‘Or maybe some croissants, cooked to perfection, with some fresh marmalade, and a bowl of fruit salad,’ put in Ganju.
‘Or a bowl of hot porridge, with a shot of brandy in it to get you awake,’ said Chris.
‘You’re all wrong. It’s a Full English,’ said Ollie. ‘Sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms and fried bread, with a big mug of tea and the sports section of the Telegraph to read.’
‘With your boys winning at the football,’ said Dan.
‘Now it really is a fantasy,’ said Chris.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, lads,’ said Dan, glancing into the bucket ‘but the menu isn’t quite living up to our expectations.’
The cell fell silent. If Dan didn’t rate the grub, that really was a bad sign, decided Ollie. The Aussie would eat anything.
‘Give us the good news,’ said Chris finally.
Dan’s face had turned a sickly colour. ‘It’s mostly water, but I suspect they’ve mixed some sewage into it. There’s a dead rat floating on the top. Not sure if we’re meant to eat that or not. There’s quite a few old potato peelings, some bits of carrot . . .’
‘It could be puke,’ said Chris.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Dan. ‘I was trying to look on the bright side.’
‘I think I’m losing my appetite,’ said David.
Ollie took the cup and plunged it into the bucket. Whatever Wallace was planning for them, he didn’t reckon it included poisoning them in their prison cells. If he wanted them dead, he’d have let them have a bullet in the head back in the fort. Throwing the water down his throat, he struggled to hold it there.
‘We have to drink, and we need to eat something,’ he said, once he’d got the swill down into his stomach, and managed to suppress the violent urge to vomit. ‘I’m not planning on dying here, so let’s get some food inside us until we can figure a way out of here.’
Chris took a swig from the cup Ollie had just handed him. ‘Could use a little salt,’ he said, wiping some of the grime away from his mouth.
‘And maybe some pepper - freshly ground of course,’ said Dan, picking away what looked unpleasantly like some rat hair that had lodged itself in the half-inch of stubble that had grown on his chin since the mission had begun.
‘Gallows humour,’ snarled Wallace. ‘I’m glad to see you boys have got the measure of the situation. Because the only way you’re getting out of this fix is on the end of a rope.’
He had just walked down the stairs and was leering into the cell, his rough face illuminated only by the dull amber glow of his cigar stub. Standing directly behind him was a man in his fifties, dressed in a dark blue suit and with an attaché case in his hand. His face was solemn, and he remained two paces behind Wallace, but looking straight into the eyes of the men locked up in front of him.
Dan turned around and, from the end of his tongue, flicked a slither of potato peel straight into Wallace’s face. ‘Do you mind keeping the noise down, mate,’ he said belligerently, ‘we’re trying to have some breakfast here.’
Wallace removed the peel from his cheek. ‘You’ll regret that,’ he said.
‘Yeah, it was a waste of some good grub.’
Wallace turned around, and gestured to the man in the blue suit. He edged up to the front of the cage, his face wrinkling up as he did so. It’s the smell, decided Ollie. The bloke hasn’t got the stomach for it.
‘My name is Clement Mobani,’ he said. His eyes swivelled from man to man, the disdain evident in his expression. ‘I am a prosecutor for the Batotean Government,’ he continued. ‘You are being charged with conspiracy to murder in connection with a plot to assassinate our President. I need hardly tell you that these are grave charges, and the penalty under Batotean law is death.’
‘OK, OK, now tell us the good news,’ said Ollie with a rough grin.
‘I’m afraid there isn’t any good news, Mr Hall. If there was, you wouldn’t be here.’ He drew a spotless white handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his forehead. ‘A trial is being scheduled. But it would be better for everyone if you agree to sign a full confession before then.’
‘What about a defence lawyer?’ said Ganju.
Mobani’s smile was both gentle and mocking at the same time. ‘I’m afraid for a crime of this severity, that won’t be possible,’ he replied.
‘Nice system,’ said David.
‘You’ll find that Batotean justice is far superior to the British system,’ said Mobani. ‘And we certainly intend to take no lessons from colonial dogs like you.’ He opened the attaché case. ‘I have six confessions already prepared. I just need your signatures.’