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Leon stared at Manyoro. His mind seethed with wild conjecture. The last time he had seen Manyoro was almost a week ago on Lonsonyo Mountain. How had he arrived so fortuitously? Then he saw that Loikot was with him and, before he could stop him, had plunged his own assegai into the inert body.

Leon was assailed by horror and dread. No matter the circumstances in which it had happened, they had killed a white man. There would be retribution in the form of the hangman’s noose. The administration of the colony could not afford to condone such a heinous offence in a land where whites were outnumbered fifty to one by tribesmen. It would set too dangerous a precedent. His mind racing, Leon demanded of the two Masai, ‘How did you get here?’

‘When the soldier took you from Lonsonyo we followed you.’

‘I owe my life to you. The Bula Matari would have killed me, but you know what will happen if the police catch you.’

‘No matter,’ Manyoro said, with dignity. ‘They can do with me as they wish. You are my brother. I could not stand by and watch him kill you.’

‘Does anybody else know you are in Nairobi?’ Leon asked, and they shook their heads. ‘Good. We must work quickly.’

Between them they wrapped Gustav’s corpse in a tarpaulin from the storeroom with a fifty-pound crank shaft lashed to his feet. They trussed it securely with lengths of hemp rope, then carried it to the Butterfly and loaded it into the main bomb bay in the fuselage. Still working fast, they tidied the hangar, getting rid of any trace of the fight and the fire. They carried out the remains of the packing cases and stacked them on the woodpile behind the Polo Club. Then they spread fresh earth over the bloodstains, trampled it down and sprinkled engine oil over the spot to disguise the nature of the stains. If any questions were asked about Gustav’s disappearance it would be assumed that he had gone on the run to escape arrest and incarceration in a concentration camp.

When Leon was satisfied that they had covered up as much of the incriminating evidence as they could, they wheeled the Butterfly out of the hangar and he climbed into the cockpit to begin his start-up procedures. The two Masai stood ready to swing the propellers. Then they stiffened and stared into the darkness from which came the sound of a horse at full gallop.

‘Police?’ Leon muttered. ‘I have the corpse of a murdered man on board. This could mean trouble.’

He held his breath, then released it as Max Rosenthal rode out of the night and dismounted. He carried a large rucksack slung on his back as he hurried to the side of the Butterfly. ‘You told me you’d help me,’ he said, looking hunted and terrified. ‘Up at the parade-ground they’ve just shot three Germans they accused of being spies. Mr Courtney, you know I’m no spy.’

‘Don’t worry, Max, I’ll take you out,’ Leon reassured him. ‘Climb aboard!’

As soon as the engines started, the two Masai scrambled up to join Max in the cockpit and, with the waxing moon lighting the way, Leon took off and turned south, heading for the border with German East Africa. Three hours later the silver expanse of Lake Natron came up ahead, shining like a mirror in the moonlight. Leon let the Butterfly sink down until they were skimming its surface. He flew into the centre before he pulled the lever that opened the bomb bay, then leaned over the side of the cockpit and watched the tarpaulin-shrouded corpse plummet into the soda-rich water. It raised a splash of white foam. He circled back low over the surface to make certain that it had not floated, but the metal ballast had pulled it under and there was barely a ripple to be seen.

He turned back for the eastern shore. Lake Natron overlapped the boundary between the German and British territories. At this dry season of the year the beaches were exposed and as the water was rich in soda they were brilliant white, the soda hard-packed. Leon could land the Butterfly safely on one of them. The difficulty lay in deciding which to trust. He made a pass down a stretch of beach, which seemed firm and hard, came around again and touched down gently. The Butterfly settled and began to slow. Then, heart sinking, he felt her wheels break through the soda crust into the soft mud beneath. The plane stopped so abruptly that they were all thrown heavily against their safety straps.

Leon cut the engines and they climbed down on to the beach. A hasty inspection revealed no apparent damage to the landing gear or fuselage, but the wheels were bogged axle deep in the mire. Leon walked in a circle around the Butterfly to test the surface. They had been unfortunate to run into a small mudhole. Fifty feet ahead the ground was firm, but there was no hope of the four men being able to manhandle the heavy machine that far.

‘Where are we, Manyoro?’

The two Masai discussed the question before they replied.

‘We are in the land of the Bula Matari. It is half a day’s walk back to the border.’