During the two weeks that he had been in residence, Ramsey had managed to create an air of permanence. His personal chests had come from Cuba in the diplomatic bag. They had contained the few good pictures his father had left him and other small items of furnishing, including family photographs in silver frames of his parents and the family castle and estates in Andalusia when these had been in their heyday. The glassware and porcelain were incomplete sets, but they bore the Machado coat of arms: the stag and the boar rampant on either side of the quartered shield. His golf-clubs were displayed casually in the corner of the tiny entrance-hall, the plain leather Herm~s bag well used, the discreetly embossed coat of arms almost obscured by wear. From what he had learnt about Red Rose, he knew that she would have an eye for such detail.
He glanced at the venerable gold Cartier, another family heirloom, that felt unfamiliar on his wrist. He would have to hurry. His growth of beard was heavy and dark. He shaved it off quickly but carefully and then showered and washed the stink of Joe Cicero's Turkish cigarettes out of his hair.
He checked himself automatically in the mirror as he went thfough to the bedroom. He had been in peak physical condition when he had returned from Russia three weeks previously. The refresher course for senior officers at the KGB training college on the shores of the Black Sea had honed his body and, although he had managed to take little physical exercise since then, the lack was not yet apparent. His body was still sleek and hard, his belly flat and his body hair crisp and curly black. The scrutiny he directed at his image was completely without vanity. Face and body were simply implements, tools to be used to accomplish the tasks that he was set. He had no illusions about the fleeting nature of his physical attributes, but he worked to prolong it in the same way that a warrior cared for his weapons.
'Gym tomorrow,' he promised himself. Ramsey had the use of a martial arts studio in Bloomsbury run by a Hungarian refugee. Two hours of hard work a couple of times a week would maintain him in fit condition for the Red Rose operation.
His riding- breeches were cavalry whipcord, and he wore a sage-coloured Trevira woollen shirt with a green tie under his tweed hacking-jacket. His riding-boots fitted him like a second skin, with a supple gloss of dubbined leather that flexed into perfect creases over his ankles as he moved. No amount of craftsmanship or money, only years of loving attention, could achieve that effect.
He knew that Red Rose was a horsewoman; in her world horses were a major part of existence. She would recognize those boots as a badge of membership of the same exclusive and e1ite group to which she belonged.
He checked his watch again; he had timed it nicely.
He locked the flat and went down into the street. The rain-clouds that had threatened earlier in the afternoon had dispersed, and it had turned into a glorious summer evening. Even the elements seemed to conspire to assist him.
The riding-stables were in a narrow mews behind the Guards barracks. The stable- manager recognized him. As Ramsey signed the register he ran his eye down the immediately preceding entries, and saw that his good fortune was persisting. Red Rose had signed for her mount twenty minutes previously.
He went down to the stalls, and the groom had the saddle on his mount. She was a bay filly that Ramsey had chosen with care and for which he had paid five hundred pounds from his expense budget. However, she had been a bargain, and he knew that he would recoup the cost and probably make some profit whenever he chose to sell her on. He checked the girth and harness, speaking softly to the filly, soothing her with hands and voice, and then thanked the groom with a nod and went up into the saddle.
On an evening like this there were fifty or so other riders out in Rotten Row. Ramsey walked the filly under the oaks, while groups of horsemen cantered past him in both directions. The girl was not amongst them.
As soon as she had warmed a little, he pressed the filly with his toes and she moved up into a trot. She had an elegant action, and he rode her like a centaur, his superior horsemanship obvious even in that expert company.
They made a striking pair, and more than a few of the women they passed turned in the saddle to look back after them.
At the Park Lane end of the Row, Ramsey turned and moved the filly up into an easy canter; galloping was forbidden. A hundred yards ahead, a group of four riders were coming towards him, two couples, young people well mounted and turned out, but the girl stood out amongst them like a sunbird in a flock of sparrows.
From under her riding-hat her hair undulated like the wing of a bird in flight, and glistened in the buttery sunshine. When she laughed her teeth were very white, and her colour was vivid from the exercise and the wind in her face.
Ramsey recognized the man riding beside her. He had been her companion on most occasions that he had observed Red Rose over the previous two weeks.
Ramsey had requested information on him from records. He was the second son of an extremely wealthy family of brewers, an effete upper-class playboy of the type known in London society as a 'Deb's Delight' or 'Hooray Henry', and he had been with her at the Rolling Stones concert four days ago. Since then Red Rose had spent two evenings in his company, party-hopping around Knightsbridge and Chelsea. Ramsey had noticed that she treated him with a type of amused condescension, as though he were an over-affectionate St. Bernard puppy, and that on no occasion that he had followed them had she been alone in his c. ompany except when he drove her in his MG from one party to the next. Ramsey was almost certain that they were not sleeping with each other, which was unusual in this summer of 1969 when sexual licence was a raging epidemic.
He knew also that Isabella Courtney was not a simpering virgin. In the three years that she had been living at Highveld, it was documented that she had indulged in at least three explosive, if short-lived, liaisons.
As the gap between them closed, Ramsey transferred his attention to the horse under him and leant forward to pat her neck. 'There, my darling.' He spoke to her in Spanish, while from the corner of his eye he was watching the girl. It was a trick that he had of deflecting his gaze so that he seemed not to be looking while he missed not the smallest detail.
They were almost past each other when he saw the girl's chin snap up and her eyes fly wide open, but he ignored her and rode on.
'Ramedp Her cry was high and imperative. 'Wait!' He checked the filly, and glanced back with a little frown of annoyance.
She had wheeled her own mount and was riding after him, and he let his expression remain reserved and slightly frosty as though he resented her scraping acquaintance.
She drew up beside him, reining her horse down to a walk. 'Don't you remember me? Isabella Courtney. You were my saviour.' Her smile was uncertain and awkward. Men always recognized her, no matter how fleeting or distant their last meeting. 'At the concert in the park,' she ended lamely.
'Ahp Ramsey allowed his smile to bloom at last. 'The motorcycle mascot.
Forgive me. You were dressed rather differently then.' 'You didn't wait for me to thank you,' she accused him. She suppressed the urge to laugh out loud with relief that he had recognized her at last.
'No thanks were necessary. Besides which you had rather urgent business elsewhere, as I recall.'
'Are you on your own?' She changed the subject quickly. 'Why don't you join us? Let me introduce you to my friends.' 'Oh, I don't want to impose myself.' 'Please,' she insisted. 'You'll enjoy them; they are good fun.' And Ramsey bowed slightly in the saddle.
'How can I refuse such a kind invitation from such a lovely lady?' he agreed, and Isabella felt as though her chest was in a vice. She had difficulty breathing as she looked into those green eyes in the face of a dark angel.
The other three had reined in and were waiting for them. Even before she came up to him, she saw that Roger was already sulking, and it gave her a vindictive little pleasure to say: 'Roger, may I introduce the Marques de Santiago y Machado? Ramsey, this is Roger Coates-Grainger.' She noticed Ramsey glance at her quizzically and only then realized that she had made a gaffe by using his title; he had not mentioned it at their first meeting.
However, her momentary discomfort was forgotten when she introduced Ramsey to Harriet Beauchamp and saw how Harriet reacted to him. She actually licked her lips like the cat in the television advertisement for pet food.
Harriet was Isabella's best friend in London, more out of symbiotic consideration than out of genuine mutual affection. Lady Harriet was Isabella's entrance-ticket to the inner circles of London society. As the daughter of a belted earl, she was welcome where Isabella despite her looks and family wealth would have been considered a nouveau riche interloper with a funny accent. Harriet on the other hand had found that wherever Isabella Courtney was there swiftly assembled a superabundance of males.
Beneath Harriet's plump, bland and colourless blonde exterior flourished a ravenously amorous nature, and Isabella was happy to pass on her rejects to her.
Usually the arrangement worked perfectly, but Ramsey was definitely no reject, not yet anyway, and smoothly Isabella interposed her horse between them and flashed a silent warning at Harriet. Harriet was enormously flattered.
She knew that she could never aspire to become Isabella's rival, but it was gratifying to be
