The vineyards outside Madrid had ripened early that year.
Spring had not yet touched most of Europe, but here in the Castilian basin, the sun held court over rows of ancient vines budding with new life.
The civil war raging just a few dozen kilometers east felt a thousand miles away.
The low hum of engines stirred the clouds above. A sleek silver aircraft descended through the haze like a falcon over a quiet field.
The guards at the villa's perimeter barely raised their heads; everyone had been briefed.
The plane, a swept-wing prototype derived from the Fernbomber line, braked with surgical precision on the improvised airstrip beside the vineyard estate.
Behind it came the unmistakable growl of the Focke-Wulf PFL escorts; turboprop fighters with curved wings and black cruciform silhouettes, slicing across the sky like vultures too bored to land.
The door opened.
