‘It sounds risky.’

‘Yes. Will you go, Andrew?’

‘In what capacity?’

‘An expedition needs documentation. I am quite a good camera-man. You will pass as one, with my help. And my uncle is the Minister of Finance. I think it can be arranged.’

Andrew was silent. He felt suddenly sober, and torn between excitement and despair: it was possible, it was fantastic, and it could lead to nothing. His eyes smarted. In the centre circle two of the girls were in mock-battle with the third, one sprawled on the floor clutching her feet, the other locking her arms and tearing at what was left of her clothes.

‘We will make a documentary,’ Abonitu said. ‘Think of it. Black and white for the streets festooned with ice, weighted down with snow. And colour for the sunsets, the dying crimson glow over the frozen Thames. And a story, perhaps. You will find your lost love in the land of eternal winter.’

Andrew stared at him, blinking his eyes. ‘Can you do it?’

Abonitu nodded his head. ‘I can do it.’

‘We’ll drink to it, then.’ He picked up his glass. ‘Except that we seem to be out of drink.’