Davenport had just returned from three days of intelligence briefings in Lyon, covering current INTERPOL operations worldwide. He carried a burden of responsibility few would covet. Strangely, it was this unenviable knowledge and familiarity with the worst of human behaviour that kept him in the game. Davenport had been committed to the defence of others for his entire adult life. It was what he did, driven by a sense of duty his father had instilled in him as a boy.
Troubled, the General turned from the soothing drum of the rain. As was his habit, he loosened his tie and draped his jacket across the back of his chair. It was time for some real work, away from the conference tables and back to the frontlines.
"Mrs. Ashcroft-James has arrived, Sir."
"Thank you, Mrs. Jolley," he responded to the intercom. "Please send her in - and arrange some tea, if you would."
Violet Ashcroft-James entered Davenport's office with the familiarity and affection of an old friend, which she was. She was a striking woman, piquant featured, with soft brown eyes and thick raven hair to her shoulders, and always with the left side tucked behind her ear, giving her a constant air of seductive studiousness. She was confident, curvaceous and beguiling, and her presence enveloped him. For many years, Violet Ashcroft-James had been secretly coveted by a legion of hapless Whitehall civil servants and military officers as the 'Venus of Vauxhall Cross'. More recently, bitten by the remorseless sting of receding hairlines, aching joints and midlife paunches, those same men were forced to jealously observe Ashcroft-James growing even more enticing as she matured, referring to her now as the 'Viagra of Vauxhall Cross'.
Ashcroft-James's career had been a dream run from her very earliest days as a young graduate, handpicked for the Ministry of Defence and nurtured all the way to her current role, at the relatively tender age of 49, as Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, or 'C', as the incumbent Chief is traditionally known.
She'd had steady contact with Davenport over the years through the various military and intelligence circles they frequented. And, if the Whitehall rumour mill was to be believed, they'd enjoyed a brief but 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.