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runway. Through the window Tony could see about two hundred feet of dusty, narrow concrete with weeds growing up through the cracks in the slabs. Beyond the end of the runway was green grass, a fence and the hind ends of a number of cows who were departing in some haste across the meadow. He knew just how they felt. He turned to Jasmin, who was sitting up, looking very pale and fanning herself with a magazine.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    She nodded weakly. “Yes. But I must just sit quiet for a few moments.”
    She was the only quiet one. The instant the plane had stopped the flight-deck door had burst open and, at gunpoint, the flight crew had been rudely thrust out. Captain Haycroft came last, propelled along swiftly by the burly Scot. Battery power was still on, for the lights burned cheerfully and the door opened smoothly when the handle was pulled. Since he was being ignored for the moment, Tony slipped to the rear of the plane, as unobtrusively as he could, and looked out of a window on the port side.
    He discovered what all the bumping had been about. Stretching off into the distance was the runway, terminating in a group of seedy and dilapidated buildings: a deserted airport obviously, built for aircraft of a different age. Smaller aircraft undoubtedly, because when the ponderous DC-10 had landed it had dropped right through the concrete of the runway and had plowed up the entire length of it. Three deep ruts, twisting and turning from time to time, led right up to the airplane, dark soil mixed with broken chunks of concrete. And there, racing along beside the runway in a boiling cloud of dust, were a car, a truck and a bright red fire engine. His appreciation of this fascinating sight was interrupted by a now familiar jab of a gun muzzle into his tender ribs accompanied by an order to go forward with the others.
    The two pilots, the flight engineer and Jasmin had been herded into the front rows of seats across the plane from the open door. Tony joined them there under the shepherding muzzle of a submachine gun. They all watched the events in progress with a great deal of interest; this included the guard who kept looking over his shoulder. There was a good deal of shouting outside and moments later the top of a ladder, rising like an elevator, appeared at the door with its rider, a solid-looking man who could have been a close relative of Angus—who instantly spoke to the newcomer in a far from brotherly way.
    â€œAre you daft bringing that bloody great fire engine? It’ll be reported and the police will be right behind you.”
    â€œWe had to, laddie. Painter’s van with the ladders broke down—this was all we could steal in time. You have it, the money?”
    Memory of this cheered Angus, who smiled for the first time.
    â€œOch, aye! Two million of those American bank notes. Let’s be off.”
    As though these words were a summoning cue there could be heard a distant clanging of alarm bells rapidly growing louder. “The rozzers!” the man on the ladder cried, and instantly vanished from sight.
    Everyone stared. Clearly framed in the open doorway was a now familiar cloud of dust and racing vehicle. Only this car was a low black sedan topped with flashing lights and loud with jangling alarm bell.
    At last the gun-waving Cubans had something to bang away at and they made the most of the opportunity. With an earsplitting roar of sound every machine gun and pistol went off, while one enthusiast even hurled a hand grenade that exploded far closer to the plane than to the approaching vehicle, sending fragments whining and thudding into the DC-10’s skin. Spurts of dust rose up all around the police car, most far wide of the mark as the guns jumped about in unaccustomed hands. But a message of sorts was received by the policemen, for the car swerved wildly, spun about and drove behind the high dirt walls of a bunker where it vanished from sight. Clouds of dust rose from