“There were three planners,” he said with forced patience. “Parkis, Mildmay and Egerton. That alone shows you the size of this operation. They had to rope in the RAF to carry out screening in depth. They had to get facilities from NATO and provide an extensive blackout on God knows how many security movements. And they had to ask the USAF for that Finback, in good condition and ready to fly. I want you to understand that everything has been worked out, exhaustively including the access.”

This was impressive but it didn’t change anything.

“I’ve still got to take that thing off the ground without any training in it.”

“You’re being trained with the FM-3O at Zaragoza because it’s the closest thing we’ve got to the Finback. The two particular planes you’ve been using had their cockpit layout modified to resemble the Finback as far as possible. What I’m saying is that Control is fully aware of the risk in the access phase, and has tried to do everything to decrease it.”

“Good of him.”

But of course it had to be true. If Parkis lost me on the run in he’d lose the mission and he knew that.

“There are always certain areas of high risk,” Ferris said reasonably, “in any operation. They’re not usually in the access phase. In this one they are. It’s possible that Parkis wanted you for this one because he knows you do your best work when the risks are high.”

I turned away and looked out of the window and didn’t like the view but it was better than Ferris. “Parkis wants me for this one,” I said, “because he’s got his boot on my balls and he knows I can’t get away. So don’t give me any bullshit.” I turned round again. “Is that thing in Europe now?”

“Yes. It’s waiting for you at Furstenfeldbruck, ten miles from Dachau.”

“How did they get it there?”

“In a transport plane.”

“Where was it before?”

“In California.”

“They make a model of it?”

“That’s right.”

It looked logical enough. London wanted to inject me into Soviet airspace without getting me shot down, so it had to be in a Russian plane; and I couldn’t fly the thing anywhere in the West without people noticing, because that Finback had made the front page when it had dropped into Alaska and everyone knew where it was — and where it ought to be. That’s why they’d made a model.

That bit didn’t worry me. But both shoulders were still bruised and I could still feel those sickening swings this afternoon when the FM had begun spinning, and the primitive brain was afraid and wouldn’t give me any peace. I stood a good chance of finishing up as a lump of brawn compacted into the front end of a tin can on a mountainside maybe three days from now and the organism was scared sick and it affected my dunking.

“Cockpit layout’s one thing,” I told Ferris. “What about actual handling characteristics?”

“You’ll have the simulator at Furstenfeldbruck, and Gilmore’s going to be with you the whole time, right up until take-off.”

“Good old Gilmore.” I wished I could stop sweating.

“He’s told us, in any case, that the handling characteristics aren’t too different. He chose the FM-3O himself, right at the beginning. The least dissimilarity is in level flight and on fast turns. On take-off you’ll find less lift, because the Finback can use larger outboard fuel tanks than the FM.”

He was trying to sound very reasonable, very relaxed.

“What about landing?”

“You won’t be landing it anywhere,” he said. “This is a one-way flight.”

“Haben Sie etwas zu melden?”

“Nein, Herr Hauptmann.”

“Ist jemand vorbeigekommen?”

“Nur der amerikanische Offizier der Wache auf seinem Rundgang.”

“Um wieviel Uhr war das?”

“Mitternacht, Herr Hauptmann.”

“Nun gut. Das hier ist Herr Nesbitt.”

“Ihren Ausweis bitte, mein Herr.”

“Jawohl, hier ist er.”

“Danke, mein Herr.”

He gave it back to me.

“Wissen Sie was die Losung ist?”

“Katapult,” I told him.

“Schon richtig, mein Herr.”

The two dogs leaned against their harness, scenting, their eyes luminous in the lamplight.

“They are war trained,” Bocker told me. “Please don’t make any sudden movement.” He motioned the guard to hurry: it was freezing tonight and a drizzle was coming down, webby against our faces. The hangar loomed above us, the heights of its camouflaged facade lost in the rain-haze.

The two dog-handlers stood firm while the guard went back into his box and used a telephone, giving his name and service number and repeating the password; men he asked for the door to be opened.

“How long has the weather been like this?” I asked Bocker. As a courtesy he always spoke to me in English.

“A week. Perhaps ten days. It’s rather like London, don’t you think?” He had an almost soundless laugh that made his little jokes seem confidential, a mannerism he might have developed during his career in West German Counter-intelligence. He called to the guard.

“Haben Sie sich jetzt beschaftigt?”

“Ich habe es ihnen gesagt, Herr Hauptmann.”

We sank lower into our collars and I studied Hans Bocker while his head was turned away to watch the guard. I needed to know all their faces, and who they were, and what they did. Bocker was a jolly sort, overweight and blond with a red face and small bright eyes shining from puffs of flesh: his manner was confidential and he spoke softly, a plump hand on my arm to remind me that this was for my ears only. His dossier, which Ferris had got for me through NATO channels, showed that his cover identity as army captain was for the Furstenfeldbruck assignment only.

Ferris had said: “You’ll find security’s pretty good up there. They don’t know what we’re doing but they know London’s asked for strict hush. And Bocker is first class: we’ve checked him out.”

Ferris was joining me here in the morning.

We could hear a jingle of keys from inside the hangar, echoing; then the small door near the guard hut pulled open and a beam of light struck across us, blinding me.

Then the whole thing started all over again except that this time it was in English: Bocker introduced himself and presented me and I showed my security card and told them the password and we went inside and I heard one of the dogs give a low sound in its throat, I was glad when the door was shut because I can’t stand those bloody things, they’ve got teeth like sharks.

I suppose I was a bit on edge in any case, because here it was: the Finback.

It was standing all by itself in the middle of the hangar, draped in black shrouds under the cluster of lights. I couldn’t see anything of its surfaces, just the general shape under the covers; and it stood there in a silence so total that it was hard to understand, considering the noise it was going to make when we took it into the open; but I could smell it: the subtle aromatic amalgam of metal, rubber, plastics, oils, fuel, coolant, and the after-smell of the heat that had burned in it on its way through the sky.

“You would like the covers removed?” Bocker asked me.

“What? Yes.”

Two of the guard began work on it. There were four in here, two German and two American, all of them in uniform and carrying side-arms. A telephone rang and one of them went to answer it and came back but didn’t say anything to Bocker.

“It’s quite pretty,” he said to me, and gave a secret laugh.

“Is it?”

I didn’t think that was the word: the thing just looked tremendously potent, like an edged instrument for cutting the sky into swathes, though it had a slightly old-fashioned look, because of the way it stood high on the undercarriage and because of me rectangular air intakes that looked like a couple of boxes stuck on to the sides. But that was because it was on the ground, out of its element like a landed fish. In the air I knew it would look blade-sharp and effective; but I would never, of course, see it in the air.