A question, answering her question.
‘Why shouldn’t I be breathless? I’m shocked! You’re asking me to — trap him? So you can’ — she shook her head at Ricardo — ‘tell me what for, what you intend to do?’
Listening intently now. And real shock in her expression. Ricardo mustering the patience and sense to wait…
‘As I’ve told you a hundred times, he’s nothing to me. I am not in the least upset, not in the way you’re implying. But he’s a human being, and an old, once close friend — and as a matter of fact an innocent if there ever was one — and for God’s sake, Roberto, your own brother!’
Quite a long answer was coming through now, to that high-pitched protest. She was listening; her eyes re-focusing gradually on Ricardo… ‘No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’ll do what you ask, simply to prove—’
‘All right. Yes. Yes, as soon as I can get a call through. Which as you know is not easy… All right, the naval link — I’ll give your name… Yes, I just told you, I’ll do it, but—’
‘No. Of course I wouldn’t. I told you, I’m only agreeing to this unpleasant suggestion so as to prove to you there’s nothing, nothing—’
‘Very well… But now listen, Roberto — will I be seeing you, one of these days?’
Her blue eyes on Ricardo’s brown ones. Seeking information of interest to them both…
‘I see. You’re going — to the war? You’ll be—’
Listening to the drone, her smile deepened: directed entirely at Ricardo.
‘Then my heart and hopes go with you, Roberto. And my pride…’
‘Yes, I’ll be waiting… Yes, for heaven’s sake, I said I would, I’ll do it as soon as—’
‘All right. Come back in one piece. Not too many heroics, please. Come home to me when we’ve won. Vaya con Dios, Roberto…’
She kept the receiver at her ear until she’d heard him sign off. Then she leant sideways, dropped the receiver in its cradle.
‘I could have shrieked… Then how would he have believed I was talking to Rosaura? You’re a swine, Rick.’
‘I know.’
He looked flattered. She laughed, kissing him. ‘Want the same now?’
‘On the bed.’
‘Anywhere… On the roof, my darling!’
‘What was it all about?‘
‘Oh, hell, I have to make a call — at least book one—’
‘Not now. Leave it till I go.‘
‘I only promised him for our sake. So we can be left alone…’ He was looking down, watching the blood-red fingernails, the slim hands’ subtlety. She whispered, ‘I don’t think I’ll let you go, Rick. Tell your damn Staff you’re held up. Tell them I’m keeping you here for ever.’
‘You’d get bored with me.’ He picked her up. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Well.’ Closing her eyes. ‘Put it this way. At the moment I can’t envisage it.’ She asked him, on the bed, ‘Want it with my mouth?’
‘I could — live in your mouth…’
‘Be my guest—’
‘Next time.’ He’d stopped her, as she began to slide down. ‘Now, I want to hear what’s this thing you have to prove to your boorish husband.’
‘Oh, I should’ve said, he’s off to the war!’
‘May he stay there for ever… Why d’you have to do something you don’t want?’ He was on his back, pulling her over. Francisca straddled him, lifting herself… Watching his face then, enjoying his eyes on her body. His hands held her slowly rotating hips; he murmured, ‘Only one way this might be better. If you fetched the telephone, called him up to say goodbye again… I really loved that, you know?’
‘Me too.’ Faster. Leaning to kiss him… ‘Why didn’t we think of this before, Rick?’
‘I’ve thought of nothing else every time I’ve set eyes on you.’
‘I thought you were in love with your plump little wife.’
‘Oh, I am… Want me to call her?’
‘Not’ — she’d paused — ‘right now…’
‘Tell me what it was about?’
‘Later, Rick—’
‘No — now.’ His hands tightened: holding her almost still. ‘Please?’
‘All right. All right…’ His grasp relaxed. She began, phrases falling into the rhythm of new movement, ‘Once upon a time — crazy little girl — loved this little boy… Mind if I fall in love with you, Rick?’
‘Might as well… Tell me the rest now?’
Hair swirled as she shook her head: ‘Lousy story, Rick.’
‘Come on…’
‘What d’you call this?’
‘Come on with the lousy story.’
‘Thought she was in love. But she was not…’ Francisca’s voice was singsong now, matched to movement… ‘Sort of a spin-off, married the other one. For some dumb reason… Because he’s a pig, she can’t stand him, only just for now she needs to hang on… Rick, you’re stupendous, I’m going to be ahead of you again… The puppy-love was nothing, you see? But to satisfy the pig she has to prove it, has to — oh, thing my Yank mother’s people say’ — shouting it, a shudder in her voice — ‘sell him down the river—’
*
Getting towards sunset, the back end of a day that had moved along as sluggishly as treacle.
Andy opened Tom Strobie’s liquor cupboard, took a bottle out and studied the label, put it back again. Sunset came early in this wilderness, and anyway drinking on one’s own had never paid good dividends. Drinking another man’s whisky — old man who probably couldn’t afford it anyway — would be even less rewarding. Afternoon boozing would be different if you were in your eighties and semi-crippled, reclusive…
He’d be back before long anyway. Then they’d have a few snorts together and it would have been worth waiting for. Also, there’d be something to take as an excuse for celebration: the BBC World News bulletin — at 10.00 a.m. GMT, 1.00 p.m. here — had reported Mrs Thatcher informing the House of Commons that ‘British forces have begun to move forward from their San Carlos bridgehead’.
Advancing towards Goose Green, he imagined. Numerous ‘experts’ in recent radio commentaries had predicted a move that way. The Argies, one might guess, would have been tipped-off accordingly. He went to the bookshelves again and ran his eye along the titles; but he’d spent a lot of the day reading and there wasn’t much here that grabbed him. The other obvious way to pass time was sleeping, but he’d had a couple of hours of that after lunch… What he wanted was exercise and fresh air, preferably on horseback, but he’d promised them all he’d keep his head down so in daylight that was another temptation — like whisky — to be resisted.
Maybe after dark. Except by then Tom would be home, wanting company and conversation; to which, heaven knew, the old guy was entitled…
He was looking at the Scotch bottle again, when someone tapped on the door.
‘Don Andrés?’
Señora Torres, for God’s sake…
He let her in — or rather, offered her entrance. She stayed on the threshold where a few seconds ago he’d had a flashing daydream of Francisca standing; just at the first tap on the door…
‘It’s Señora MacEwan, Don Andrés—’
Impossible to believe this was what she’d said!
‘— on the radio — asking to speak with you — very urgent, she told me… I say, “But surely Don Andrés is in England?” She replies, “I do not question your veracity, it is plain to me you are not aware of the fact that Don Andrés is with Don Tomás in his residence. Please, bring him to speak with me…” Don Andrés, what could I do?’
By the time she’d paused for breath he was less dazed. Her hatchet face back in focus; a hand on the door-jamb was a contact with reality, as distinct from what had seemed like illusion. He slung his poncho over his shoulders, and followed her, her voice continuing, ‘No one is outside here at this time, Don Andrés. Don Tomás said he did not wish it to be known that you are here, but—’
‘I kn
ow. I know…’
He couldn’t see it mattered much, if the news had got that far. Following her into the ‘big house’: it stank of mutton, damp, wool, unwashed bodies. But then — he remembered, following her through the house — even when Tom Strobie had lived in it it hadn’t been exactly immaculate. Francisca had laughed at the old man when he’d asked her if there were cobwebs upstairs; she’d told him that upstairs wasn’t so bad at all, it was down here the house was like a stable. He’d growled at her, ‘It’s the way I like it — Miss…’
The radio room was at the back, a lean-to extension. Señora Torres pointed at a hard chair near the bench on which lay earphones and an old-fashioned upright telephone fitted up as a microphone with a switch on its base for transmit-receive.
‘Gracias…’
He’d expected her to leave, but she hung around, pretending to adjust the ancient equipment. And it didn’t matter: with Francisca he’d be speaking English anyway. He sat down, put on the tinny headset. His hands were shaking; he felt as nervous as he had before the jump from the Hercules.
‘Francisca?’
He pushed the switch over, heard a squawk of ‘Andy, my dear!’ and pushed it back again. Despite the bad reception, that had clearly been her voice; his heart was racing as he pushed the switch back: ‘Francisca, how did you know I was here? Why didn’t you let Tom know you were here? God, I’ve been so hoping… Francisca, darling, are you all right?’
‘I’ll tell you everything when I see you, Andy. That’s why I’m calling — to beg you, please, come over?’
‘To the estancia?’
‘Oh, please… I have to talk to you — must see you… Andy, it’s like a miracle that you’re here!’
Now she’d added — as if on an afterthought: ‘Over…’ She’d ignored the radio-telephone routine until this moment. And she sounded desperate; even with such rotten reception he could hear that edge to her voice. But he was thinking about Cloudsley and company too, the vital need for invisibility; and also of putting old Tom at risk — at worse risk than he’d brought to him already. But then — since she already knew he was here, and if he could get there and back in the dark — there’d be no worse harm done?
Put the clock back five years?
‘Andy, are you there?’
Again she hadn’t said ‘over’. He waited for the click you heard when the other end switched over, and there wasn’t one.
‘Francisca — if you’re hearing this — of course I’ll come… But tell me this much, are you in trouble?’
Switching quickly to ‘receive’. Her voice came through thinly, ‘—tell you everything, my dear, when—’
Another break. Then she came on again — ‘—now, d’you mean, tonight?’
It could be this switch that was defective. Distinctly possible, by the look of the equipment generally. He glanced around, but the Torres woman had gone.
‘I can’t think of anything I want more than to see you, Francisca. I’ll be there in a few hours. All right? Over…’ He switched back to her, and her voice came in a surge, suddenly much louder but as if she hadn’t heard him at all: ‘—if you could make it tonight, Andy?’
Hopeless.
But thrilling, too. Really, intensely thrilling… Walking back to Strobie’s shack, he decided not to wait for darkness. Better to be away from here before the peóns rode in at sunset. It would also avoid a meeting with Tom himself, inevitably an argument.
She hadn’t asked him how or why he’d come, what he was doing here, why he was hiding-out at Strobie’s…
He stopped — halfway over to the shack — asked himself, Am I crazy? Out of my bloody mind?
Well — maybe… But the possibility didn’t change anything, or suggest alternatives. He walked on again — hurrying, with an inclination even to be running. Thinking that there were several horses in the corral, and that the tack room would be open. Build Tom’s fire up for him first; scribble a note to say back soon, not to worry.
*
They were all in the OP hide. Cloudsley, on edge and uncommunicative, at the periscope. Sunset had passed and the land was darkening but in the foreground the missile compound, service road and control tower were lit up. Compound gates still standing open, fuel-tanker still parked inside, and there’d been no movement towards closing the hangar doors. Further deployment of AM39s was clearly imminent.
Should have got here a day sooner, he thought. Then we’d have had the job done just in time…
Geoff Hosegood broke the silence. ‘Might do it in eight hours, once we’re in there. Did reckon four hours a pair, didn’t they.’
Cloudsley grunted. The reality of the situation, as he was seeing it now all too clearly, was that the four missiles they’d doctored were the only four that would get the treatment. He made himself agree with Geoff: ‘Maybe. If we push it.’
If we get in at all…
No reason, though, to assume they’d pack up at all, tonight. If a helo came in the next few minutes there could just as easily be another two hours later. If they were using scant resources — like that Alouette — to cope with a sudden demand for missiles on the operational bases — at Rio Gallegos, most likely — they’d work right through. On the other hand, if it turned out better than he was now expecting, if you did get in — well, Geoff could have something, it might be possible to cut the time right down. Taking a risk or two, pressure on the drill, literally ‘pushing it’… You could slow up near the end of the second stage of drilling on each missile — the last twenty minutes, say.
Beale had been thinking about it too. ‘If we could do ’em in eight hours, we could start as late as midnight.’
‘Not really.’ Cloudsley pointed out — his tone so calm that to himself it sounded false — ‘These buggers are up and doing at least half an hour before sunrise. Playing safe, call that an hour. Means being out of it by 0730, you see. Very latest we could start would be 2300. Right?’
‘Sure, to get four done. Starting later — if we had to — we could still fix one pair. Four or five hours’ work — better than fuck-all.’
Cloudsley grunted agreement. Beale was obviously quite right; and they might not deploy the whole outfit tonight and tomorrow. But since you couldn’t be anything like sure of it, the aim had to be to finish the job completely — if the chance arose.
Beale concluded, ‘So right up to 0300, we got a chance.’
He kept his mouth shut. It was all conjecture, hypothesis; and to him, the feel of the situation was all wrong.
The evening meal of meat, maté, and maté-soaked galletas had been consumed at sunset. They were ready — Ingrams cleaned, checked over and lubricated, stun grenades on their belts, equipment like drilling bits in pockets, and the pack containing the drill and the liner-upper lay near the exit. Once the Argies did decide to go to their beds, there’d be nothing to hang about for.
‘Wonder how Andy Mac’s getting on.’ Hosegood, talking to pass the time. ‘Soaking up the old guy’s Scotch, eh?’
‘Wouldn’t blame him.’ Beale‘s voice, from the end of the hide. ‘Sitting there all day, can’t show his face out… Mind you, he’s got a fire to sit by.’
‘Think of that.’
‘Not to mention chicken and pasta?’
‘Tony — shut up.’
Beale added after a minute’s silence, ‘If we got it done tonight, mind — the lot — so we’d move out tomorrow sundown — big yomp south, not much gear on us — do it in one night, Harry?’
‘Should do.’
The nights were long: the proportion, ignoring twilight periods, was about sixteen hours of dark to eight of daylight. Beale reached his conclusion: ‘Day after tomorrow then, we could be shoving down fucking chicken and pasta.’
‘And Scotch.’ Hosegood recalled, ‘Harry promised him, didn’t he?’
The chatter was largely for his benefit, Cloudsley guessed. They sensed the pressure in him. It mattered just as much to each of them as it did to him but he happened t
o be the one who carried most of the responsibility. He glanced round: ‘Anyone want to take a turn at this bloody tube?’
At eight, Hosegood crawled back to the other hide to brew up some warmth. When it was ready he signalled on the string and Cloudsley joined him. Then Hosegood relieved Beale in the OP and they were all back there, waiting and watching, by eight-thirty. The compound was still open, fuel still waiting, and there was occasional movement between the guardhouse and the hangar, no sign at all of anyone going to bed.
*
A few minutes before nine, Roberto MacEwan’s telephone jangled, in the office adjoining his sleeping quarters.
‘Your call to the residence of Admiral Diaz, sir. Señora MacEwan on the line.’
‘Thank you. Francisca?’
‘Again, Roberto?’
‘To check whether you’ve done what I asked you.’
‘I told you I would, and I have. I hate it, but—’
‘He’s — obliging you?’
‘You’re so amusing… Yes.’
‘Well done. But one other thing: tell me, please, what he’s here for?’
‘I have not the least idea.’
‘Are you telling me you didn’t ask?’
‘I did what you wanted, and no more.‘
‘No feminine curiosity? Or — no need to ask?’
‘Roberto, I told you, I have had no correspondence what-so-ever—’
‘Yes. You did tell me… Anyway, you’ve done it. Thank you.’ He checked the time. ‘Let’s not bother now with more farewells. I’ll be back soon enough, don’t worry.’
‘I will — try not to.’
He put the receiver down. Looking at it as if he hated it. It rang again, under his hand, and he put it to his ear. ‘Yes?’
‘Signal just received sir. I’ll send it round, but I thought you’d want to know immediately. From XI Brigada Aerea: Weather deterioration in south necessitates cancellation of tonight’s collections. All remaining AM39s are to be ready for loading in Chinook which will reach you approx 0700. The PO added, ‘Time of origin, and message ends. Blizzards extending northwards, they say, sir. A light helo like the Alouette couldn‘t—’
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