«One of your—» Mallory broke off, appalled at the memory of the things he had said to the elderly, bewhiskered Scots captain who had driven the command vehicle. «I — I'm terribly sorry, sir. I never realised—»

«Of course you didn't!» Jensen cut in briskly. «You weren't supposed to. Just wanted to find out if you were the man for the job. I'm sure you are — I was pretty sure you were before I pulled you out of Crete. But where you got the idea about leave I don't know. The sanity of the S.O.E. has often been questioned, but even we aren't given to sending a flying-boat for the sole purpose of enabling junior officers to spend a month wasting their substance among the flesh-pots of Cairo,» be finished dryly.

«I still don't know—»

«Patience, laddie, patience — as our worthy commodore has just advocated. Time is endless. To wait, and to keep on waiting — that is to be of the East.»

«To total four hours' sleep in three days is not,» Mallory said feelingly. «And that's all I've had… . Here they come!»

Both men screwed up their eyes in automatic reflex as the fierce glare of the landing lights struck at them, the flare path arrowing off into the outer darkness. In less than a minute the first bomber was down, heavily, awkwardly, taxi-ing to a standstill just beside them. The grey camouflage paint of the after fuselage and tailplanes was riddled with bullet and cannon shells, an aileron was shredded and the port outer engine out of commission, saturated in oil. The cabin perspex was shattered and starred in a dozen places.

For a long time Jensen stared at the holes and scars of the damaged machine, then shook his head and looked away.

«Four hours' sleep, Captain Mallory,» he said quietly. «Four hours. I'm beginning to think that you can count yourself damn' lucky to have had even that much.»

The interrogation room, harshly lit by two powerful, unshaded lights, was uncomfortable and airless.