Silva tried to keep her speed down as they drove up the motorway and half an hour later she took a turning signposted towards the airfield. They drove across flat countryside populated with vineyards. They passed through a village with nothing more than a garage and a cafe. Several old men sat drinking their morning espressos, faces like walnuts, heads turning to follow the car as if they’d never seen one before.

The airfield appeared on their right. A small terminal building was all glass and steel and a runway stretched into the distance, the concrete surface shimmering in the heat. To one side a succession of light aircraft were parked on a huge apron, while a number of maintenance hangers sat up against the boundary fence.

They slotted the car into a space in the car park, pulled out their bags and walked to the terminal.

Inside there was a single desk in the entrance foyer. Flowers and cool air. A woman with a smile walking from behind a desk to greet them.

‘Rachel and Steve, right?’ The woman was using the names on their false passports. She continued in perfect English. ‘Your aircraft arrived half an hour ago and is being prepped. If you’d like to come through to the lounge I can serve you refreshments.’

‘How—?’ Silva tried to prevent her jaw from hitting the floor.

‘Mr Fairchild informed us you would be arriving this morning. The flight plan was short notice, but we are well used to dealing with VIP customers here.’

‘VIP…?’ Itchy appeared to be equally gobsmacked as they followed the woman through to the lounge.

Several sofas faced a huge window which looked out across the runway. A small jet stood to one side, a fuel hose snaking to one wing from a bowser. Before Silva had a chance to admire the jet, a waiter approached and asked them if they would like coffee and something to eat. Silva nodded dumbly and slipped over to the sofas.

If either the waiter or the receptionist were surprised at Silva and Itchy’s somewhat dishevelled appearance, they didn’t show it.

‘The other half, hey?’ Itchy dropped into an armchair. ‘Only it isn’t the other half, is it? More like the one per cent.’

‘Your passports, please?’ The receptionist seemed to be doubling as security. ‘Only a formality.’

Silva produced her passport, Itchy the same. The inspection was cursory at best and the receptionist gave them another big smile and wished them an enjoyable onward journey.

Two coffees appeared but they’d barely started them when a steward came in through a door which led airside.

‘Rachel and Steve?’ he said, making a small bowing motion as he approached. ‘We’re ready to depart, but you can finish your coffees if you’d like.’

‘No, we’re keen to be off,’ Silva said. ‘What do you say Itch— er, Steve?’

‘Yeah, let’s go,’ Itchy said.