Trophy (27 page)

To Jason, their prowess meant he had a pair of formidable hunters on his squadron, and that was good news.

Though the Air Vice-Marshal had arrived with his family—who were guests of the Station Commander—Jason had not yet seen Antonia Thurson. That pleasure awaited him at the Ball.

As the day drew to a successful close, the excitement built. Any free Mess accommodation had been booked solid to cater for the influx of guests, and many married officers had opened their homes to others. Senior diplomats from the USA, West Germany and Italy, who had also come for the occasion, were housed within special accommodation on the station.

Nico Bagni found to his great and pleasant surprise that Bianca Mazzarini had after all postponed her New York trip to come to the Ball. Wolfgang Flacht offered his spare room, which was accepted.

Kim Mannon booked into a hotel on the cliffs above the nearby fishing village, telling Selby she had plans for him later that evening which would be inhibited if she stayed with any of his squadron colleagues. Morven booked into the same hotel. In due course Palmer and Selby arrived in Selby’s car to collect them.

Kim Mannon had chosen to wear a black outfit that clung and was just the right side of decorum. While Selby complimented her, Palmer was admiring Morven, who in her own way rivalled Kim Mannon’s maturer beauty. She wore a white, off-the-shoulder gown that showed off her youth and innocent grace to perfection. Palmer was staring at her with something akin to awe.

“Right, gentlemen,” Kim Mannon said. “When you two have finished ogling, there’s a ball we’d like to go to.”

For Jason, the evening had begun with something of a shock. During the period before going into dinner, someone had said at his elbow: “Hullo, Uncle Chris.”

His “niece” was indeed no longer a gawky, cropped-haired teenager. Antonia Thurson now had rich abundance of dark hair that had been gathered in a loose bunch that ended in a single, central plait. A sapphire-encrusted bow was pinned to it. Violet eyes smiled at him, and two faint spots of color stained her smooth cheeks. Dressed in silvery-gray raw silk, her slim body, at five foot six, brought the top of her head just beneath his nose. The scent of her was intoxicating.

In the confusion in his mind, Jason found himself irrelevantly thinking that she did not look at all like her father; then he regained control of himself and saw the Air Vice-Marshal and his wife standing
not far away. Antonia, Jason now saw, looked like her mother, but had Thurson’s directness of gaze.

“Miss Thurson,” Jason greeted formally.

“Don’t be silly, Uncle Chris. I’m still Antonia.” The direct gaze held his.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll call you Antonia, if you cut out ‘uncle.’ It makes me feel as old as … well old.”

“As of this moment, it’s history.” She put her arm in his. “I think Daddy wants a word.”

They went up to Thurson and his wife.

“Hullo, Christopher,” Thurson’s wife greeted. “You’re looking well. I see Antonia’s monopolised you already … but then she always did.”

“You look a little shell-shocked, actually,” Thurson put in. “I told you she’d grown.”

“The younger pilots will go slightly crazy, sir.”

“Yes. They well might, but I’m certain they’ll be kept in check. After all, isn’t that what Wing Commanders are for? And,” Thurson went on before Jason could say anything. “I think I ought to tell you today’s show was most impressive. Feather in your cap. That air combat display did more than anything to underpin the purpose of this project. The aircraft could not have had a better platform upon which to show off their capabilities. I’ve heard murmurs coming from our NATO partners too. It’s all good news.”

*   *   *

The dinner, too, went off smoothly, the men resplendent in the multi-national designs of their Mess Dress, the ladies bright jewels among the throng.

Two areas had been reserved for dancing. One was for ballroom music, the other for disco. Protocol insisted that the disco would not commence until midnight.

Dancing was now in full swing, and Jason found himself on the sidelines, watching. Antonia was hard put to accommodate all those who wanted to dance with her, as were Kim and Morven. There were a lot of single aircrew about.

Jason had gone round the floor once with the Air Vice-Marshal’s wife, and with Mrs. Jacko Inglis. That had been his lot. He had not asked Antonia to dance, but at every possible opportunity she had glanced at him from across her current dancing partner’s shoulder. No sooner had the dance ended, however, than another eager young officer would come forward.

McCann had managed to steal three dances to everybody else’s one—except with Kim: after two tries Selby’s scowl appeared to have warned him off.

Someone drifted over to stand next to Jason. It was Axel Hohendorf.

“Not dancing?” Jason asked.

Hohendorf said: “The competition is too good. What about you, sir?” He studied the crowd with benign interest.

“I’m using the same lame excuse.” Jason
cleared his throat. “You and Selby were very good up there today. I’m proud of you both.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jason looked about him in satisfaction. “I’m proud of the whole squadron.”

On the far side of the dance floor Morven, Kim and Selby were grouped together, having a rest.

Morven said: “Mark, I’ve been wanting to ask you all evening. Who’s that dishy man with your boss?”

Selby looked round. “That’s Axel Hohendorf. Axel von, actually—he’s a count, or a baron, or something.”

“I don’t care about titles. He looks wonderful in that Mess kit.”

Selby stared at her. “You’re never interested in him.”

She met his gaze, conscious of the tone of disapproval. “Why not? Has he got three heads?”

“What about young Palmer?”

“What about him?”

“Hey, you two,” Kim interrupted in soft warning. “No family rows. Anyway, Mark, why shouldn’t she be interested in him? I pride myself on knowing a good thing when I see it.” She narrowed her eyes. “Baron Hohendorf looks like a good thing to me. Let Morven cast if she wants to.”

“For a start,” Selby said, “he’s married.”

“Then where’s his wife?” Kim demanded. “This is one of the biggest events in his career and she’s
not here? What more could she say? Short of sending him a pissoffgram—”

“Kim! For God’s sake!” The worried whisper came from Selby.

“As I was about to say, short of doing that, her message could not be clearer.”

“There
is
supposed to be a problem,” Selby admitted grudgingly.

“Well then. Off you go, Morven. Ensnare the handsome baron.” Kim held on to Selby’s arm tightly. “Leave her be, Mark. She’s a big girl now. You don’t have to hover protectively about her all the time.”

The bandleader announced a Ladies’ Excuse Me.

“There,” she went on, “Morven can justifiably ask him to dance. And if you sulk, I’ll go and ask McCann. Where is he, by the way?”

Selby glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. I think he’s gone off with some of the guys. He’s planned something, but God only knows what. Palmer’s gone too. He’s involved in it somewhere.”

Selby found his eyes drawn to where Morven had gone as the music began.

“May I have this dance?”

Hohendorf looked down at her, bowed stiffly. “Of course. My pleasure.” He turned to Jason. “Please excuse me, sir.”

“Enjoy yourself,” Jason said, and watched good-naturedly as they moved away.

Antonia touched his sleeve.

“Don’t think you’re escaping, hiding out here.”

He was instantly overwhelmed by her flushed cheeks, the brightness of her eyes. He shifted awkwardly. “I’m a terrible dancer …”

“Good God,” a voice close behind him said loudly. “Look at that, my dear. A bold fighter pilot reduced to a shrivel by a slip of a girl.”

Jason turned to see a well-mellowed Air Vice-Marshal eyeing him with obvious amusement.

“Well?” Thurson continued. “Are you going to dance, man? Or has someone nailed your feet to the floor?”

“I’m … I’m going to dance, sir.”

“Jolly good. Off you go. Don’t be too hard on him, Antonia. He may be a bit fragile.”

She smiled at Jason as they moved to the dance floor. “Are you fragile, Chris?”

I may well be before this evening’s over, Jason thought.

“That depends,” he said rashly.

“On what?”

He looked round wildly for an acceptable answer. “On what McCann’s planned. He seems to have disappeared.”

“McCann. Is that the American who kept asking me to dance?”

“The one and only. Thank God.”

“He seemed harmless enough.”

“Harmless.” Jason welcomed the diversion. “He’s an excellent navigator, but harmless he most certainly isn’t.”

“Anyway,” she said, “I don’t want to talk about McCann.”

After a while, he said: “There are plenty of other pilots wanting to dance with you. You don’t need an old man …”

“Old man! Don’t be so silly.” The band was playing a waltz and she moved in closer. “And don’t be so stiff. This is a waltz, not a march. I didn’t want to dance with them. I wanted to dance with you.”

Jason cleared his throat. For God’s sake, he told himself, this is ridiculous.

“Antonia …” he began.

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Er … nothing …” he said after an agonised silence.

“Well then. That settles it.”

“Settles what?”

“I’ll dance with you for the rest of the night.”

Nico Bagni and Bianca Mazzarini were holding each other close.

“I’m so glad you came,” he said to her.

“I’m glad I came, too. I was unkind, Nico, and I’m sorry. I suppose I felt jealous of your airplanes.” She glanced about the room. “There are many beautiful
women here. I think perhaps I shall visit you more often.”

“They cannot take your place,” he told her.

She leaned even closer. “Nico,” she whispered, “may one kiss in this place?”

“Not in here, but I am certain I can find somewhere.”

“Then take me there.”

“We must wait until the important guests leave, especially the Air Vice-Marshal. They’ll go when the disco starts.”

“Oh Nico,” she said. “I want to make such love to you tonight.”

His silence was eloquent.

The waltz came to a halt and as if on cue, a sudden explosion of electronic sound filled the room.

Disco time. But not quite. Into the room filed twelve figures whose attire brought shrieks of astonished laughter. On each head was a helmet with the visor down, its oxygen tubing fixed to a shoulder. On each lower body was a bright orange G-suit, pressure tube hanging from the left hip and held in the left hand. The lead figure had a big ghetto blaster on its shoulder and Madonna was belting out “Open your heart.”

To the insistent beat of the music, the figures circled the room, hips bumping and grinding, pressure tubes twirling.

One two three-four
bump,
one two three-four
grind.
One two three-four
twirl,
one two three-four
turn.
And so it went, round the room.

Jason stared at the spectacle, his heart sinking. “Oh my God,” he murmured.
“McCann.”

He glanced worriedly to where the Air Vice-Marshal had been in conversation with an American diplomat. Conversation was now impossible. The American seemed bemused, but was smiling. Thurson had disappeared.

Suddenly Jason felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. The Air Vice-Marshal had come up behind him. Oh God, Jason thought. One unorthodoxy too many. There it all goes, down the tube.

But Thurson was smiling. “Time we were leaving,” he bellowed over the music. “The rest of the night now belongs to your young warriors.”

“Very well, sir.” Jason moved slightly away from Antonia.

“No need to accompany us out. Antonia’s staying.”

“She is?”

“Of course, man. The night’s hardly begun. I expect you to escort my daughter home by … shall we say … six in the morning?”

“It will be daylight by then, sir …”

“Yes. It will, won’t it? Sorry I can’t keep up with you young chaps. Look after him, won’t you, Antonia.”

“I will,” she said.

“Have fun, Christopher. Do you good.”

Thurson left unobtrusively with his wife. Behind him, the ballroom was erupting into uproar as the helmeted figures began dancing with anyone they could grab.

“Come on, Chris,” Antonia urged. “You heard what Daddy said.”

“Oh no,” he demurred.

“Oh yes,” she said firmly, grabbing him by the arm and steering him towards the noise.

Jacko Inglis went by with his wife, to accompany the Air Vice-Marshal back to the Station Commander’s quarters. Jason gave him a look of helplessness as he was dragged into the gyrating throng.

By three o’clock most of the older guests had fled and the younger crews, inevitably led by McCann, were in control of the proceedings. The twelve spacemen had got rid of their helmets, but had retained their G-suits.

Ferris and Caroline Hamilton-Jones had spent much of the evening together. Feeling quite relaxed with each other, they were sitting out the current spate of disco dancing which had spread into the main ballroom.

Ferris said: “How about that stunt of McCann’s? Where could he have got twelve Marineflieger
orange
G-suits from? We use olive green. And as for the boss’s face when they first came in! I swear,
for one second he really wanted to strangle old Elmer Lee.”

“I don’t believe he’s thinking of Elmer Lee at the moment,” Caroline said.

Ferris followed her gaze. Wing Commander Jason and Antonia Thurson were deep in conversation, her head close to his in a shadowy corner of the ballroom.

“The Wing Commander gets the AVM’s daughter,” Ferris remarked. “Never thought the old bludger had it in him.”

“Old?
He’s only thirty-five.”

“Yeah, but she’s just a kid.”

“Kid my foot. You’re looking at a woman who’s made up her mind about the man she’s going to land.”

“She told you that, did she?”

Caroline, with the wisdom of centuries to support her, said: “You men are sometimes so hopeless.”

Morven was dancing with Hohendorf and from across the room Selby watched, trying to disguise the disapproval he felt. As Kim had said, she was a big girl now.