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    That night there were nine of us, all white, cooped up in a ramshackle office. The President’s picture hung aslant on a bright blue wall, and beside it were a broken guitar and a stuffed civet cat, nailed in mockery of the Crucifixion, with its tail and hindlegs together, and its forelegs splayed apart.
    In addition to the mosquito bites, my back had come up in watery blisters. My toe was very sore. The guard kicked me awake whenever I nodded off. His cheeks were cicatrised, and I remember thinking how remote his voice sounded when he said, ‘ On va vous fusiller .’ At two or three in the morning, there was a burst of machine-gun fire close by, and we all thought, This is it. It was only a soldier, drunk or trigger-happy, discharging his magazine at the stars.
    None of us was sad to see the first light of day.
    It was another greasy dawn and the wind was blowing hard onshore, buffeting the buzzards and bending the coco palms. Across the compound a big crowd was jamming the gate. Jacques then caught sight of his houseboy, and when he waved, the boy waved back. At nine, the French Vice-Consul put in an appearance, under guard. He was a fat, suet-faced man, who kept wiping the sweat from his forehead and glancing over his shoulder at the bayonet points behind.
    â€˜Messieurs,’ he stammered, ‘this situation is perhaps a little less disagreeable for me than for you. Unfortunately, although we do have stratagems for your release, I am not permitted to discuss your liberty, only the question of food.’
    â€˜ Eh bien!’ Jacques grinned. ‘You see my boy over there? Send him to the Boulangerie Gerbe d’Or and bring us sandwiches of jambon, pate and saucisson sec, enough croissants for everyone, and three petits pains au chocolat for me.’
    â€˜ Oui ,’ said the Vice-Consul weakly.
    I then scribbled my name and passport number on a scrap of paper, and asked him to telex the British Embassy in Lagos.
    â€˜I cannot,’ he said. ‘I cannot be mixed up in this affair.’
    He turned his back, and waddled off the way he’d come, with the pair of bayonets following.
    â€˜Charming,’ I said to Jacques.
    â€˜Remember Waterloo,’ Jacques said. ‘And, besides, you may be a mercenary!’
    Half an hour later, Jacques’s bright-eyed boy came back with a basket of provisions. Jacques gave the guard a sandwich, spread the rest on the office table, sank his teeth into a petit pain au chocolat, and murmured, ‘ Byzance!’
    The sight of food had a wonderfully revivifying effect on the Belgian ornithologist. All through the night the three had been weepy and hysterical, and now they were wolfing the sandwiches. They were not my idea of company. I was left alone with them, when, around noon, the citizens of France were set at liberty.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ Jacques squeezed my hand. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
    He had hardly been gone ten minutes before a big German, with a red face and sweeps of fair hair, came striding across the compound, shouting at the soldiers and brushing the bayonets aside.
    He introduced himself as the Counsellor of the German Embassy.
    â€˜I’m so sorry you’ve landed in this mess,’ he said in faultless English. ‘Our ambassador has made a formal protest. From what I understand, you’ll have to pass before some kind of military tribunal. Nothing to worry about! The commander is a nice chap. He’s embarrassed about the whole business. But we’ll watch you going into the building, and watch you coming out.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said.
    â€˜Anyway,’ he added, ‘the Embassy car is outside, and we’re not leaving until everyone’s out.’
    â€˜Can you tell me what is going on?’
    The German lowered his voice: ‘Better leave it alone.’
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    The tribunal began its work at one. I was among the first prisoners to be called. A young