“And the flight?”
“Well, if you’re just some private pilot out here to do a bit of good in this wicked world you won’t last twenty miles.”
Dillon said softly, “Let’s just say I’ve seldom done a good thing in my life and I’m not that kind of pilot. What’s the terrain like?”
“Mountainous in parts, heavily forested, and the weather forecast stinks, I checked it myself earlier, but it’s not only that, it’s the airforce, they still patrol the area regularly.”
“Mig fighters?” Dillon asked.
“That’s right.” Tomic slapped the wing of the Conquest with one hand. “A nice airplane, but no match for a Mig.” He shook his head. “But maybe you’ve got a death wish.”
“That’s enough, Tomic,” Wegner said angrily.
“Oh, it’s been said before.” Dillon laughed. “But let’s get on. I’d better look at the charts.”
As they moved toward the office Wegner said, “Our people in Vienna did make it plain. Your services are purely voluntary. We need all the money we can raise for the drugs and medical supplies.”
“Understood,” Dillon said.
They went into the office where a number of charts were spread across the desk. Dillon started to examine them.
“When would you leave?” Wegner asked.
“Just before dawn,” Dillon told him. “Best time of all and least active. I hope the rain keeps up.”
Schmidt, genuinely curious, said, “Why would you do this? I don’t understand. A man like you.” He seemed suddenly awkward. “I mean, we know something of your background.”
“Do you now?” Dillon said. “Well, as the good doctor said, I find it hard to resist a challenge.”
“And for this you would risk your life?”
“Ah, sure and I was forgetting.” Dillon looked up and smiled and an astonishing change came to his face, nothing but warmth and great charm there. “I should also mention that I’m the last of the world’s great adventurers. Now leave me be like a good lad and let me see where I’m going.”
He leaned over the charts and started to examine them intently.
Just before five the rain was as relentless as ever, the darkness as impenetrable, as Dillon stood in the entrance of the hangar and peered out. Wegner and Schmidt approached him.
The older man said, “Can you really take off in weather like this?”
“The problem is landing, not taking off.” Dillon called to Tomic, “How are things?”
Tomic emerged from the cabin, jumped to the ground and came toward them wiping his hands on a rag. “Everything in perfect working order.”
Dillon offered him a cigarette and glanced out. “And this?”
Tomic peered up into the darkness. “It’ll get worse before it gets better, and you’ll find ground mist over there, especially over the forest, mark my words.”
“Ah, well, better get on with it as the thief said to the hangman.” Dillon crossed to the Conquest.
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.”
They crossed toward the end hut. He watched them go, waited until they’d gone inside before turning and swiftly crossing to the office. He picked up the telephone and dialed a lengthy series of numbers. As the good doctor had said, the telephone system still worked surprisingly well over there.
When a voice answered he spoke in Serbo-Croatian. “This is Tomic, get me Major Branko.”
There was an instant response. “Branko here.”
“Tomic. I’m at the airfield at Fehring and I’ve got traffic for you. Cessna Conquest just left, destination Sabac. Here is his radio frequency.”
“Is the pilot anyone we know?”
“Name of Dillon – Sean Dillon. Irish, I believe. Small man, very fair hair, late thirties I’d say. Doesn’t look much. Nice smile, but the eyes tell a different story.”
“I’ll have him checked out through Central Intelligence, but you’ve done well, Tomic. We’ll give him a warm welcome.”
The phone clicked and Tomic replaced the receiver. He took out a packet of the vile Macedonian cigarettes he affected and lit one. Pity about Dillon. He’d rather liked the Irishman, but that was life and he started to put his tools away methodically.
And Dillon was already in trouble, not only thick cloud and the constant driving rain, but even at a thousand feet a swirling mist that gave only an intermittent view of pine forest below.
“And what in the hell are you doing here, old son?” he asked softly. “What are you trying to prove?”
He got a cigarette out of his case, lit it and a voice spoke in his earphones in heavily accented English. “Good morning, Mr. Dillon, welcome to Yugoslavia.”
The plane took station to starboard not too far away, the red stars on its fuselage clear enough, a Mig 21, the old Fishbed, probably the Soviet jet most widely distributed to its allies. Outdated now, but not as far as Dillon was concerned.
The Mig pilot spoke again. “Course one-two-four, Mr. Dillon. We’ll come to a rather picturesque castle at the edge of the forest, Kivo it’s called, intelligence headquarters for this area. There’s an airstrip there and they’re expecting you. They might even arrange a full English breakfast.”
“Irish,” Dillon said cheerfully. “A full Irish breakfast, and who am I to refuse an offer like that? One-two-four it is.”
He turned onto the new course, climbing to two thousand feet as the weather cleared a little, whistling softly to himself. A Serbian prison did not commend itself, not if the stories reaching Western Europe were even partly true, but in the circumstances, he didn’t seem to have any choice and then, a couple of miles away on the edge of the forest beside a river he saw Kivo, a fairytale castle of towers and battlements surrounded by a moat, the airstrip clear beside it.
“What do you think?” the Mig pilot asked. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“Straight out of a story by the Brothers Grimm,” Dillon answered. “All we need is the ogre.”
“Oh, we have that too, Mr. Dillon. Now put down nice and easy and I’ll say goodbye.”
Dillon looked down into the interior of the castle, noticed soldiers moving toward the edge of the airstrip
