It was raining very heavily now, the road badly surfaced, mountains rising to his right, and he switched on the radio and listened to a little night music, occasionally whistling the tune until he came to gates on the left and slowed to read the sign. It badly needed a fresh coat of paint, but the inscription was clear enough. Fehring Aero Club. He turned in through the gates and followed a track, lurching over potholes until he saw the airfield below.

He switched off his lights and paused. It seemed a poor sort of place, a couple of hangars, three huts and a rickety excuse for a control tower, but there was light streaming out from one of the hangars and from the windows of the end hut. He moved into neutral, eased off the brake and let the Mercedes run down the hill silently, coming to a halt on the far side of the runway from the hangars. He sat there thinking about things for a moment, then took a Walther PPK and black leather gloves from the attaché case on the seat next to him. He checked the Walther, slipped it into his waistband at the rear, then pulled on the gloves as he started across the runway in the rain.

The hangar was old and smelled of damp as if not used in years, but the airplane that stood there in the dim light looked well enough, a Cessna 441 Conquest with twin turboprop engines. A mechanic in overalls had the cowling on the port engine open and stood on a ladder working on it. The cabin door was open, the stairs down and two men loaded boxes inside.

As they emerged, one of them called in German, “We’re finished, Doctor Wegner.”

A bearded man emerged from the small office in one corner of the hangar. He wore a hunting jacket, the fur collar turned up against the cold.

“All right, you can go.” As they walked away he said to the mechanic, “Any problems, Tomic?”