Ian’s stitches were intact but seeping blood; a medic painted him with iodine and applied fresh bandages. Fatima had pieces of German steel in her left arm. “It is of no importance,” she said impatiently, as the medic picked at the shrapnel with a pair of surgical tweezers. “Nothing hit bone.” “Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Ian asked. She lifted her eyebrows coolly and ignored the question. He left the clinic and found Dutch beside his plane, examining the propeller with an RAF mechanic. “Where’d you pick up the girl?” “I knew her grandfather,” Dutch said. Ian noted the use of the past tense. News of murder traveled fast. “Where’d she learn to aim a gun?” “In an NKVD training camp, of course,” the pilot said.