“No big deal, Herr Doctor, just fine-tuning.”

“Which won’t mean a thing unless this damn man Dillon turns up.” As Wegner turned, a young man came in, the woollen cap and reefer coat he wore beaded with rain.

“He’ll be here,” Wegner told him. “I was told he could never resist a challenge, this one.”

“A mercenary,” the young man said. “That’s what we’ve come down to. The kind of man who kills people for money.”

“There are children dying over there,” Wegner said, “and they need what’s on that plane. To achieve that I’d deal with the Devil himself.”

“Which you’ll probably have to.”

“Not kind,” Dillon called in excellent German. “Not kind at all,” and he stepped out of the darkness at the end of the hangar.

The young man put a hand in his pocket and Dillon’s Walther appeared fast. “Plain view, son, plain view.”

Dillon walked forward, swung the young man round and extracted a Mauser from his right-hand pocket. “Would you look at that now? You can’t trust a soul these days.”

Wegner said in English, “Mr. Dillon? Mr. Sean Dillon?”

“So they tell me.” Dillon slipped the Mauser into his hip pocket, took out his silver case one-handed, still holding the Walther, and managed to extract a cigarette. “And who might you be, me old son?” His speech had the hard, distinctive edge to it that was found only in Ulster and not in the Republic of Ireland.

“I am Dr. Hans Wegner of International Drug Relief, and this is Klaus Schmidt from our office in Vienna. He arranged the plane for us.”

“Did he now? That’s something to be said in his favor.” Dillon took the Mauser from his hip pocket and handed it back. “Doing good is all very fine, but playing with guns when you don’t know how is a mug’s game.”

The young man flushed deeply, took the Mauser and put it in his pocket, and Wegner said mildly, “Herr Schmidt has made the run by road twice with medical supplies.”