The following morning she was on her own on the Montesa high above the forest, enjoying herself. Amazing how expert she had become in so short a time. She paused to have a cigarette, sitting astride the bike, and looked up at a gray sky that threatened rain. There was a droning in the distance and far away through a break in the clouds she saw the Navajo.

She finished the cigarette and took off, driving quite fast, following the track, then turning across the moor, bumping over tussocks and scattering a flock of sheep. She skidded to a halt, searching for a gap in the dry stone wall, and there was an angry shout. She turned, still astride the bike.

The man hurrying toward her wore an old tweed suit and cap and heavy boots. He looked about fifty with a brutal, unshaven face and carried a shepherd’s crook.

“And what in the hell is your game?” he demanded. “Frightening my sheep. You’ve run pounds off them.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry, is it? You need seeing to, you do.”

He lunged with the crook, catching the front wheel. The bike toppled and went over. As she scrambled sideways her helmet came off and he paused, astonishment on his face.

“My God, a woman.” And then there was something else there. “Now what if I put you over my knee and give you a bloody good hiding?”

“Don’t be so stupid,” she said and reached down for her helmet.

He dropped his crook and grabbed her from behind. “You posh bitch. I’ll have to teach you some manners.”

She delivered a reverse elbow strike to his mouth and as he cried out and released her she swung round and drove her knee into his crotch, all exactly as Ian McNab had shown her. He lay on his back, knees up in agony, blood on his pulped mouth.

She looked down at him, conscious of a fierce exhilaration. “Here endeth the first lesson,” she said as she replaced her helmet, then picked up the Montesa, got astride it, and drove away.

Ten minutes later she drove into the garage at Lang Place, shoved the Montesa up on its stand beside the Range Rover, hung her helmet on a peg, and crossed the courtyard. Lang opened the front door.

“You looked pretty dashing as you shot into the courtyard, one boot trailing. You’ll be on the dirt track circuit next.”

“That sounds fun.”

“Come in the drawing room. Yuri and Tom have arrived.”

They were standing in front of the log fire in the great stone hearth. Tom Curry kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re looking very dramatic.”

“I’ve been having fun.”

Rupert said, “Yuri, I believe you two have met.”

“Last year at the Soviet Embassy,” she said. “When we did Three Sisters at the National.”

Belov was dressed for the country in a light brown thorn-proof suit. He looked fit and well and smiled with great charm and took her hand and kissed it.

“I saw you three times. I now believe with great regret that Chekhov can only be played at his best by the English. Your performance as Masha was fantastic.”

“Half-English in my case,” she said. “But my thanks for the compliment.”

“Mrs. Farne has prepared lunch in the conservatory,” Rupert said. “Do you want to change?”

“Five minutes.”

She went out. Lang opened a bottle of Bollinger and poured. “Her performance on the firing range has been superb, and Ian McNab was more than impressed with the way she took to his instruction. She’s to go to his gym when she’s back in town.”

“What did you tell McNab?” Belov asked.

“I said she’d had a close shave with a mugger and wanted to know how to take care of herself.”

Belov sipped some champagne. “Amazing, this whole business of acting. The ability to be the role. As Masha she was totally convincing as a Russian woman, and yet I saw her in a TV showing of that Hollywood movie she made where she shot several men quite convincingly.” He accepted a cigarette from Rupert. “Will she join us?”

“Oh yes, I think so,” Lang said.

At that moment Grace entered the room in jeans and sweater. She took the glass Lang offered her. “Tell me, Rupert, the sheep above the forest. Are they yours?”

“That’s right, why?”

“Oh, a rather unpleasant man was up there. Shabby, old tweed suit, shepherd’s crook. Took exception to me riding through the fields.”

“That would be Sam Lee.” Rupert wasn’t smiling now. “What happened?”

“When I stopped, he pushed the Montesa over, then he grabbed me from behind.”

“He what?” Lang’s face was suddenly bone white, his eyes blazing. “Did he harm you in any way?”

“Well the fact is I’m afraid I harmed him,” she said. “I tried something the Sergeant-Major showed me. Reverse elbow strike to the mouth, swivel, and put a knee to the crotch. When I last saw him he was in the fetal position on the ground.”

Lang laughed out loud. “Oh, my God, that’s bloody marvelous.” He shook his head. “I’ll have George deal with him. He’s out.”

“No,” she said. “He’ll behave better next time. Give him a chance, Rupert.” She smiled. “Shall we go in to lunch?”

They had cold salmon, a mixed salad and potatoes, and Lang opened another bottle of Bollinger. Rain drummed against the conservatory glass.

“Sorry about the weather,” he said. “That’s Dartmoor for you. Starts to improve from March into spring.”

“All the joys of country living,” Grace told him.

Curry saw to the coffee and Belov said, “I saw a late-night showing on television of a Hollywood film you made, Miss Browning.”

“Grace,” she said. “Please, and it was my only Hollywood film. I didn’t like it there. They had me wear a series of incredibly short skirts and I killed rather a lot of men. It was what’s known as a revenge movie in the trade.”

“Yes, in the film you killed more than efficiently,” Belov said. “As I recall, the police nicknamed you Dark Angel.”

“My one contribution to the script. One of my great-grandmothers on my father’s side was Jewish. As a child I recall the stories she told me. Judaism teaches that God is the master of life and death, but he employs angels as his messengers.”

“So there was an Angel of Death?” Curry said.

“When God inflicted the ten plagues on the people of Egypt, in Exodus, the Jews were instructed to put blood on either side of the door post so the Angel of Death would pass over them. To this day that’s why Passover is celebrated.”

“An interesting legend,” Belov said.

“In Hebrew the Angel of Death is Malach Ha-Mavet. In the old days the word was used to frighten children. The film people, when I suggested it, thought it too melodramatic and came up with Dark Angel.”

“Interesting.” Belov nodded. “The revenge concept.”

“Revenge gets you nowhere. Let’s stop fencing, gentlemen. We all know pretty much all there is to know about each other. If at some time I’d caught up with and killed the man who murdered my parents, it wouldn’t have brought them back.”

“But it might have afforded a certain satisfaction,” Rupert told her.

“True.”

“I mean, things happened in a hurry back there in Belfast, but you didn’t regret shooting that swine, did you?”

“Not at all. In fact it rather exorcised a ghost in my machine. I sleep better.”

There was a long pause and rain rattled the windows. Belov said, “Do I take it you are prepared to join us, Grace?”

“Yes, I think so, but on my terms. You and Tom have a political commitment and I understand that, but it means nothing to me.” She ran a hand over Lang’s hair. “Rupert can’t take life seriously. He bores easily, likes the excitement. I relate to that more.”

“In what way?” Curry asked.

“My father’s family believed they were kin to the Victorian poet Robert Browning. There’s a line in one of his poems. Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things. I can relate to that. It’s like a performance, if you like, and performance is what my life is about.”