Early in the afternoon he began to notice visual signs of the wind’s strength increasing. You didn’t feel it in this burrow, but it was no less cold. He was keeping an eye at the periscope — thinking about the snow problem, how to cope with it if the blizzard weather started before this job was finished — and at the same time rubbing his hands together to encourage circulation, when he heard the Chinook coming back.
A helo, anyway; he assumed it would be the Chinook. Then realised the sound was different — the difference between two big engines and rotors and just one small one. He had it in the periscope’s lens then; a helo about as big as a Chinook’s chicks might be, if a Chinook ever got pregnant.
‘Tony.’ Reaching over to shake him. ‘Wake up. Tell me what the hell this is.’
Beale crawled to the periscope, bleary-eyed. He mumbled, ‘Helo’s landing in the compound, by the looks of it. I mean it’s about to.’
‘What kind of helo, damn it?’
Sucking at his teeth. Foul taste, no doubt. Only to be expected, after maté and cold mutton… He nodded. ‘It’s an Alouette. Made by Aerospatiale, our Exocet chums.’
Its arrival had obviously not been unexpected. Taking over the scope again, Cloudsley saw the staff car turning in at the gates of the compound, soldiers appearing from the guardhouse and ground-staff from the hangar. The car stopped near the guardhouse, then moved again to make way for a tanker which then reversed in and parked. To refuel this Alouette, of course. The Alouette landing now, on the concrete. Roberto — back in naval uniform — was out of the car, posing with his hands on his hips, feet wide apart, watching the pilot climb down and then come towards him.
Ground-staff were really bustling around…
‘Harry, what’s going on?’
He told him; and added, ‘Helo pilot seems to have flown here solo. He’s saluting Roberto now.’
‘Ah. Goes a bundle on that.’
‘Huh?’
‘Roberto. Likes the saluting bit.’
The deployment of missiles was evidently continuing. And in a rush: the refuelling was already in progress.
‘What’s an Alouette’s range, Tony?’
‘Roughly the same as a Lynx. Say three hundred miles.’
They were manhandling one trolley plus missile across the concrete. Half a dozen men manoeuvring it towards the helo while others spread a cargo net on the ground beside it. Cloudsley saw a motorbike swerve into the compound from the service road… He asked Beale, ‘What sort of payload?’
‘Considering it’s supposed to be general purpose, bloody small. Half a Lynx’s.’
‘Couple of thousand kilos?’
‘Not much more, yeah.‘
You had to relate load to range: if that pilot was flying solo it indicated they were cutting weight to a minimum for the sake of the load/range factor. If for instance this Alouette had come all the way up from Rio Gallegos, a load of just one of those missiles would be stretching its capability to about the limit.
Supposition, no more. But you had to make guesses, to try to understand what might be happening. For instance – Chinook in transit from A to B, picks up two missiles en route, Chinook having other cargo on board already. Now the little fellow flies up from aforesaid point B to collect another. Short of helos, scraping the barrel, needing AM39s down there fast?
The motorcyclist had reported to Roberto, who’d now turned back to the pilot, was beckoning to the other naval men. Beyond them, the missile was being transferred from trolley to cargo net. Roberto acknowledging salutes as he went to his car and slid into it. Despatch rider leaving too, kicking life into his bike.
‘Roberto’s going home for his tea.’ Cloudsley glanced round at Beale. ‘OK, Tony, go back to sleep.’
Ten minutes later the Alouette took off, flying south with an AM39 under it liked a netted salmon. But the tanker — it was a massive one — was staying where it was, on the concrete area inside the compound; its driver strutting out through the gates, which were being left open.
This time yesterday, he’d watched them locking up. Well before sunset, which by local time would come at about four-fifteen. And no reason they shouldn’t pack up quite early, considering they started their day’s work well before dawn… But from Cloudsley’s point of view, by say an hour after sunset or 1800, say, at the latest, he needed to be in that hangar and starting another ten hours of drilling. Which with the hangar still open and Argies still hanging around — for some damn purpose…
The purpose was clear enough. He cursed, under his breath.
‘What’s up, Harry?‘
The colour sergeant’s bearded face looked as if it might have been carved out of bone. Deepset eyes fixed on Cloudsley’s profile at the periscope… Cloudsley taking a long breath, like a swimmer about to duck under.
‘Could be a shuttle operation. Another helo coming. Or helos, plural. Maybe your Alouette coming back. Whatever they’re waiting for, they’re leaving the place open for it. Leaving the refuelling truck inside there too.’
That was the clincher. You couldn’t explain it any other way.
‘Well, if we can’t get in there tonight—’
‘Christ’s sake!’ Cloudsley hissed it through gritted teeth. ‘They’re deploying the missiles, Tony — and four of ’em are still intact! We bloody well have to get in there tonight!’
11
Robert MacEwan got out of the staff car, walked heavily into the radio shack. He asked the NCO in charge of the watch, ‘Personal call for me?’
The orderly who’d been sent to find him, arriving by motorbike in the missile compound, had reported, ‘A call from your estancia, sir. A Señor Huyez, says it’s a matter of utmost urgency…’
‘You could take it in here, sir, in privacy.’ The petty officer pushed open the door of a small office. ‘Unless you’d prefer it to be connected to your own extension. We were trying to locate you, but—’
‘In here will do.’
He hadn’t the slightest idea what Juan Huyez might have to talk about. There was no problem connected with the running of the sheep-station that he’d need to refer to his patrón. It was partly the fact of such a call being quite unprecedented that had persuaded him to leave the missile collection and come straight to take it. His fingers depressed the ‘speak’ bar in the handset: ‘Roberto MacEwan. Is that you, Don Juan? What’s your problem?’
‘Not exactly a problem, patrón. I apologise most profoundly for such an intrusion, but I felt — well, that you would certainly wish to hear—’
‘Come to the point, please.’
‘You may find it hard to believe, Don Roberto. I myself could hardly—’
‘Believe what?’
‘The patrón’s brother. He is staying at the estancia El Lucero. Incredible, but—’
‘Don Andrés — at Strobie’s, now?’
‘It’s the truth, patrón. My son Paco has seen him with his own eyes. He was convinced it was none other, but when he told me I thought, Nonsense! However—’
‘It’s a fact?’
‘Si, patrón. This boy of mine has — a young female acquaintance, the daughter of a peón on that estancia. It is not at all a suitable — not a friendship I wish to encourage, but—’
‘Stick to the point, for God’s sake!‘
‘Through this person, further enquiries—’
‘She confirmed he’s there?‘
‘Si, patrón. He is disguised in clothing suitable for a peón, and he has grown a beard, but it is he, and he is residing in the small house that was formerly the home of the mayordomo. Eating enormous meals, it is said—’
‘How long has he been there?’
‘We cannot be sure, but several days, it seems.’
‘And that’s all you know about it?’
‘Why yes, unfortunately…’
‘Hold on a minute. I want to consider this.’
He lowered the receiver. Slapping it in the palm of the other hand while he put his mind to this e
xtraordinary development. Scowling out of the bare window… Andy must have come into the country secretly; otherwise he wouldn’t be lying low at the old man’s place in some ridiculous disguise, he’d have come straight to their own home.
So what might he have come for?
Francisca saw Strobie sometimes. She wasn’t aware that her husband knew of it, that Juan Huyez kept him informed of her movements and contacts when she was down there. Knowing if the calls she’d made at Strobie’s place, Robert had wondered — without bothering about it much — whether through Strobie she’d have news of, or even contact with, her former playmate.
Francisca…
Even if what she swore was the truth, it was a truth that didn’t apply to Andy’s attitude towards her. In his juvenile fashion he’d always been demented about her. He might still be, might think — if she’d encouraged him, particularly — he still had some chance.
Francisca was the key to this. And could be used as such.
‘Don Juan?’
‘Si, patrón.’
‘I’ll arrange for Don Andrés to pay you a visit. He’ll ride over from the Strobie place, in the belief he’s visiting my wife. I can’t say exactly when, but possibly in just a few hours. I want you to be prepared to — to receive him. That’s to say, to keep him there, Don Juan. Lock him up. I can’t possibly get down there myself — not for quite a time, possibly several weeks, this couldn’t have come at a more awkward moment for me. So, I have to put it entirely on your shoulders. You’ll handle it — as efficiently as you handle everything down there?’
‘Patrón — of course, I am here to serve you… But — you said lock him up?’
‘Remember the one who went off his head? Until they could come for him we confined him in the carniceria?’
The meat house. It was a substantial building, and one of its rooms had no window and a good lock on the door. The peón who’d gone mad had been a powerfully built fellow and he’d flung himself around in there for more than a fortnight before the police were able to provide transport.
Huyez began cautiously, ‘If this is your order, patrón—’
‘Didn’t you hear it?’
‘Of course. Of course… The only doubt in my mind — well, it would be far from — from comfortable, patrón. Even in summer it’s very cold, Now we have snow coming—’
‘Give him a blanket. Two blankets, if you want. But I want you to understand, Don Juan — it seems likely he’s sneaked into the country without anyone knowing he’s here. Except the old man, of course — and that can be handled easily enough. But you see, in the circumstances, officially he does not exist. His disappearance would therefore pass unnoticed. You follow?’
‘Perhaps not entirely—’
‘I’ve said, you’re to keep him there. Because I’d like to talk to him, discover what he came for. I have an idea, but I want to hear it from him — if possible… But this is not of very great importance. What is of the utmost importance is that once you have him there he should not leave. In fact — listen, Don Juan. If keeping him alive should prove difficult, I would not — hold you responsible. For any — accident… Is this clear, now?’
‘Si, patrón, it is clear as you say it, but—’
‘I would hold you responsible, however, if you allowed him to escape. If that occurred, neither you nor any of your family would have a future in my service. I think you know I am a man of my word?’
‘Indeed, patrón—’
‘You would naturally exercise every discretion… The other way to look at this is that at present, you know, I’m only part owner of the estancia. And you would like some small share in it, a reward for years of hard work and loyalty, a future for your son. I have never forgotten that my grandmother discussed this with you. And it would be simple to make the arrangements, you see, if I owned the place entirely… Here again — remember — I am a man of my word.’
‘This is well known, patrón. And I am overwhelmed—’
‘You have your orders, and you understand them?’
‘Clearly—’
‘Good. Don’t call me about it. I shan’t be here much longer in any case. Final firework display tomorrow, then we move out — lock, stock and barrel, before we’re snowed in… Do what has to be done, Don Juan. I’ll be with you — I don’t know, some time…’
He hung up. Lighting a cheroot; smoking it for several minutes, deep in thought. Then he went to the door.
‘I want a number in Buenos Aires. You’ll have it there — private residence of Rear-Admiral Alejandro Diaz.’
*
She’d thrown an angry glance at the telephone: ‘Oh, go away!‘
‘Tell them to do that. Please.’
Ricardo spoke softly. He’d unhooked the strap, between her shoulder-blades. The bra still clung, its silk moulded to her breasts and pointed, swollen nipples. His fingers brushed it away now, gently cupped one breast as he stooped to kiss it. She was naked except for her pants; he, in contrast, was fully dressed, even had his riding boots on. The ringing telephone was on a white marble table with a French love-seat beside it, and his eyes followed her, resting hungrily on the motion of her hips as she walked over to it — telling him over her shoulder, scarlet-tipped fingers resting on the receiver, ‘Get undressed, Rick, for God’s sake… Hello?’
Her eyes went back to him, as she sat down. Pale-blue eyes, charcoal-black hair, creamy skin… Her left hand was raised in warning — a finger to her lips.
‘Roberto! What a surprise!‘
Ricardo’s brown eyes stayed on her. He leant back against the bed, to pull off the highly polished boots. Eyes devouring her. Those fantastic breasts… And her mouth, wide mouth with lips still wet from his kisses, lips parting now to ask her husband politely how he was, how his work was progressing…
‘All right, then.’ Her shoulders — Ricardo had told her only a minute ago that they were the most kissable shoulders in Buenos Aires – lifted in a small shrug. ‘Of course I’ll listen…’
He’d got rid of his uniform jacket, tie and shirt, and was loosening his breeches. Francisca watching with a light, anticipatory smile.
She’d frowned. ‘But surely, that’s not possible!’
Ricardo, pointing down at himself, eyebrows raised, whispered, ‘This isn’t?’
She hadn’t heard. Preoccupied… He stood up. A tall, slim, brown-skinned man, chest and belly furred with tight black curls. Padding towards her across the deep-pile carpet, hearing from yards away her husband’s voice rasping in the telephone. Whatever the slob was telling her, lecturing her about, it was having a powerful effect. The interruption had become real, in fact.
And was not, he decided, to be tolerated.
‘But how could he have come — at this time, with all—’
Ricardo knelt in front of her; hearing her try to get a few more words in edgeways: ‘But even if he does still have a passport, surely—’
Interrupted again. Comments from this end seemed not to be wanted. But Ricardo had silently conveyed a proposal to her, and she was complying now while the voice from somewhere in the wilds of Patagonia droned on. She’d switched the receiver to her other hand, and putting the free one down on the cushions she pushed herself up a little, lifting her bottom so as to make it easier for Ricardo to remove her pants. He slid them lovingly down her thighs, over the beautifully rounded knees and finally from her bright-painted toes.
‘But if he is here — what for? Unless to see you? On family business, since there’s no trade now? Why should he have gone to Tom’s place, though? I don’t understand this at all, Roberto!’
Roberto’s hectoring tone again… The naked man on his knees didn’t care what he was on about, for the time being. A touch of fingers on the insides of Francisca’s knees caused her legs to part immediately. He moved in closer, his arms sliding round her long, supple waist, drawing her to him. She was protesting, ‘You know perfectly well he means nothing to me! A childhood romance, a little summer flirta
tion before either of us was old enough to do more than hold hands! I married you Roberto… If he has any such ambitions I certainly did nothing to encourage them!’
She gasped. Thighs spread. Rick’s face burrowing, his arms tight round her hips and bottom, squeezing her towards him. Noisy, now, like a hungry man, Francisca tilting her pelvis, helping, fingers of her free hand combing his dark head… She said abruptly into the telephone, ‘Roberto — just one minute, please?’
Hand over the telephone, palm pressed across the mouth-piece. Moving her hips in a subtle, insistent rocking. Then faster: thrusting to meet him, belly hollow, hips writhing… huge intake of breath: her body arching in a long, convulsive shudder…
She’d pushed him away: a hand flat on his forehead, and drawing herself back on the cushions. Out of breath.
‘I’m so sorry, Roberto. A — domestic matter.’ She added — Ricardo stifling a laugh with his face against her thigh — Rosaura’s getting old, you know, she insists on consulting me over every little detail.’
Rosaura was her father’s housekeeper. Francisca beckoned, and Ricardo sat beside her on the love-seat. Her hand went to him, fondling… She said into the phone, ‘I’d only just come in when your call came. Yes — lunch at the Herreras… Oh, a very good lunch. As usual, yes. I envy her that cook of hers… Oh, yes, Ricardo was there for a short while, but he had to run off — he’s on some Staff or other, I don’t know what, but they keep him busy anyway.’ She was examining him, at a range of a few inches: his eyes, his lips, jawline… ‘Quite a pleasant young man, I agree… A little’ — she glanced down, opening her hand — ‘a little full of himself, perhaps…’ She giggled. Squeezing… ‘Anyway, Roberto — I suppose I must believe what you’ve been telling me, but what exactly is it you want me to do?’
The harsh voice began to grind again. Francisca covered the mouthpiece; Rick was stooping, kissing her breasts, but now he was coming up again and their mouths were wide open to reach other, the telephone two inches away… The voice stopped; Francisca pulled away, using the end of the receiver to push Rick off. ‘Suppose I did this, Roberto: what would you — or they—’
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