CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Morituri te Salutamus

The Tundra Cat slowed. I had taken the back bench-seat. Don and Dutch were up front, with the drivers near the windscreen. The box of Johnny Walker Black label had been carefully jammed under the front seats. The Purser, at my side, was in obvious pain, back to clutching his hands tightly around the wound in his thigh. I considered hitting him with another ten milligrams of the morphine, but decided that I might need him conscious and capable of whatever moves he could muster.