Maisie departed her flat at half past three on Monday morning, enabling her to reach Biggin Hill in good time. MacFarlane had pointed out that the aeroplane would not normally be at this location, and because it was early, most crew would not even see it depart. Driving through deserted streets forming the southern edge of the capital, Maisie met little traffic, for which she was grateful. For years Londoners had been promised a new south circular road. Parts had been completed here and there, but Maisie knew that if her journey were being made later in the day, it would have taken ages. She was soon driving through Crystal Palace, on to Bromley, and from there to Leaves Green and the aerodrome nearby. She pulled up to the main entrance and was asked to show her identification card. The guard was questioning her, grasping a clipboard and checking her name, when a tall, well-built man emerged from the shadows of a breaking dawn. He flicked open a wallet to show his identification.
“It’s all right, Sergeant. I can take over here.”
The guard shone his torch on the proffered official documentation, and directed the beam to the man’s face. “Right you are, sir,” he said, opening the gate to allow Maisie onto the aerodrome. Once through, she stopped and allowed MacFarlane to take the passenger seat.
“I always wanted a ride in this beast,” said MacFarlane.
“You should have said, Robbie—you didn’t need to go to this trouble.” Maisie slipped the Alvis into gear and began to move the vehicle forward at a slow pace.
MacFarlane pointed to a building set aside from the others. “Round the back there—park your motor, and we’ll have a little chat.”
“Oh dear. When you say the words ‘little chat,’ I get worried. Wasn’t it a little chat that took me to Munich last year?”
MacFarlane laughed. “And that, I suppose, is another reminder that this jaunt is payment of a debt I owe you. Fair enough, lass. Fair enough. But I’ve made some inquiries and a few arrangements that might make your life a little easier.”
Maisie parked the motor car as instructed, turned off the ignition, and turned to MacFarlane. His face was almost indistinguishable in the early-morning light. “That’s handy. What have you arranged, Robbie?”
“This is, of course, all in my own interests. The last thing I want on a Monday—or any day, come to that—is to have to get onto one of those rickety flying machines and go over there on a mission of mercy to bring you home.”
“Rickety?” said Maisie.
“I jest and exaggerate, but you know what I mean.”
“Are you going to tell me, or shall I guess what you’ve done?”
“I’m getting to it, Maisie.” MacFarlane’s tone became more serious. “You gave me reason to think you might need a hand, so here’s the hand. I told you before about the motor car waiting for you in Belgium. One of our men will be there when you land. He’ll take you to the town you specified—and yes, it’s not far from Liege, but more of a village, I would say, but then I come from Glasgow, so anything less than a city is a village. He will wait to bring you back to the airfield after you’ve finished your work. A reminder: the thing—and by that, I mean the aircraft—will only take one passenger, and that’s you, but do not try to communicate in any way with the pilot. You won’t be able to hear yourself think, in any case, let alone have a chat. All I will say is that this aircraft was earmarked for a delivery operation, and it just so happened I could squeeze you in.”
Maisie nodded, knowing MacFarlane had more to say.
“Now, two people know you’re coming. The local policeman—I found the most senior man I could, Janssens. And the mayor, very nice chappie. Monsieur”—MacFarlane pronounced the salutation “mon-sewer”—“Martin. He might not spell it like you or I spell it, though. Both speak English very well, so you won’t have to embarrass your country in the attempt.” MacFarlane paused.
“I think I did pretty well when I managed to outrun Huntley a few years ago.”
“I don’t believe you actually outran him, Maisie. I understand he caught up with you in Paris.”