Not far from Choisy, the van skidded and Gaston said, “Christ almighty,” and wrestled with the wheel.

Dillon said, “Easy, the wrong time to go in a ditch. Where are we?”

“Just past the turning to Choisy. Not long now.” Dillon sat up. The snow was covering the hedgerows but not the road. Gaston said, “It’s a pig of a night. Just look at it.”

“Think of all those lovely dollar bills,” Dillon told him. “That should get you through.”

It stopped snowing, the sky cleared showing a half-moon, and below them at the bottom of the hill was the red light of the railway crossing. There was an old, disused building of some sort at one side, its windows boarded up, a stretch of cobbles in front of it lightly powdered with snow.

“Pull in here,” Dillon said.

Gaston did as he was told and braked to a halt, switching off the motor. Pierre came up in the white Renault, got down from behind the wheel awkwardly because of the false leg and joined them.

Dillon stood looking at the crossing a few yards away and nodded. “Perfect. Give me the keys.”

Gaston did as he was told. The Irishman unlocked the rear door, disclosing the holdall. He unzipped it as they watched, took out the Kalashnikov, put the barrel in place expertly, then positioned it so that it pointed to the rear. He filled the ammunition box, threading the cartridge belt in place.

“That looks a real bastard,” Pierre said.

“Seven-point-two-millimeter cartridges mixed with tracer and armor piercing,” Dillon said. “It’s a killer all right. Kalashnikov. I’ve seen one of these take a Land-Rover full of British paratroopers to pieces.”