He went up the steps and examined the interior. All the seats had been removed and it was stacked with long, olive-green boxes. Each one was stenciled in English: Royal Army Medical Corps.

Schmidt, who had joined him, said, “As you can see, we get our supplies from unusual sources.”

“You can say that again. What’s in these?”

“See for yourself.” Schmidt unclipped the nearest one, removed a sheet of oiled paper to reveal box after box of morphine ampoules. “Over there, Mr. Dillon, they sometimes have to hold children down when they operate on them because of the lack of any kind of anesthetic. These prove a highly satisfactory substitute.”

“Point taken,” Dillon said. “Now close it up and I’ll get moving.”

Schmidt did as he was told, then jumped to the ground. As Dillon pulled up the steps Wegner said, “God go with you, Mr. Dillon.”

“There’s always that chance,” Dillon said. “It’s probably the first time I’ve done anything he’d approve of,” and he closed the door and clamped it in place.

He settled into the left-hand pilot’s seat, fired the port engine and after that the starboard. The chart was next to him on the other seat, but he had already pretty well committed it to memory. He paused on the apron outside the hangar, rain streaming from his windscreen, did a thorough cockpit check, then strapped in and taxied to the end of the runway, turning into the wind. He glanced across to the three men standing in the hangar entrance, raised a thumb, then started forward, his engine roar deepening as he boosted power. Within a second or two he had disappeared, the sound of the engines already fading.

Wegner ran a hand over his face. “God, but I’m tired.” He turned to Tomic. “Has he a chance?”

Tomic shrugged. “Quite a man, that one. Who knows?”

Schmidt said, “Let’s get some coffee. We’re going to have a long wait.”

Tomic said, “I’ll join you in a minute. I just want to clear my tools away.”