'It's a pity it isn't navigable, like most of the European rivers,' Kemp said, his mind as ever on transport of one sort or another.

'It's the same with most African rivers,' I said. 'What with waterfalls, rapids, shoals, rocks and crocodiles they just aren't very cooperative.' Zimmerman laughed aloud. We sat for a while and then heard the rumble of traffic and a moment later a Saracen came into view, moving towards us from the river. There wasn't much we could do except hope that it was ours, and it was; a couple of Sadiq's men waved and the armoured car stopped alongside us.

'We came back to look for you, sir. To stop you going any further,' one of them said.

'What's wrong?'

It was bad news. The ferry crossing was about six miles downstream, and the Nyalan ferrypoint and the road to it were occupied by a rebel force, not a large one but probably a guard detachment. There was no ferry movement at all. All this Sadiq had seen from far off, which was bad enough, but what was worse was that he had picked up radio conversations, thanks to Ring's expertise; and it was apparent that Kigonde had not told him the whole truth. The opposition was stronger than we'd been led to believe. A large part of the army had defected and the countryside through to Fort Pirie and perhaps as far down as Lasulu was in rebel hands.

From what the soldiers told us, there was even some doubt as to whether they should be called rebels or military representatives of a new ruling Government; all news from Port Luard had ceased. There was no indication as to which way the Air Force had gone, but no doubt that whichever side they started on they'd find a way of ending up on the side of the victors.

Thank you for the news,' I said, though I didn't feel at all thankful. Tell Captain Sadiq that we will bring the convoy no further than the filling station along the road there. We'll wait there until we hear from him.'

Sadiq would probably regard even this as dangerously close to the enemy. The Saracen turned back and so did we, bearing a cargo of gloom to the gas station. Wingstead said, 'Christ, can't anything go right?' It wasn't like him to be dejected and I hoped it was caused by nothing more than exhaustion.

'Why couldn't they have been government troops?' Zimmerman asked plaintively.

'You think that would make much difference? In a civil war the best bet for a foreigner is to stay clear of all troops whichever side they're on. There'll be bastards like Maksa on both sides.'

We arrived at the station and I took the Land Rover round the back of the cabin out of sight of the road. The Nyalan attendant popped out with a disapproving face, then relaxed when he saw who we were. 'I got more Cokes getting cold, like you said,' he announced proudly.

'You know the trouble we talked about? Well, it's not far away, my friend. There are soldiers down at the ferry and they are not friends of your Government.'

The others got out of the car and joined me. I said, 'We would like to look around here. I think there is going to be more trouble, and it may come this way. If I were you I'd go tell your people in the village to go away until it's over, and that means you too.'

He said, 'Other people, they already go. But not me.'

'Why not?'

'I leave and Mister Obukwe, he kill me,' he said very positively.

'Who's he?'

'My boss in Fort Pirie.'

I thought that Mr Obukwe must be quite a terrifying guy to instil such company loyalty, and exchanged a grin with Harry Zimmerman. He came forward and said, 'What's your name?'

The attendant thought about answering him. 'Sam Kironji,' he said at last. Zimmerman stuck out his hand.

'Pleased to meet you, Sam. My name is Harry Zimmerman. Call me Harry. And I work for Lat-Am same as you. Look here.' He opened a wallet and produced a plastic identification badge, to which Kironji reacted with delight.

'Very good you come. You tell Mister Obukwe I got no trade except I sell Coca-Cola.'

'Sure, I'll tell him. But if you want to leave, Sam, it'll be OK. Neil here is right, there could be trouble coming this way.'

Kironji thought about it and then gave him a great smile.

'I stay. This is my place, I take care of it. Also I not afraid of the soldiers like them.' He waved a contemptuous hand at his departed fellow inhabitants. 'You want Cokes, other things, I got them maybe.'

I said, 'Sure, we want Cokes and food and all sorts of things. Soon our trucks will come here and we'll want lots of petrol too.' Probably more than you've ever seen sold in a year, I thought. I pointed to a hard-surfaced track which led away from the road. Tell me, Sam, where does that track go to?'

'The river.'

'But you're already at the river.'

'It go compound, back there,' he said, waving a vague hand.

'How far is it?'

'Not far. Half an hour walking maybe.'

I said, 'We're going to take our car down there and have a look. If any white men come by here, tell them to wait for us.'

'Hey, man,' he said, 'that company property. You can't drive there.'

I looked at him in amusement and wondered if Lat-Am knew how lucky they were. 'Harry?'

Zimmerman persuaded him that we were going on company business and Kironji finally gave way to our demands.

The track was better surfaced than I had expected and showed signs of considerable use. Wherever it was rutted the ruts had been filled in with clinker and the repair work was extensive and well done. Presumably Mr Obukwe of Lat-Am Oil had need of this track and we wondered why.

It wasn't all that wide, just enough to take a big truck through the trees. On the right they pressed in thickly but on the left they barely screened the water. The trees showed signs of continual cutting back, the slash marks ranging from old scars to new-cut wood still oozing sap.

The track ran parallel to the main road to the lake shore. We emerged into a clearing to see the sun striking hard diamond reflections from the water and to find yet another fenced compound full of drums. There was also a landing stage, a rough structure consisting of a wooden platform on top of empty oil drums making a floating jetty about ten feet wide and eighty feet long.

There was even a boat, though it was nothing much; just a fifteen-foot runabout driven by an outboard. I walked out onto the landing stage which swayed gently and looked closely at the boat. It was aged and a bit leaky, but the outboard looked to be well maintained. I turned my attention to the lake itself.

The distance to the far side was about four miles and through binoculars I thought I could see the shore and a ribbon of track leading up from it. That was Manzu, a country blessedly free of civil war and as desirable as Paradise. But as far as we were concerned it might as well have been the far side of the moon. It was ironic to think that if we had no-one to worry about but ourselves we four could have crossed this stretch of water to safety in no time.

'Pretty sight, isn't it,' Wingstead murmured as he took his turn with the binoculars. He was thinking my thoughts.

I turned back to the clearing. It was easy now to see the reason for the good road. Delivery to and from this petrol dump was made by water, probably from Fort Pine to this and other drop points along the shore. It would be easier than road transport especially if the fuel came prepacked in drums.

There was a locked wooden shed standing nearby. By peering through the boards we could see that it was a workshop and toolroom. There was every sign that it was used regularly for maintenance work, though everything was tidy. I walked back along the pontoon and prowled around the perimeter of the compound. I found a gate which was also locked and there was a palm-thatched hut just inside it. It crossed my mind that the clearing, which was very long, would be a good place to put the rig and the rest of the convoy off the road and out of sight. The road down was rough but I had learned enough from Kemp to judge it would stand the traffic, and Wingstead confirmed this.