It was enough. Dillon turned to hobble into the trees and his leg gave out on him. A voice on a loudhailer called in English, “Oh, come now, Mr. Dillon, be sensible, you don’t want me to set the dogs on you.”

Dillon paused, balanced on one foot, then he turned and hobbled to the nearest tree and leaned against it. He took a cigarette from his silver case, the last one, and lit it. The smoke tasted good as it bit at the back of his throat and he waited for them.

They stood in a semicircle, soldiers in baggy tunics, guns covering him, the dogs howling against being restrained. The jeep rolled to a halt and the officer, a Major from his shoulder boards, stood up and looked down at him, a good-looking man of about thirty with a dark, saturnine face.

“So, Mr. Dillon, you made it in one piece,” he said in faultless Public School English. “I congratulate you. My name, by the way, is Branko – John Branko. My mother was English, is, I should say. Lives in Hampstead.”

“Is that a fact.” Dillon smiled. “A desperate bunch of rascals you’ve got here, Major, but Cead míle fáilte anyway.”

“And what would that mean, Mr. Dillon?”

“Oh, that’s Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes.”

“What a charming sentiment.” Branko turned and spoke in Serbo-Croatian to the large, brutal-looking Sergeant who sat behind him clutching an AK assault rifle. The Sergeant smiled, jumped to the ground and advanced on Dillon.

Major Branko said, “Allow me to introduce you to my Sergeant Zekan. I’ve just told him to offer you a hundred thousand welcomes to Yugoslavia, or Serbia as we prefer to say now.”

Dillon knew what was coming, but there wasn’t a thing he could do. The butt of the AK caught him in the left side, driving the wind from him as he keeled over. The Sergeant lifted a knee in his face. The last thing Dillon remembered was the dogs barking, the laughter, and then there was only darkness.