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Jason made no comment. He was thinking that perhaps Thurson would forget all about the proposed visit in time. But he knew it was a forlorn hope.

He looked down the main runway once more. Two of his Super Tornadoes had lined up on the threshold, waiting to fling themselves into the air.

The sight made him feel good.

Pyotr Ivanovich Kukarev rolled the Krivak
onto its back, gave the stick a little backward pressure and felt his G-suit squeeze at him as the aircraft pulled itself into a seemingly impossible, tight split-S. He had started the maneuver at 10,000 meters, but had reversed his direction with the loss of less height than he would have in the MiG-29. And all on full afterburner.

Once he was again in level flight, he canceled the burner. Fuel had to be saved. Despite having taken off with only half capacity, he would be expected to return with 25 percent of that in the tanks.

It was a beautiful aircraft. He had thought so the very first time he had climbed into its uncharacteristically roomy cockpit. Even the ‘29, though one of the top three frontline fighters, was still relatively cramped. Out-of-cockpit visibility of the Krivak was also superb, particularly to the rear … the vulnerable,
all-important six o’clock position immediately astern.

Kukarev was a major at twenty-eight, of average height, a little stocky, with blond hair and a clean-shaven boyish face with dimples. The face was a good mask that was at once disarming and which hid his thoughts effectively. A veteran of Afghanistan, he had earned his spurs flying the ground attack Su-25 between the arid mountains. He had gained a reputation for being absolutely fearless and had somehow been less worried than most by the Mujahideen Stinger surface-to-air missiles. He always hit his targets with all his ordnance, wheeling back to rip at the same target with the 23mm six-barrelled rotary cannon. Somehow, he repeatedly managed to return unscathed. He always flew closer to the mountains than anyone else, tilting the aircraft onto a wing tip to get through the narrowest of passes. His flying skills had become legendary.

But it had all been part of a secret, wider design, conceived in bitterness years before.

Highly decorated, he had been posted home and selected for conversion to MiG-29s. Soon he was again coming to the notice of his superiors. A posting to one of the top-secret Krivak squadrons had followed. These earlier versions of the plane that he now flew had not in his opinion been more agile than the -29, but the model he was now testing far outstripped in every possible way the previous aircraft.
This, he thought, was a real combat ship for the next century, single-engined or not.

A transfer to operational test flying had followed his promotion to major. It was a prestigious posting and confirmed to him the success of his years of planning. He had deliberately thrown himself into the thick of the fighting in Afghanistan. If he had been shot down, then that would have been the end of it. But he had survived, and had emerged with his loyalty to the Motherland finally proved beyond all possible doubt. In spite of his father, no one could now question his own political soundness. He was a hero.

His father, fighting against the Germans, had once been a hero also. But his father had not remained a hero. The
Zampolits
had seen to that. Afraid of his influence towards detente in the postStalinist years, the hardliners had fabricated evidence of his political unreliability, and General Kukarev had ended his days in internal exile. All rank, privileges and property were unjustly stripped from him and he died, still young, a broken man, leaving his son a cadet with one over-riding obsession: to avenge a cruel wrong.

Kukarev pushed the bitter memories out of his mind and concentrated on his preparation for the landing. He roared low over the long runway, broke cleanly, bringing the wheels down even as he reversed the turn to position himself right over the threshold. The Krivak responded as a thoroughbred
should. This variant was one of only three operational prototypes, and it would not do for him to bend it. Nevertheless, his approach had a dash and a flair that none of the other pilots seemed capable of emulating. He throttled back, brought the nose up. Gently, the aircraft sank to the runway. Another flight complete. Another stage in his plan.

That weekend, in England, Mark Selby drove to Buckinghamshire. Kim had invited him to the family home and it was with some reluctance that he had accepted. Her father was going to be there, and he hoped Barham-Deane had not also been invited, by Sir Julius himself.

A couple of miles before Marlow, he took a side turning onto a B-class road, as she had instructed. It was a glorious spring day, and the countryside looked quite beautiful. He felt his spirits lifting.

Presently, he turned off the road and onto a long meandering drive that traversed open country and went up a gentle slope into well-kept woods. On two of the bends, a fast-flowing stream bordered it. The drive finally straightened as it left the woods, and it was only then that Selby saw the house.

The drive speared its way through a vast landscaped garden to end in a large parking area before an immaculate Queen Anne mansion. Kim’s white Mercedes was already there. Another white car, a Rolls-Royce Corniche, was parked next to it.

Selby parked on the other side of the Mercedes,
and climbed out. No one seemed to be about. He looked about him, his gaze caught by a stunning, uninterrupted view of the Buckinghamshire countryside. The sound of a horse’s hooves made him turn. Kim Mannon on a magnificent gray.

She brought the animal to a halt close to him, and studied him from her perch, a smile playing about her lips.

“So you made it. I was afraid the thought of Daddy might have scared you off.”

“I almost had second thoughts,” he admitted.

“What made up your mind?”

“You.”

Her smile widened. “Mmmm.”

The horse moved forward. Unused to horses, Selby took a cautionary step backwards.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said, voice hinting at laughter. “Nero won’t bite. He’s just making friends. He knows you’re OK.”

“I’m glad he does. Nero. I might have known.” Selby looked at the house. “Nice hut.” And at the countryside. “Nice view.”

“It will do. Welcome, sir, to Grantly Hall, home of the Mannons of Bucks.” She grinned down at him. “The daughter of the house is graced with untold charms and has a great desire to go to bed with you at this very moment.”

“What of the master?”

“Probably watching us from his study, so it will have to wait.”

The horse moved its hooves with leisurely patience, stretched its neck to nuzzle at Selby.

“See?” she said. “He likes you. Didn’t I say he would? He’s never like that with Reggie. He even bit him, once.”

Selby took another step backwards. “I thought you said he didn’t bite.”

“Only people he doesn’t like. Don’t be a baby. I thought all fighter pilots were brave.”

“We are. We are. It’s just that horses with bonecrusher jaws are scarce up there, especially ones called Nero.”

The horse pricked up its ears and came closer. Selby stood his ground, but watched the animal warily.

“Speaking of Reggie,” he went on, “will there be another guest this weekend?”

“There’ll be other guests … none of whom will be Reggie. That’s what you wanted to hear?”

He smiled up at her. “I feel better already.”

“Good. Jarvis will show you to your room while I put Nero away. I’ll give you a proper welcome later.” Her eyes promised all. “By the way, do you ride?”

“Not really.”

“Never mind. I’ll give you a lesson. Once we get away from here who knows what we might get up to?”

“Who indeed.”

“Now I suppose you’d better go and meet
Daddy. And not before time—you’ve been avoiding him for months.”

“I haven’t been avoiding him.”

“I suppose I’ve been keeping you away from him,” she amended.

“That’s more like it. But I don’t expect he’ll be all that pleased to see me. I
am
messing up his plans for you.”

A flash of hardness danced briefly in her eyes. “I make my own plans for myself.” She wheeled the horse abruptly and set off at a trot.

Selby watched her disappear behind a wing of the building. Footsteps made him turn again towards the house. A man in butler’s uniform was approaching. Clearly Jarvis.

Jarvis was a new breed of butler, young and fit, not at all the conventional image of a family retainer.

“Good morning, sir. If you’ll let me have your luggage, I’ll show you to your room. Miss Mannon instructed that you should be given the Blue Room. You’ll like it, sir. Splendid view of the county.”

Selby opened the 4x4′s hatch and took out his gear. He shut the car as Jarvis picked up his things.

“Here. Let me take this …”

“No need, sir,” Jarvis said firmly. “I can manage.”

I’m sure you can, Selby thought, and followed Jarvis inside.

The Blue Room, furnished in Regency style,
was as splendid as the promised view. After he had been installed for a few minutes, Selby heard a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Kim Mannon, still in her riding gear, entered, shut the door and launched herself at him. The huge four-poster bed was close enough for them to fall onto, instead of the floor where the force of her lunge would otherwise have landed them.

After a while, she paused for breath.

“Don’t you think,” he put in quickly, “that I ought to at least meet your father, before you ravish me in his house?”

She was lying on her back now, arms and legs spread, breasts heaving. He leaned over to kiss her. Immediately, her arms entwined themselves about him and she manoeuvred her body beneath his, legs clasping at him. The heat of her thighs seemed to burn through his clothes and, despite himself, he felt desire growing.

Abruptly, she released him. “Oh shit!” she said in exasperation. “But I suppose you’re right. Let’s make ourselves presentable.” She inspected herself in a mirror. “I’m coming in here tonight,” she promised, “when everyone’s asleep.”

Sir Julius Mannon was younger-looking than Selby had expected. He was, given his strong-minded daughter’s height, also taller than expected. A full head of silver hair was neatly trimmed, with tiny
wings curling above and behind his ears. Dressed in the tweedy hounds-tooth of a country gentleman, he had received Selby in his study where, Selby noted, an unrestricted view of the drive could indeed be had.

Kim had brought him in, and then had left the two men to it.

Mannon had his daughter’s dark eyes and they now studied Selby keenly.

“So you’re the young warrior Kim’s been keeping from me.”

“Hardly, Sir Julius …”

“Bullshit,” Mannon interrupted bluntly. “She’s been biding her time. And for good reason.” He laughed unjovially. “Drink?”

“Er … no. It’s a bit early for me.”

“I shall have one. Keep a stock in here. Not flying within the next seventy-two hours, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh well. Suit yourself.” Mannon poured himself a generous scotch. He showed Selby to a deep leather armchair. “Take a seat.” And when he had also sat down, continued: “You’re quite different from the usual butterflies my daughter invites from time to time. Frankly Selby, that is a cause for worry.”

“I fail to understand, Sir Julius.”

“Call me Julius. Leave the ‘Sir’ to the toadies. You don’t look like a toady to me.”

Selby shifted uncomfortably on the polished leather.

“Usually, when Kim invites young men she has met,” Mannon went on, “she introduces them within a day or two, dragging them up here like puppy dogs for my inspection. It’s her way of letting me know she cares so little about them that if I disapprove, out they go.

“You, however, are very, very different. You are the first one she’s kept from me. That tells me my disapproval in this case will count for little. She has also given you the Blue Room. If I had any doubts before about how serious she was, this has wiped them away. It was my son’s room.” Mannon paused, as if in remembrance. “She idolised him,” he continued briskly, “and putting you in there speaks more loudly than she could have done herself. She is sending me a message that is both a confirmation of her intent, and a warning to me not to interfere.”

Mannon paused, swirling his scotch round the glass.

“What happened to your son?” Selby asked.

“Died with his mother in a helicopter crash in Portugal. We had a villa there, in one of its most beautiful provinces, the Beira-Alta. The villa was close to the Sierra Estrella. The helicopter pilot had not been one of our regular people. He died too, of course. Went into the mountains. I sold the place soon after.”

“I’m sorry. I can understand your feelings. I lost a very good friend not so long ago.”

The dark eyes studied Selby. “One of your colleagues?”

Selby nodded. “His aircraft burned on impact. He never got out.”

“Then we both know what it’s like,” Mannon said after a long silence. “That is why I hope you will appreciate what I am about to say. People like you are a special breed of young men. You have high intelligence, and exceptional skills. You perform a duty that few of us ordinary mortals are capable of and when the Reggie Barham-Deanes of this world are placed next to you they come in a very poor second.

“However, even the Barham-Deanes have their place in the scheme of things. Reggie is a prize shit… oh don’t look surprised to hear me say it… I am well aware of what he is. And Reggie is also the most efficient financial barracuda of his generation that I’ve come across. He’s on my team, and I’ve watched him put together a multi-million pound deal in one week, while our competitors had been struggling over it for months. They simply hadn’t done their homework. Reggie did his and pounced while they were still arguing among themselves.

“I was about to say he has the same hunting instinct that you fighter boys employ so well in the air, but I can see that would scandalise you. I’ll put it another way. People like Reggie make the money
that pays for your wonderful high-tech machines. Basically they make the money that buys your aircraft, so that you can keep the skies free of intruders, so they can continue making the money to buy the aircraft to enable you … and so on. It’s the way of the world. Clearly, to judge by your expression, you don’t agree.”