The State Intelligence Agency is located deep in Lagos's undeveloped estates. 180 acres of green grass and small hills.

The area is bordered by a thirteen feet fence laced with a paralyzing and non lethal electric current. Every ten feet, there is a forbidden sign that warns observers that the area is an exclusive property of the Nigerian Government.

Charles drives into a single gate in the centre of the west perimeter. Over the gate, between the opposing guard house is a millimeter wave scanner. He stops between the two barriers as a green light runs across his Mercedes.

There is a ten second interval where the guards check the scan to see if he is carrying any suspicious object in his car or on his person. The security guard holding a rather menacing rifle checks his ID and waves him in.

Charles gets out of his car and hurries to a fifteen story building that is called the Yellow House by the SIA staffs.

He pushes open the door and breathes a sigh of relief as a wave of cool, air-conditioned breeze hits him.

The lobby looks like that of any average organization. Brown wood furniture, self help posters, a pretty receptionist.

He nods a greeting at the receptionist and turns left to the elevator.

A small retinal scanner slides out and he presses his face into it. At that instant, a small red bulb lights up and the elevator slides open. An alarm would have been sounded if the retinal scan came out negative. The elevator ascends ten stories.

He steps out of the elevator and into a hallway. He strides to a door at the end of the hallway and lets himself in.

The conference room is blindingly bright. There is a long table in the middle of the room. There are five people seated and they all fall silent as the door closes behind him.

"I'm sure you are wondering why we're here," he says. He draws a seat but doesn't sit down. "Last night we found the body of Tade Johnson on a private plane registered to Nicklas Savage, one of Fabian Dost's aliases."

"Why isn't this all over the news?" asks Tom, a man in tweed jacket and horn-rimmed glasses.

"We have informed the police but we will not be providing them with any additional information. This is a 'need to know' basis. We need all the time we can get before the Circus comes to town." He means the media.

The room is silent. Everyone is looking back at him.

"This case is a top priority." He lays his palms flat on the table. "You know what that means. Your overtime has been pre-approved."

They all nod their heads, but there is a grim quality to the action, like a convict accepting his fate.

"Good," says Charles. "Here is what we know so far." He folds his arms and strolls to the large screen mounted on the wall at the end of the room. It comes alive under his touch.

He scrolls through a series of photographs taken from the plane. They all show different angles of Tade Johnson. The trail of blood from his nose to his white shirt is a startling red.

He doesn't look dead. He looks like he could wake up at any moment. Charles swallows and frowns.
"He had flown to Cameroon that morning to attend a conference and he made the return flight that evening. The estimated time of death was 7pm which was sometime during the return flight. The autopsy will soon tell us the cause of death."

Yemi raises his hand.

"You don't have to raise your hand," says Charles. "You are not in school."

There is a smattering of giggles. Yemi lets his hand drop. "Have we made any connection between Tade Johnson and Fabian Dost, apart from the plane of course?"

"Now that is the issue." Charles drums his fingers on the table. "We should look into his business dealings, especially his finances. Tom, can you take that?"

Tom nods. "Of course."

"Good. I'll cover the police angle. Make sure no one knows who we are looking for." Charles switches off the screen. "Let's go people, we've got a criminal to catch."

***

The tanks roar on, huge lumbering monstrosities of metal emitting shells and destruction. The power is astonishing. Dave feels it in his chest.

He is in a trench together with four others. The smell of burning is thick in the air. They are returning the fire; the sound of their guns is like a sharp knock in his ears. Rap tap tap.

"Down," someone screams. Dave tumbles to the wet earth just in time. The ground above his head explodes into a storm of flames and flying earth. There is a ringing in his ears. The soldier beside him is silent. His left eye is glassy and the right side of his face is simply gone.

"Jesus," someone whispers, maybe it was Dave, but he doesn't know. He stares down at his hand. It is quivering.

It is a bright afternoon but the sky above them is dark with smoke, like some evil has come to roost in the clouds. The air is filled with the screams of ammunitions, the wounded and dying.

Dave hears the shouts of the rebel militias just some paces away. He can't help but feel some admiration for them. The rebels are all young men with little or no knowledge of warfare or weaponry, only the blazing light of their cause in their heart.

And they have laid siege to an army base.

Dave whips out his radio. "Alpha 2, what's your status?"

There is no reply only the lazy rumble of radio static.

"Alpha 2, what's your status?" There is still no reply. The soldiers in the trench share an empty glance.

Suddenly, there is a crackle and a voice emits from the radio, shaky but not undecipherable. "... copy. We are pinned -"

"Damn it," Dave mutters under his breath. He surveys the carnage and makes a decision. When he speaks his voice is cold. "We need to take cover or we'll soon be run over. Reenforcement might never come." He points to a space fifty meters to their left between two buildings.

They would need to make a fast sprint with no cover against enemy fire. But it would be worth it. He hopes it would.

"That's a goddamned shooting gallery," says Gram. He has a soft face. He's just 23. His combat helmet looks almost comical on his head.

"You chickening out, boy?" says Baz with a short laugh. He's always laughing. His face is lined like leather but his eyes are always alight with the promise of a smile. His hand is in his pocket. He is fingering a picture of his daughter.

"I say let's run for it," says Clancy. Clancy is a bit older than Gram. Handsome with an unbelievably smooth skin. He lights a cigarette, takes a puff and immediately throws it down.

Dave slides another magazine into his M4. "It's the only way." He looks at the three of them, all exhausted and bleeding. He nods grimly. "Let's move."

Their boots makes pounding sounds on the empty road. The building suddenly looms up before them. Dave rolls into a crouch before the fence. There is a low whistle in the air. It is already too late when he realizes what it is.

There is a loud earth shattering boom and Dave is on his back. He stares up at the dark sky. He seems to have lost the will to move his limbs.

A black bird wheels in the sky, round and round, almost like an infinity loop. Someone calls his name, but the voice is faint. So faint.

"Dave."

There is a scream beside him. It sounds like Gram.

"Dave."

The smell of diesel and burning flesh is thick in the air. The bird seems to be coming closer, lower and lower, until it is hovering just above his face.

"Dave."

Dave wakes with a start. He isn't on a battlefield. There are no guns and no explosions. No Gram, Baz or Clancy. Dave winces, they are the spectres that haunt his nightmare.

His back is hurting from sitting on the chair for long. He looks into the face of the lady who woke him up. She is young with a heavily made up face.
"Welcome back, Dave," she says. "Doctor Joseph would see you."

"Thank you, Emily," he says. There is a pounding behind his eyes. He walks to the door at the end of the hall, knocks twice.

"Come in."

He walks into a psychiatrist's office. It is quite plain with tall arching windows and two plush chairs with a centre coffee table. Dr Joseph is sitting cross-legged. Handsome, mid 40s with a generous white in his beard. Brown shirt, black trousers and loafers.

"How have you being, Dave?" he asks.

"I've been great, thanks."

"How is your work?"

"Fine, I guess."

"Tea? Coffee?"

"No. I'm alright."

Dr Joseph takes a notebook from his table and begins to scribble on it. "We've come a long way, Dave and I am quite happy with the progress we've made."

"That's good news."

Dr Joseph nods. "Do you still have those dreams?"

"Yes. Just that one, anytime I sleep." Dave doesn't tell him about the other dreams. The ones that make him want to crawl into a hole and never come out. The ones that makes him want to tear his face off. Of course, he doesn't tell him he hasn't had a good night's sleep in months.

"The one about the trench and the infinity loop?"

"Yes."

"We need to face that."

"The last time I was here you said it was only a matter of time."

"Yes, but dreams are an entirely different territory. Sleep not only recharges us, but during the REM cycle its where we absorb and store the day's information. This would all go unremembered as random dreams. It's interesting that you are having the same dream over and over again. It is imperative to acknowledge what is real and what is not. We can talk about your dreams but you have to accept them as nothing more than dreams. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do."

"Because dreams aren't meant to be sustained. They should fall apart when we pull at the seams."

"But why do they seem so real? And the bird that keeps circling over my head... I feel there is something important attached to it, like there is something I should know but I'm missing."

"The infinity loop usually means an urge towards an eternal existence. It holds with the idea of no limitations. Perhaps, the recurring dream comes from the intense need to relieve yourself of the past. You said you don't remember much of what happened, right?"

"Yes," he says. "I was told that I somehow got into a tank and drove into enemy territory alone." He stares at the coffee table. He is trying to remember but comes up with a blank. Only the scars tell him he was ever there.

"So I read," says Dr Joseph. He is smiling and stroking his beard. "The papers called you The Hero of Mogadishu. You saved hundreds of soldiers. You were awarded the Gold Gallantry medal, right?"

"Yes."

"Maybe this is all your way of trying to remember. I wonder if the repetition of the dreams is trying to draw your attention to something bigger; the hours you don't remember. Your mind is shielding you from the rigors and horrors of those moments. It's a suppressed memory and it comes back sooner or later. Maybe its time to face it. The question is; are you ready?"

Dave stares at the coffee table. The brown paint fills his vision, pulling him deeper and deeper. He can see the black bird wheeling and wheeling. The hum of the air conditioner is suddenly loud.

A shrill ring snaps him out of his reverie. He digs his phone out of his pocket. It's Rose. "Excuse me," he murmurs.

"Detective," he says.

"We've got something," she says.

"On my way." He stands up and gives a smile. "I'm sorry," he says. "We've got a breakthrough on a case."

"Don't worry. We will meet another time," says Dr Joseph.

Dave nods. He walks to the door.

"Detective," says Dr Joseph.

Dave turns back. His hand is on the door knob, the door is halfway open. "Yes?"

"Thank you for your service."