We'd made ourselves sterile of any ID and borrowed civvies from our Zairean students to try to blend in – as you do in Africa, when you have red skin, a peeling nose and a government that wants to maintain its interests but doesn't want to be seen doing so.

Before I'd joined the Regiment, just over a year earlier, I'd assumed that every mission would be run to detailed planning and precision timings. But for most jobs I'd been on, we'd had less time to grab our kit and come up with a plan than fire-fighters on a call-out – and this one was no exception. We'd stripped down the Renaults, loaded them with two GPMGs, some AK47s, some crap trauma kit, and as much water and ammunition as we could lay our hands on, then headed east into the badlands, stopping only to refuel and nick the odd Yamaha.

Even so, this should be a good day out; it sure beat potty-training Mobutu's sidekicks. Judging by the look on his face, Standish certainly seemed to be relishing the challenge. Then again, maybe he was just looking forward to his next shag.

He was sitting behind us now, crashing about with sat comms the size of a suitcase, fanning out the big mesh dish, trying to set it up, trying to get the right angle of dangle.

Sam glanced round from the wheel to see what all the commotion was about. I leaned into the footwell to lace up my Reeboks. They were the only things I was wearing that were mine. I had a borrowed football shirt – the Greek national strip, apparently – and Sam was in jeans two sizes too big and a thick wool shirt that made him sweat like a pig.

He gave his head a shake. 'It's pointless, boss. We'll be there soon. She won't be opening hers up for another hour anyway.'

Standish wasn't listening. 'Hello, Annabel? Annabel?'

Sam and I exchanged a knowing glance. I liked him a lot. Maybe it was because he was a Jock version of me. He'd also been shoved from one set of foster-parents to the next, and only really found a home when he'd joined the army. The rundown, gang-ridden housing estates and crap schools he'd been brought up in sounded just like mine. The only difference was that his local chippie used to sell Mars bars deep-fried in batter.