Just aft of the flight deck a whole section of the fuselage had been hinged up so the crates of equipment could be loaded. Earlier a high-reach forklift had raised the crates to the door; they’d been manoeuvred inside and slid into the depths of the plane one after another. Now there seemed to be a last-minute alteration to the cargo manifest because the forklift was back. It approached the aircraft and picked up a pallet from inside. Down the pallet came and the forklift wheeled round and headed for the industrial estate which bordered the airfield. There was somebody down there waving a torch near where a set of gates stood open. The forklift crossed a taxiway and went through the gates and into a large warehouse. Within a few seconds it was back out again without the pallet. The figure with the torch swung the gates closed and the forklift drove back towards the main airport buildings.

‘Bloody hell,’ Itchy said.

‘Yes, bloody hell.’

Silva could feel her heart beating fast. All the build-up, the ceremony, the preparation of the aircraft, the loading of the cargo, the long wait, had taken several hours. In less than a couple of minutes the forklift had pulled a pallet of weapons from the plane, deposited it in the warehouse, and whizzed off. If anyone was watching then they’d either been paid off or been given an excuse as to why a single pallet had to be unloaded. Perhaps it was too heavy, perhaps it was the wrong pallet, perhaps the cargo was damaged and was too dangerous to transit.

Now the jet was preparing to leave. The cargo hatch was shut and the engines started and throttled up. The aircraft taxied round, paused for a minute at the end of the runway, and then was accelerating away and lifting off, the lights on the wingtips flashing as it roared into the distance.

‘Glass the warehouse.’ Itchy motioned at Silva’s binoculars. ‘Fifty metres to the left at the intersection of the fence and the cornfield.’

Silva raised the binoculars. That part of the airfield was unlit but there was enough ambient light so she could trace the line of the fence until it reached the field.

‘Do you see them?’

She did. Two figures hunched down in a hedgerow watching the proceedings just as Silva and Itchy were. She zoomed the binos. A solitary lamp at the corner of the fence cast a pale glow illuminating the two men. One with a youthful face, jet-black hair, brown skin, the other with much older features, balding and white.