A stab of fear lanced through him and Ford was tempted to immediately wing it back to Ambunti to fetch the police. He dismissed the thought as unworthy. The mission staff were more than employees – they were family – and they needed help now.

He was halfway out of the hangar door when he heard a whirring sound and his world exploded.

‘Wake up, Doctor Ford. Wake up.’

Ford could taste blood. A bucket of tepid water hit him full in the face. Throbbing pain split his skull when he opened his eyes. He was now in his office. It had been ransacked, every drawer opened and flung to the ground, documents and files scattered recklessly. He discovered his hands were secured with plastic cable ties to the arms of his office chair. Before him stood two Indonesian men wearing jungle fatigues and combat boots. He wondered if they were Kopassus – Indonesian special forces – but they usually flew by chopper . . .

‘Who are you?’ Ford asked. ‘What do you want?’

The shorter man sat on the edge of the desk. He had a bland, genial face with hard eyes.

‘We have much to discuss.’

‘Yes, we do. This is a hospital. What have you done with my staff? I have patients that need attending to.’

Ford caught a whiff of clove cigarettes as the man exhaled. Then he punched Ford full in the face – a short, bunched right, followed by a left – which left him on the edge of passing out again. It was a vicious, controlled application of violence. Ford gasped and spat out a mouthful of fresh blood.

‘You will listen, all right?’

Between Ford’s feet, he could see broken vials of morphine on the floor, which meant they had got into the wall safe behind him. Obviously, the drugs and several thousand US dollars had not been enough to satisfy them. Then, he thought of what else the safe had contained.

It was in the second Indonesian’s hand: a gold and silver embossed Luger, engraved with the initials M. H. With a sickening start, it occurred to Ford that the thing his family had always dreaded was probably happening right now.

‘Doctor Ford, we know you are a very rich man. Your air ambulance cost more than four million dollars.’ The man’s brown eyes were cold.

Ford forced a dry laugh. ‘We’re a church-based organisation. We run on donations.’

‘Oh? We know these donations represent only a fraction of the money your family has spent over the years, equipping this mission and others like it around the world. What is the true source of this income, Doctor Ford?’

‘I would need my accountant to–’

A stiff jab to the sternum sucked the wind out of his lungs.

‘Stop wasting time, all right? There are no trusts. No endowments. We know the source of your wealth is gold, Doctor Ford. Japanese gold. So, let me make it easy for you. Where is the submarine located?’