The speedometer sank: one hundred and twenty, one hundred, eighty, seventy, sixty, and finally down to ten knots. I turned the aircraft sharply to the right, off the road and into the cornfield, and halted about one hundred yards from the tractor, which was already pounding its way over to us.

I switched on the intercom. ‘There are detonators aboard this aircraft which will destroy it in exactly four minutes; you must open all exits, including the emergency exits, and you are to leave by the escape chutes, and get as far away from the aircraft as you can. Anyone who tries to interfere will be shot. Long live Israel! Freedom to the Jews in the Soviet Union!’

The tailgate of the articulated lorry lowered, and an Aérospatiale Puma helicopter appeared from inside. Another two followed it. All three had emblazoned on the sides the name: Heli-Transport France.

The tractor and trailer stopped at the rear of the aircraft. Among the contents of the trailer was a corpse with a new set of dentures. That corpse, which had been acquired through the services of the Department of Anatomy at the Elephant and Castle, had probably been given the best dental treatment to which any corpse had ever been treated. If the soldier who had died of a heart attack had known that the body he had donated to medical science would so serve his country, he would, for sure, have died a proud man.

The new dentures with which the corpse had been kitted were for the purpose of identification. They had been made, correct to the last detail, from the dental records of Sir Isaac Quoit. I sure as hell hoped Quoit was aboard this aircraft after the lengths to which we had been.

I could see passengers scurrying from the aircraft across the cornfield. Among them I recognized tough KGB deputy chief Ztachinov, evidently not as tough as he had thought. He was going to have some red-faced explaining to do when he got home, if he wanted to hang on to his job.

There were three taps on the door in rapid succession, followed by two slow ones, and then three more quick ones. I opened it up. Two men, wearing the blue denim peasant clothes of the French farming fraternity, but distinguishable from ordinary French farmers by the balaclavas that concealed their faces and the Sterling sub-machine-guns in their hands, stood outside.

‘Ready to go, sir. We’ve got Sir Isaac.’

‘Where was he?’

‘In the hold, surrounded by two thousand chickens.’