The pilot didn’t blink and a moment later the wheels hit the ground and the plane was bouncing and shuddering along, dead centre between the two rows of lights. He was grateful they were there. The mangroves-thick bushes, half-floating on pools of stagnant water-came almost to the edge of the runway. Go even a couple of metres in the wrong direction and a wheel might snag. It would be enough to destroy the plane.

The pilot flicked switches. The engine died and the twin-bladed propellers slowed down and came to a halt. He looked out of the window. There was a jeep parked next to one of the buildings and it was here that the single man-the red dot on his screen-was waiting. He turned to his passengers.

“He’s there.”

The older of the two men nodded. Carlo was about thirty years old with black, curly hair. He hadn’t shaved. Stubble the colour of cigarette ash clung to his jaw. He turned to the other passenger. “Marc? Are you ready?”

The man who called himself Marc could have been Carlo’s younger brother. He was barely twenty-five and although he was trying not to show it, he was scared. There was sweat on the side of his face, glowing green as it caught the light from the control panel. He reached behind him and took out a gun, a German-built 10mm Glock automatic. He checked it was loaded, then slipped it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, under his shirt.

“I’m ready,” he said.

“There is only him. There are two of us.” Carlo tried to reassure Marc. Or perhaps he was trying to reassure himself. “We’re both armed. There is nothing he can do.”

“Then let’s go.”

Carlo turned to the pilot. “Have the plane ready,” he commanded. “When we walk back, I will give you a sign.” He raised a hand, one finger and thumb forming an 0. “That is the signal that our business has been successfully concluded. Start the engine at that time. We don’t want to stay here one second longer than we have to.”