He turned his head and looked out of the window once more as they made their way deeper into Kinshasa.

Back in England, Ben had checked on the Internet what the Foreign Office had said about travel to the area. It had been pretty straightforward: don't do it. If you must, move around with caution. Stay away from crowds. Remain vigilant. But Ben had been determined to look past that and find out as much about the country as possible. He had learned that Kinshasa lay on the south side of the Congo river, directly opposite Brazzaville, capital of the Republic of the Congo – they were the only two capital cities in the world to be so situated. What came through most, though, was that the DRC, formerly known as Zaire, had been ravaged by civil war. Violence and unrest were everywhere. British citizens were advised not to travel to the east of the country towards the Rwandan border, and they were being told to exercise extreme caution even in Kinshasa.

The hotel where they were to stay formed a striking contrast to the shanty-town outskirts of the city through which they had driven. Ben had been shocked and a little unnerved by the sight of the rickety dwellings with corrugated-iron roofs and all manner of emaciated animals scratching around outside. The further towards the centre they drove, however, the more these poor places gave way to broad streets and imposing yet shabby buildings. It should have been impressive, but somehow it wasn't.

The hotel was no different – two great white buildings surrounding a couple of swimming pools and tables covered with coconut-fibre parasols; there was room here for hundreds of people, but it was practically deserted. Abele looked decidedly uncomfortable as he carried their bags all the way to the steps leading to the hotel reception, but he refused to come in. Ben could sense his embarrassment as his father pressed him to join them for a drink: he obviously just wanted to get away from this place, the domain of Kinshasa 's rich, whoever they might be. 'This is not somewhere for me,' he finally muttered. 'I will meet you outside when you want to go out.' He walked away before turning his head back towards them. 'You don't go with anyone else,' he warned. 'Only me.'

They would only be staying here for one night, and when Ben saw the room he was to share with his dad, he was glad about that – although half of him wondered what the rest of his trip had in store, if this was the best hotel in the country. Two single beds with fraying sheets were pushed up against the wall, and there was a large fan on the ceiling between the beds. A switch on the wall was supposed to operate it, but it didn't. The small sink was coming away from the wall, and there was an overriding smell of stale tobacco and something Ben couldn't quite place. Food, probably. He washed his hands and face – something he had been wanting to do ever since seeing the dead body by the side of the road – then pulled on a clean T-shirt. He and his dad were ready to leave within ten minutes.

Russell Tracey was being employed by the Eastern Congo Mining Corporation, and he was keen to meet his clients as soon as possible to make arrangements for the rest of their stay. It was only a five-minute drive to the company's headquarters, a faceless modern building on an island in the centre of one of the city's broad boulevards. Ben was surprised to see stony-faced guards carrying heavy weapons flanking the doors, but they recognized Abele, and the trio were allowed to enter without questions or other hindrance. The reception room itself was deliciously cool, with white stone floors and a wooden desk behind which a uniformed man sat with an imperious expression, nothing in front of him other than an old-style telephone and a holster. Ben noticed that it was empty, and couldn't help wondering where the accompanying weapon was. Abele spoke to him in what Ben assumed to be Lingala, the Bantu dialect most prevalent in this part of the country – though in truth there was no way he could have known the difference between Lingala and Kikongo, which was spoken in the jungle regions further east – and the receptionist made a phone call. Abele turned to them, nodded speechlessly, then wandered off to a different part of the building while Ben and his dad were left waiting, unsure what to do.

They didn't have to wait for long, however. Within a minute a large white man burst through a set of double doors into the reception and walked towards Ben's dad with an outstretched hand and a broad, toothy smile on his face. He had a thick mane of black hair – suspiciously black, Ben thought, given that the lines on his face suggested he was at least sixty years of age. He grabbed Russell's hand and shook it firmly. 'Mr Tracey,' he almost bellowed in a tight South African accent. 'What a pleasure it is to have you here.'

'Likewise, Mr…?'

'Kruger.' He smiled. 'Stefan Kruger.'

'Likewise, Mr Kruger.' Russell looked down at Ben. 'This is my son, Ben.'

Kruger appeared to notice Ben for the first time. He glanced at him, and the smile on his face seem to fail for a moment. 'You will be taking him to Udok?' he asked.

'That's right,' Ben's dad replied diffidently. 'They said it would be OK.'

Kruger appeared to consider that for a moment. Suddenly the grin reappeared on his face. 'Of course!' He wordlessly ruffled Ben's hair with his big hand. Ben said nothing.

'Come!' Kruger explained. 'We have plenty of people waiting to meet you, Mr Tracey. Ben, you want a Coke? There is a room to the side here where you can wait while the grown-ups do their work.'

Ben glanced up at his father. 'Um… actually,' Russell said politely, 'I was hoping Ben might join us. I'm sure he'll find it terribly interesti-'

'Rubbish!' Kruger shouted. 'Boring old grown-ups' stuff, eh, Ben?' He turned to the receptionist and said something in Lingala, his mock-friendliness suddenly falling away as he spoke to someone he clearly considered his inferior. 'Nkosana here will show you to the waiting place. We won't be long, eh, Mr Tracey?'

Ben's dad looked down at him apologetically and made as if to say something, but Ben spared him. 'It's all right, Dad. I'll wait.'

Russell Tracey nodded and followed Kruger out of the reception, while Nkosana stood up and unsmilingly gestured at Ben to follow him.

The room into which he was led was sparse. There were ten or fifteen chairs, and the Coke Ben had been promised was firmly imprisoned inside a vending machine that was not connected to the electricity. The steel-framed windows looked out onto the busy, car- filled boulevard. He looked around him, then turned to thank Nkosana, but when he did so the man was already gone. With a sigh, Ben strode over to the window and watched the cars go by. There was only so much interest to be had in doing that, however, so he pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. There was no service, so he cranked up one of the games and started playing on that instead.

Ben had been in the room for perhaps forty-five minutes when the door opened. He looked up sharply to see a young woman walk in. She wore a colourful two-piece outfit and a headscarf that covered most of her hair but allowed a few tightly plaited strands to hang onto her long, shapely neck. She was perhaps eighteen years old, though it was difficult to say for sure, and she carried a metal bucket and a mop. The girl eyed Ben suspiciously as she entered; he just nodded curtly in return as she started to mop the floor slowly and, he thought, rather laboriously. All the while he felt her eyes on him, and he carried on playing on his phone more out of embarrassment than anything else.

Suddenly she spoke. 'You are one of the English?' she asked, her voice hesitant as she carefully enunciated the unfamiliar words.