PROLOGUE

Lord Alexander Hawke rose with the dawn.

A shadowy gloom pervaded the gilded coffers of his high-ceilinged bedchamber. He lifted his arms high above his head and stretched mightily, extending his long naked body full-length, feeling his muscles and tendons come alive, one by one. Then he wiggled his toes twice for luck and sat straight up beneath the dark blue needlepoint canopy tented above his four bedposts.

His head ached; his lips were dry, and he tried to swallow. Difficult. His mouth felt, perhaps, like that of some ancient Gila monster standing in the middle of the Mojave Desert on a flat rock in the noonday sun. That tequila nightcap, perhaps? Ah, yes, that was it. A dram too far.

Fully awake now, he needed light. There was a discreet control pad on the wall above his bedside table and he reached over to press a pearly button.

A soft whir was followed by the rustle of heavy silk. As the brocade draperies on the many tall French windows drew apart, a soft rosy light began to bloom within the room. Beyond his windows, he saw the red-gold sun perched on the dark rim of the earth. He turned his face toward the sunlight and smiled.

It was going to be another beautiful day.

Beyond his windows lay his walled gardens. Most had been designed by the famous eighteenth-century landscape architect Lancelot Brown. He was a man known to history as “Capability” Brown because the talented and clever Brown slyly told all his potential clients that only their particular estates had the “great capability” to realize his genius.

Beyond the gardens, a tangle of meadows circumscribed by dry stone walls. Then endless forests, temporarily clothed in a light haze of spring green. The narrow lane winding down to the village featured a precarious haystack on a horse-drawn cart, a lone vicar on his wobbly bicycle, and an ancient crone walking stooped beneath a heavy burden. From chimneys of little stone cottages scattered hither and yon, tendrils of grey smoke rose into the pale orange sky.

He had awoken to this chilly morning in early April to watch a grey ground fog swirl up under the eaves and curl around the endless gables and chimneys of the rambling seventeenth-century manor house.

Hawkesmoor, that ancient pile was called. It had been home to his family for centuries. It was situated amid vast parklands in the gently rolling hills of the Cotswolds, a leisurely two hours’ drive north of London on the M40 motorway.

Hawke slid out of bed and into the faded threadbare Levi’s that lay puddled on the floor where he’d left them at midnight. He pulled an old Royal Navy T-shirt over his head and slipped his bare feet into turquoise-beaded Indian moccasins. They were a particular favorite. He’d bought them during a hunting and fishing expedition with his friends Ambrose Congreve and his fiancée, Lady Diana Mars, to a rustic camp near Flathead Lake, in Montana.

On this particular spring morning, one day before his departure for far more hostile territory, the South China Sea, of all places, Hawke was full of keen anticipation. Four hundred and fifty very powerful horses that even now were stamping their hooves, waiting for him on the apron of bricks in the stable courtyards.

“The Snake,” as his new steed was called, was a 1963 Shelby AC Cobra. It was an original, set up for racing by Carroll Shelby himself. With a highly modified 427-cubic-inch engine putting out 450 horsepower, it was capable of achieving speeds nearing 180 miles per hour. It was painted in the famous Cobra racing livery, dark blue with two wide white stripes down the centerline.

It had been purchased by Hawke’s man at the Barrett-Jackson auction in Scottsdale, Arizona, and flown to England, arriving by flatbed lorry late the previous afternoon. His primary mechanic, Ian Burns, a fine Irishman with hair and whiskers so blond they were white, gave him a knowing grin. Known forever as “Young Ian,” the lad had been going over the Cobra all night, adjusting the timing, checking the plugs, points, and carbs, making sure all was in readiness for Hawke’s maiden voyage into the surrounding countryside.

“Quite the brute y’ve got yerself here now, m’lord,” Young Ian said as Hawke approached the car, taking long strides across the mossy brick of the courtyard. “One can see why no one could lay a finger on Dan Gurney and the old ‘Snake’ at Le Mans back in ’64.”

“You put a few miles on her this morning, did you, Young Ian?” Hawke asked, smiling and running his hands over the sleek flanks of the beast. “I thought I heard a throaty roar wafting up through the woods earlier.”

“Aye, I did indeed.”

“And?”

“Still trembling with excitement, m’lord. Can barely handle me socket wrench, sir.”

Hawke laughed and gazed at his prize. It was truly a magnificent piece of machinery. A fine addition to his growing but highly selective collection, stored behind the long line of stable doors. A long row that featured, among others, vintage Ferraris, Jags, and Aston-Martins, a black 1956 Thunderbird convertible once owned by Ian Fleming, a spanking-new white McClaren 50, and his cherished daily driver, a steel-grey 1954 Bentley Continental he fondly called “the Locomotive.”

“I did, sir. Topped off the petrol tank with avgas, which I highly recommend you use in the car, sir, aviation fuel having much higher octane, obviously. And runs cleaner, sir. The Weber carbs needed a bit of finesse, a couple of belts and hoses needed replacing, but otherwise it’s in perfect running order, sir, just as advertised.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Hawke said, grinning from ear to ear.

Hawke climbed behind the wood-rimmed wheel, adjusted the close-fitting racing seat for his six-foot-plus frame, and strapped himself in, using the bright red heavy-duty Simpson racing harness. Then he switched on the ignition.

His glacial blue eyes widened at the instant roar, deafening, really, in the narrow confines of the stone-walled courtyard.

“Bloody hell, Ian!” Hawke grinned, shouting over the thundering engine. “I do believe I feel the stirrings of one falling deeply and passionately in love!”

“As long as y’ don’ scare the horses, m’lord.”

Hawke laughed, a laugh of pure joy.

“Anything at all I should know about?”

“Just one thing, sir. Bit of a steering issue. She seems to want to pull to the right a wee bit. I’ll take care of it as soon as you return. Not dangerous, really. I just wanted you to be aware of it in the twisty bits.”

“Thanks. Cheerio, then.”

Hawke engaged first, mashed the go pedal, popped the clutch, and smoked the squealing tires, fishtailing through the wide wrought-iron stable gates until he reached the paved drive, braked hard, and put the car into a four-wheel drift, a left-hander. He backed off the throttle for the length of the drive, slowing to a stop at the main gate to the estate. The gate was off a two-lane road that led to Chipping Campden, rarely used, and certainly not at this ungodly hour.

Burning rubber once more, he took a hard right out into the road. He had a long straightaway shot in front of him, some miles of clear sailing before the road reentered the forest. There was still a bit of ground fog, but it was blowing around a bit and he had a clear view of the road ahead. He upshifted into second and wound the revs up to redline. He was shoved hard back into his seat, and the scenery became an instant blur.

Ian had been right about the steering.

The Cobra had an annoying habit of pulling to the right. It was irksome but nothing he couldn’t handle until he got her back to the stable and corrected it.

* * *

Hawke entered the dark wood, a place of blue-tinged evergreens.

The macadam road was a twisting snake, but then, he was at the wheel of the Snake. It was narrow, chock-full of inclines, switchbacks, and decreasing radius turns. It was the perfect place to see how his new prize handled. He pushed it hard, not happy unless his tyres were squealing, and the car responded beautifully, enormous torque, precision handling, wedded to splendid racing tyres. Heaven, in other words.

When he finally emerged from the wood, he charged up a rather steep hill, crested it, went fully airborne for a moment, and then sped down into the next straightaway, the engine warmed up now. He redlined third and upshifted to fourth, then down again to second for the intersection, a tight right-hander into a narrow country lane.

And that’s when he heard the blare of air horns behind him.

Christ, he thought, who the hell?

He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw the familiar stately grille of an old Rolls-Royce filling the mirror. Right smack on his tail. He slowed, moved left onto the grassy verge, and gestured to the big silver Roller to overtake, for God’s sake. He couldn’t wait to get a look at the driver. What kind of a moron would even think of trying to pass on this bloody—

A woman. A beautiful woman. Bright yellow Hermès scarf wound round her neck. Silky black hair cut short, and a stunning Asian profile.

She blew the triple air horns again as she blew past, and Hawke’s shouted reply surely went unheard over the wind and the combined engine roar. He saw her right arm emerge, hand raised high, ruby red nails, the middle digit extended straight up as she tucked in front of him, almost nicking his front fender.

Fucking hell.

“Balls to the wall, you crazy bitch!” he shouted at her in vain, shaking his righteous fist in disbelieving anger.

And that’s when it happened.

He’d taken his right hand off the wheel for a split second, the steering had pulled hard right, and a stout and hardy chestnut tree leaped up out of the woods and smacked him good, pinging both his pride and his new and very shiny blue bonnet in one solid blow.

He forgot the stupid incident over time, but for some reason he never forgot the license plate number on that old silver Roller.

M-A-O.

As in Chairman Mao?

He had no idea. But, as it all turned out in the end, he’d been absolutely spot-on about that damn plate number.

It was Mao.

And the woman behind the wheel? Well, she was indeed one crazy bitch.

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