Ghost Flight by Bear Grylls Page A

had always had his eye on the place, ever since he’d moved into the area to be closer to his former commander and best friend, Will Jaeger. Evidently he’d finally got the house of his dreams – only Jaeger would have been a good two years into his disappearing act by then.
    He pushed onwards out of the village, taking the winding, switchback lane leading towards Tuckingmill and East Hatch. He eased the bike beneath the railway bridge that carried the main line to London – the one he often used to take, when the weather was too cold and wet to countenance the long motorbike ride.
    Momentarily his headlight caught the sign for New Wardour Castle. He turned right, pulled up a short length of lane and in through the modest stone gateposts.
    His tyres hit the grand sweep of the gravel drive, the ranks of chestnut trees to either side like ghostly sentinels. An imposing country house, Wardour had been purchased as a near wreck by a school friend. Nick Tattershall had made a fortune in the City, using the money to restore New Wardour Castle to its former glory.
    He’d split it into several apartments, keeping the largest for himself. But just as the work was nearing completion, Britain had hit one of her cyclical recessions and the property market had tanked. Tattershall had risked losing everything.
    Jaeger had stepped in and purchased the first – still to be completed – apartment, his vote of confidence luring other buyers in. He’d got it at a knock-down price, so acquiring a piece of real estate the likes of which he could never normally have afforded.
    In time, it had proven the perfect family home.
    Set in the heart of a beautiful, sweeping expanse of parkland, it was utterly private and peaceful – yet only a couple of hours’ ride or train journey from London. Jaeger had managed to split work between here, the Thames barge and the Global Endeavour , never spending long away from the family.
    He parked the bike in front of the imposing limestone facade. He slipped his key into the communal lock, stepped across the cool, marbled entranceway and made for the staircase. But even as he took the first of the stone steps, his legs felt weighed down with bittersweet memories.
    So many good times had been had here.
    So much happiness.
    How could it all have gone so wrong?
    He paused at the door to his apartment. He knew what awaited. He steeled himself, turned the key in the lock and stepped inside.
    He flicked on the lights. Most of the furniture had been covered with dust sheets, but once a week his faithful cleaner, Mrs Sampson, came to dust and to hoover, and the place was scrupulously clean.
    Jaeger paused for an instant. Right before him on the wall was a massive painting – a striking orange-fronted bird: the rufous-bellied thrush, one of the national symbols of Brazil. Painted by a well-known Brazilian artist, it had been a gift from Captain Evandro – his way of saying a very special thank you.
    Jaeger loved the painting. It was why he’d placed it on the wall opposite the entrance, so it was the first thing you saw as you walked in.
    When he’d left for Bioko, he’d asked Mrs Sampson not to sheet it over. He didn’t quite know why. Maybe he’d expected to be back sooner, and he’d wanted to know that the bird would be there, as always, waiting to greet him.
    He turned left and stepped into the wide expanse of the living room. No point in throwing open the massive wooden shutters; it had long been dark outside. He flicked on the lights, and his eyes came to rest upon the indistinct form of the writing desk pushed against one wall.
    He stepped towards it and very gently pulled the dust sheet aside.
    He reached out with one hand, his fingers touching the face of the beautiful woman in the photo frame. His fingertips lingered, momentarily frozen to the glass. He sank to his haunches, until his eyes were level with the desk.
    ‘I’m back, Ruth,’ he whispered. ‘Three long years, but I’m back.’
    He