“Dear Comrade Pilot,” she sang.

One or two of the men around the pavilion looked up but nobody complained about her singing. She had a good voice. She continued.

I’m sorry I scuttled your helicopter.

You can fix it by loosening the screw

At the base of the rotor shaft

And flicking the switch.

It’s a safety component

To stop the mechanics getting

Accidently chopped up.

Nobody ever uses it anymore.

She added a few lines of “lalala” before,

If I can get you a weapon,

Scratch your nose

If you’d know how to use it.

He looked at her with his head tilted to one side. And he scratched his nose. Roper had a look of horror on his face.

“Relax, Mr. Roper,” she sang.

In five minutes I will need you

To overpower the guard behind you.

You don’t have to kill him.

Just stop him from firing.

And we can go home.

If you think you can do that

Please nod.

Roper could have wilted at such a notion but he clenched both fists and nodded. Daeng had her army, but she still needed a ruse. She got to her feet, the three guns trained on her.

“Please tell these gentlemen that I would like to excrete,” she said to Roper.

He blushed but translated. There was laughter but no action. So Madam Daeng stood in front of the most sympathetic-looking of the guards and started to undo her belt. She lowered the zip in her khakis and began to squat. The men all yelled and the gathering was thrown into pandemonium until one of the armed guards was ordered to take the old woman to the latrine. She readjusted her clothing, slouched from the effort, and held on to his arm. To all of them she seemed much older now and more frail than she had been only seconds before. Roper watched her disappear behind the hut with her escort. He looked to his left, where the pilot continued to eat grass with no expression whatsoever. Roper half-turned to look at the guard behind him. He had left his AK-47 leaning against a wooden post because he needed both hands free to squeeze blackheads.

The seconds continued to drawl past and bloat into minutes. Then the soothing musical sounds of the jungle all around them seemed to become more intense in his mind, like an orchestra upping its tempo, rising to a crescendo. Roper was all adrenaline. His fingers twitched. His instincts told him it was all over, this lifestyle he’d worked so hard to earn, the career he’d forged. But if it was truly to be his last swan song, he would belt it out. Yes, damn it. He was an Englishman and his countrymen had a long tradition of dying famously. He would not go quietly.