‘Have a good trip and take care of yourself, Tom.’ The Squadron Leader extended his hand, which Tom shook with a firm grip, before smiling, turning on his heels, and striding off.

Tom ascended the steps, two at a time, and came face-to-face with the man waiting by the door.

‘Tom, I assume,’ the man said. He was in his thirties, fit-looking, of average height and build with neat dark hair, dressed in a dark suit and an open-necked shirt. He had a soft New York accent and an open, smiling face.

‘I’m Bill Kowalski, an associate of Mike Brogan. He’s asked me to offer you every courtesy. Please, welcome aboard, Tom.’ He extended his hand which Tom shook; there was no trial of strength, just a genuine warmth.

‘Thank you for your hospitality, Bill. Are we ready to go?’

‘Yep, fuelled up and ready to rock-and-roll. We’ll have you in Scotland in less than an hour. I’ve also got some kit to talk you through once we’re up; I’m told you will be familiar with most of it. Come on: let’s get going.’

The aircraft interior was functional and had a military feel in the décor and furnishings.

‘Mike didn’t say why, but he said you needed to get to Inverness ASAP. He must like you, Tom,’ said Bill, fixing Tom with a searching stare before turning to deal with the jet’s steps and door, securing them tight.

‘We go way back.’

They sat opposite each other on the leather seats and both fastened their seat belts.

‘We have a priority take-off in place, so we’ll get going now. No stewardesses, I’m afraid, but I’ll fix you a coffee once we get going and there’s a sandwich somewhere. No safety briefing, either, but I’m guessing we’ll be fine.’

The cockpit door was shut and Tom imagined it would stay that way, bearing in mind the unofficial nature of this flight.

‘Who does the jet belong to?’

‘Your Royal Air Force. Someone senior from our end has put in a phone call to someone senior in the RAF and they’ve very kindly lent us a jet. I came along from Northwood with the tactical package.

‘Well, I’m very grateful. The quicker I’m in Scotland, the better.’

Within seven minutes, the engines roared and they were away. Tom looked out of the window and watched West London disappear below him, his mind turning over what lay ahead. He looked at his watch: 1735 hours.

*

As soon as they’d reached cruising altitude Tom asked Bill, ‘Am I good to make a sat-call on here?’

‘Go ahead. Something important?’

‘I just need to plan my onward journey,’ Tom said, punching in a number.

‘Hello?’ a broad Highland accent barked down the phone.

‘Donnie, it’s Tom.’

‘Tommy, my boy, where have you been? We were supposed to all go fishing last month; what happened?’