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passionate liaison when Davenport had been assigned to St James' Palace as a young Parachute Regiment Captain and Ashcroft-James had been a new recruit to the Ministry of Defence, plucked directly from the corridors of Oxford where she'd read Political Science. They had been discreet to a fault but after hours had been inseparable for an intense period of months. However, Davenport's back-to-back missions with the SAS, including the first Gulf War, had apparently put paid to any future for their fledgling relationship.
    "It's so good to see you, V," welcomed Davenport with a warm kiss to her cheek.
    'I'm sorry to be so cryptic about all this, Nobby," she replied ruefully, still holding his hands. "I felt it best we talk face-to-face."
    "Well, you know I'm always delighted to receive a visit, but I fear I'm about to hear something unlikely to meet with my approbation."
    "Afraid so." Violet conceded with a slight nod and a twitch of her right eyebrow.
    Davenport guided her towards a small cluster of masculine leather chairs, set around an equally masculine circular coffee table of fine mahogany with a patina darkened by age. They made small talk about children, recent holidays and mutual acquaintances. Ashcroft-James skilfully avoided reference to Davenport's recent divorce, his second. Instead she straightened the books on the table before her and reaching over, flicked a small piece oflint from Davenport's lapel before settling on the edge of her seat, ankles crossed one behind the other. It was her way with him, natural and unaffected. Davenport waited a few moments as Margaret Jolley, his Personal Assistant of many years, quietly entered, setting down the tea for Ashcroft-James, coffee for him.
    "Violet," Davenport noted that she was clearly troubled by something. "I can tell by the uncharacteristically glum expression upon that spectacular face of yours, that this is not going to be pleasant. We've known each other too long. Let's have it."
    "Nobby," she began. Her soft brown eyes levelled at him across the expanse of mahogany, leather and their years of history. "I have a very serious problem." She was searching for a place to start, to balance her obligations to her Service and Government with the great affection and trust she held for him. Honesty and respect had always been the foundation of their long lasting relationship, professionally and intimately. But could she tell him everything in this instance?
    She got to her feet. Her knuckles white as she made fists and paced the room. She went to the window, staring out at nothing, gathering her thoughts, the fury she felt barely suppressed beneath her immaculately tailored Martin Grant dress. Violet stood, her full weight thrusting down on her heels, knees locked, shoulder blades rigid. Shallow breathing to her diaphragm, Ashcroft-James began.
    "Recently we sent an agent, experienced man by the name of Lundt, to Malfajiri to keep an eye on a private military company called Chiltonford." "I know of Chiltonford," said Davenport. "What was the basis of your concerns about them?"
    "Absolutely nothing. But in the absence of formal British military assistance to the Malfajiri government in dealing with their civil war, Chiltonford were selected and therefore endorsed by our Foreign Office to be given a free hand - along with a blank cheque - to train the Malfajiri army with the subsidiary task of protecting British mining interests over there, which, as you know, are considerable. In the eyes of my political masters, the instability of President Namakobo's government and the emerging influence of the rebel leader, Colonel Baptiste, made it prudent to place an agent into Chiltonford to keep an eye on things."
    "And?" The General lowered his most sceptical gaze at her.
    "And," she continued sheepishly. "If the opportunity to deal with this Baptiste creature presented itself, then my agent was authorised to act." Ashcroft-James returned to her seat opposite Davenport.
    "I see,"