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With few exceptions, runways are aligned with the most common prevailing wind. In Scotland that was south-west. The wind blows over the North Atlantic and is warmed by the North Atlantic Current. It’s why Scotland is milder and wetter than countries of a similar latitude. Common sense would suggest the pilot would approach from the north-east. Land against the wind to help with the shorter runway. But the air was still. The moon had more atmosphere. Koenig figured it wouldn’t matter which way he came in.

Draper pointed at the sky. ‘There he is,’ she said.

The Gulfstream was seagull white against the grey sky. Sleek and fast like a dart. Air-crash investigators called the three minutes after takeoff and the eight minutes before landing the Plus 3/Minus 8 time frame. Eighty per cent of crashes occur during that eleven-minute window. But Draper’s pilot knew what he was doing. The Gulfstream descended, lined up the runway, and gently kissed the grass. It bounced once, then used air brakes and reverse thrust to slow and stop. A perfect landing. It began taxiing towards the fuel station. Koenig put the Jag into gear and met it there.

The Gulfstream’s door opened. The stairs and collapsible handrail folded out until they rested on the landing strip. The pilot skipped down the steps and shook Draper’s hand. He was a tall man. Confident. Koenig thought he was probably ex-military.

‘You made good time, Pete,’ Draper said.

‘Had a decent headwind, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We won’t need to take on as much fuel as planned, so we’ll have a quicker turnaround. I assume you want to get in the air asap?’

Draper nodded. ‘You get the stuff I asked for?’

‘Laptops are in the cabin.’

They finished up; then Pete the pilot walked over to the fuel station. The guy was already unreeling the hose. Pete escorted him to the Gulfstream and opened the access panel underneath the wing. He said something Koenig didn’t catch, but it sounded like he was telling the fuel guy to fill her up. About 4,500 gallons on a plane this size, Koenig figured. Minus what Pete had saved by following the headwind. He watched the fuel guy attach the hose and start pumping in the jet fuel. He didn’t know how long it would take. He knew that passengers weren’t allowed on a plane while it was refuelling, but it looked like Margaret really needed to lie down. He would ask Pete if he could make an exception. He probably would. Ordinary dynamics where the pilot’s word was law – literally – didn’t apply here. Pete reported to Draper, and Draper reported to no one.

‘How long?’ Koenig shouted over the noise of the pump.

‘We’re almost finished here, right?’ Pete said to the fuel guy.

The fuel guy looked at his watch and said, ‘Two minutes.’

He had an eastern European accent. Polish. Maybe Lithuanian.

‘Can I put Margaret on the plane now?’ Koenig asked.

‘Two minutes,’ the fuel guy repeated.

Koenig looked him up and down. He was a big man. Stocky. Short hair, tough and wiry, thinning on top. He wore bulky, fire-retardant coveralls. His gloves were tucked into the back of his belt. His boots were leather and well worn.

Koenig saw all this.

He then took his SIG from his jacket pocket and shot the fuel guy in the stomach.