band on a stage went through a warm-up routine.

Most of the guests were already seated. At least three hundred of them, Bowman guesstimated. They chatted with one another, chortling and guzzling flutes of Bollinger. Waiters circled the room, topping up half-empty glasses.

Seguma grinned.

‘Now this is more like it! Food, wine, women. A real party, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Bowman said.

‘And you’ll be here all evening? You and your friend won’t leave me?’

‘Don’t worry, sir. We’ve got the hotel covered.’

A member of staff came over to escort them to their seats near the main stage. Bowman left them and cut across to the southern end of the room. An area of seating had been reserved for the security details close to the fire exits. He took one of the free tables, realised he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and beckoned over the nearest waiter.

‘Yes?’ The waiter looked him up and down, as if deciding whether he was required to address Bowman as ‘sir’. He evidently decided against it.

‘Bang us a couple of sarnies, mate,’ Bowman said. ‘Before the rest of the scoff comes out.’

The waiter stared dumbly at him, as if Bowman was talking in tongues.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sandwiches,’ Bowman said. ‘For me and my partner. We’re with the principal.’ He pointed out Seguma across the room. ‘We don’t need anything fancy, just some basic grub.’

The waiter made a supreme effort to mask his distaste, failed, and smiled thinly. ‘I’ll speak to the kitchen. See what the chef can rustle up.’