“Yes.”

He shook hands with Alex Danilov. Alex’s long face seemed distracted. “I need a word with you.” The tone of his voice made it more than an idle invitation.

He glanced into the car park. Drivers and pfficials were pulling out. He said, “Have you got a car with you?”

“Yes.”

“I was going to borrow DeFeo’s to get to the airport. Run me out there-we can talk on the way.”

Irina said, “Alex was going there anyway.” There was something poignant about the way she said it.

He said to Alex, “I thought you were cleaning rifles in Texas or something.”

“He came to his senses,” Irina said drily.

“Marvelous,” Felix said. “Then you’ve decided to rejoin our gay little band of Ruritanian fops?” He turned with them and they walked along past the wire fence. Cars shot past, throwing up dust. Someone waved and shouted at Felix from a passing roadster; he waved casually and went on talking to Alex: “I don’t know if there’s going to be much of a polo season for you. The war and all that.”

Irina said, “It’s rather more serious than that, Felix.”

He saw the open Mercedes touring car by the road. Sergei Bulygin loomed beside it in chauffeur’s livery. “My God there’s the old warmonger.” He trotted forward and embraced the old man; Sergei thrust him back and beamed at him and Felix said, “Home from the wars, are you, old friend?”

“Why I imagine that’s only temporary, Highness.” Sergei gave Alex a pointed look; Alex only smiled; and Sergei opened the doors of the touring car. Irina slid into the front and Felix found himself moving into the rear seat beside Alex.

Irina twisted around to face him. “Are you still flying your own plane?”

“Of course.”

“Where on earth do you find fuel for it?”

“If you’re filthy rich there’s always a black market.”

Sergei knew the outskirts of the Spanish capital well enough to choose the empty roads and they drummed along at a good speed with the wind dry and hot in their faces. Alex said, “It’s no good talking now. We’ll find a spot at the airfield.” It wasn’t altogether clear whether he was concerned about the noise of the wind or the presence of Irina and Sergei.

Felix said, “Well then let’s talk about something interesting like the recipe for an American dry martini. You do have one, I hope?”

The hangar’s makeshift toilet room was rancid with the smell of disinfectant. Felix leaned his forearm against the wall over the urinal and dropped his forehead against the back of his wrist.

It was like Alex to come out of hibernation in the Texas desert and trigger a volcanic eruption in his life.

After a while he rolled his head back and forth, stood up straight and went to wash his hands.

He spent longer at it than he had to. Looking at himself. The eyes against him did not dance; the high cheeks were impassive. He had a lot of straight dark hair and his eyes were a very dark blue: the face was precise lines and angles and he looked like one of those French cinema stars, the ones who played troubled artists who inevitably fell in love with the wrong women. The appearance of physical fragility was false; the cliche about women was true enough. Perhaps it was simply because he had been born to that physical stereotype.

Old enough to know better; nothing to show for his life but an empty royal title and a steamer trunk full of racing trophies and a juvenile penchant for foolish bravado, casual promiscuity, pointless trivialities, adolescent pranks. He was ten years too old for all that and he knew it but ordinarily he arranged his life so that he didn’t have to think about it.

He had a look at the towel and shook his hands as dry as he could and went back through the big cluttered hangar. At the mouth of it Alex and Irina stood two paces apart, not talking; the low sun threw their shadows across the tarmac like something out of El Greco. Irina held herself severely upright. A close-guarded distance held her that way. He had been surprised to see her with Alex again; he was not surprised at her evident reserve. Devenko’s death would have done that. Her shoulders were high and taut; her body had its graceful pride and her face was striking as always but less willing now to display haughty amusement. Her long fingers touched the vee of her collarbone; her neck seemed very long because her hair was done up high. Her beauty never failed to stir him but he had never made advances to her-partly because she was a bit taller than he was and that had always mattered to him.

“I have communed with the wise water spirits of the loo,” he said. “Unfortunately they seem to be preoccupied with the outcome of Dominguez’s next bullfight.”

A fly alighted on the corrugated metal edge of the vast doorway, washed its legs and took off into the air. Felix’s hand flashed, cupped the fly and tossed it away over his shoulder. He said, “Outrunning the best in a motor race-I’m told that’s better than sex. It isn’t, but it’s probably better than prancing about in a bemedaled suit making puerile speeches to unwashed hordes.”

Irina strolled away, kicking pebbles, pretending an interest in the sparse row of light planes parked against their chocks outside the hangar. Felix’s was one of them.

Alex looked weary: his eyes were bleak. “You don’t need to like the idea.”

“I see. I’m expected to bow before the wisdom of a group of dreamers whose continued existence is nothing so much as proof that there’s life after death.” He made his voice lavish with scorn. “I’m expected to be dutiful and responsible-I’m expected to be grateful for having been born the son of a Grand Duke. I’m expected to live up to the family name no matter what my own pleasure may be.”

Alex said, “You’re too angry, aren’t you.” He said it gently with the suggestion of an American smile. “What were you fighting the Germans for in that race? Couldn’t have been Russian pride, could it?”

Felix threw up his hands. “What’s going to happen to my lifelong ambition to marry a rich widow with a bad cough?”

His exasperated tones melted away in the smoky clattering racket of a revving Curtiss Hawk. The biplane turned slowly against its rudder and bumped out toward the runway. Its propwash swayed around Irina, pasting the clothes to her body, unraveling her hair. She lifted one hand to shade her eyes and watch it take off.

Felix was a dialectical man and knew it; filled with contradictory moods. He said, “Suppose I accept this absurd proposition today and begin tomorrow to regret it for the rest of my life? I’ll try to be honest, Alex-I suppose I’ve got to for once. Look here, I’m the sort of chap who’s in demand at dinner parties because I’m good at charming the old ladies, but I will sometimes slip a dose of tartar emetic into some old fool’s claret. Now I’m sure Prince Leon can’t expect these qualities to disappear magically as soon as he hangs a mantle on me. My morals are a bit of a nervous tic, aren’t they-something I can’t help.”

“Are you worried about that? I’m not.”

“You’re very reassuring.” He watched the fine line of Irina’s profile turning to indicate her interest in the departing Curtiss. “Of course I’ll accept. I’m too vain not to. Emperor of Russia? The question is whether they’ve got any business offering it to me. I’m just not suitable for it, am I?”

“That decision’s already been made.”

“It can be unmade.”

“The timetable doesn’t allow for that.” Alex gave him a grave look. “They had good reasons for choosing you.”

“An accident of birth. They neglected to consider my character.”

“Don’t think so little of yourself.”

He shook his head dismally. A kind of desperation made him change the subject: “Let me understand this-what’s re quired of me?”

“I’ve told you that.”

“No. I mean immediately. What’s my part of this adventure of yours?”

“You’ll go in with us.”

“In battle?”