by Jack Higgins
He folded his arms, leaned back in the corner, closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
2
Brigadier Charles Ferguson preferred to work when possible from his Cavendish Square flat. It was his especial joy. The Adam fireplace was real and so was the fire which burned there. The rest was Georgian also. Everything matched to perfection, including the curtains. He was sitting by the fire at ten o'clock in the morning after Villiers' exploit at the Palace, reading the Financial Times, when the door opened and his manservant, Kim, an ex-Gurkha naik appeared.
'Mademoiselle Legrand, sir.'
Ferguson removed his half-moon reading glasses, put them down with the paper and stood up. 'Show her in, Kim, and tea for three, please.'
Kim departed and a moment later, Gabrielle Legrand entered the room.
She was, as always, Ferguson told himself, the most strikingly beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. She was dressed for riding in boots, faded jodhpurs, white shirt and an old green jacket in Donegal tweed. The blonde hair was held back from the forehead by a scarlet band and rolled up into a bun at the nape of the neck. She regarded him gravely, the wide green eyes giving nothing away, the riding crop she carried in her left hand tapping her knee. She was not small, almost five foot eight in her boots. Ferguson went towards her with a smile of conscious pleasure, hands out-stretched.
'My lovely Gabrielle.' He kissed her cheek. 'No longer Mrs Villiers, I see?'
'No,' she said flatly. 'I'm me again.'
Her voice was English upper class, but with its own timbre that gave it a unique quality. She dropped her crop on the table, went to the window and peered down into the square.
'Have you seen Tony lately?'
'I should have thought you would have,' Ferguson said. 'He's in town. Spot of leave, as I understand it. Hasn't he called at the flat?'
'No,' she said. 'He wouldn't do that, not while I'm there.'
She stayed at the window and Ferguson said gently, 'What went wrong between you two, my love?'
'Everything,' she said, 'and nothing. We thought we were in love one long hot summer five years ago. I was beautiful, he was the best-looking thing in a uniform I ever saw.'
'And then?'
'We didn't gel - it never did. The chemistry was all wrong.' The voice was flat calm and yet he sensed distress there. 'I cared for Tony, still do, but I got angry with him too easily and I never knew why.' She shrugged again. 'Too many spaces we could never fill.'
'I'm sorry,' Ferguson said.
The door opened and Kim entered with a silver tray which he placed by the fire. 'Ah, tea,' Ferguson said. 'Get Captain Fox from the office, Kim.'
The Gurkha went out and Gabrielle sat down by the fire. Ferguson sat opposite and poured tea into a china cup for her.
She drank a little and smiled. 'Excellent. The English half of me approves.'
'Filthy stuff, coffee,' he told her.
He offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. 'No thanks, I'd prefer to get down to business. I have a luncheon appointment. What do you want?'
At that moment the door opened and Harry Fox came in. He wore a Guards tie and light grey flannel suit, and carried a file which he placed on the desk.
'Gabrielle, how nice.' He was genuinely pleased and leaned down to kiss her cheek.
'Harry.' She patted his face affectionately. 'What's this boss of yours up to now?'
Fox took the cup of tea Ferguson offered and looked at him enquiringly. Ferguson nodded and the young Captain stood by the fire and carried on.
'What do you know about the Falkland Islands, Gabrielle?'
'In the South Atlantic,' she said. 'About four hundred miles off the Argentine coast. The Argentine government has been claiming them for years.'
'That's right. British Sovereign territory, of course, but a lousy place to defend eight thousand miles away.'
'As a matter of interest,' Ferguson said, 'we have sixty-eight Royal Marines in the islands at the moment, backed up by the local defence force and one ship of the Royal Navy. HMS Endurance, an ice patrol vessel, armed with two 20 mm guns and a couple of Wasp helicopters. Our masters in Parliament have been making it clear in public debate that they intend to scrap her to save money.'
'And just four hundred miles away is a superbly equipped airforce, a large army and navy,' Fox said.
Gabrielle shrugged. 'So what? You're not seriously suggesting that the Argentine Government would invade?'
'I'm afraid that's exactly what we are suggesting,' Ferguson said. 'All the signs have pointed that way since January and the CIA certainly think it's on the cards. It makes a lot of sense. The country is run by a three-man junta. The President, General Galtieri, who is also Commander-in-Chief of the Army, has a commitment to economic recovery. Unfortunately, the country is almost bankrupt.'
Fox said, 'An invasion of the Falklands would prove a very welcome diversion. Take the people's minds off other things.'
'Just like the Romans,' Ferguson said. 'Bread and circuses. Keep the mob happy. Another cup?'
He poured Gabrielle more tea. She said, 'I still don't see where I come into this.'
'Very simple really.'
Ferguson nodded to Fox, who opened the file on the desk and took out an ornate invitation card which he passed to her. In English and Spanish, His Excellency Carlos Ortiz de Rozas, Argentine Ambassador to the Court of St James, invited Mademoiselle Gabrielle Simone Legrand to a cocktail party and buffet, seven-thirty for eight at the Argentine Embassy in Wilton Crescent.
'Just off Belgrave Square,' Fox said helpfully.
'This evening?' she said. 'Impossible. I'm going to the theatre.'
'This one's important, Gabrielle.' Ferguson nodded and Fox got the file, opened it and took out a black and white photo which he put on the table in front of her.
Gabrielle picked it up. The man who stared out at her wore a military flying suit of the kind used by jet pilots. He carried a flying helmet in his right hand and there was a scarf at his throat. He was not young, at least forty, and like most pilots he was not particularly tall. He had dark wavy hair, greying a little at the temples, calm eyes and there was a scar on his right cheek, running up into the eye.
'Colonel Raul Carlos Montera,' Fox said. 'Special Air Attache at the Embassy at the present time.'
Gabrielle stared down at the photo. It was like looking at an old friend, someone she knew well, and yet she had never seen this man before in her life.
'Tell me about him.'
'Age forty-five,' Fox said. 'An aristocrat. His mother, Donna Elena, is very much a leader of society in Buenos Aires. His father died last year. Family owns God knows how much land and all the cows in the world. Very rich.'
'And he's a pilot?'
'Oh, yes, of the obsessional kind. Soloed at sixteen. He did a languages degree at Harvard, then joined the Argentine airforce. Trained with the RAF at Cranwell. Has also trained with the South Africans and Israelis.'
'Important point,' Ferguson said, moving to the window. 'Not your usual South American fascist. In 1967 he resigned his commission. Flew Dakotas for the Biafrans during the Nigerian civil war. Night flights from Fernando Po to Port Harcourt. Rather a bad scene.'
'Then he joined up with a Swedish aristocrat, Count Carl Gustaf von Rosen. The Biafrans bought five Swedish training planes called Minicons. Had them fixed up with machine guns and so on. Montera was one of those crazy enough to fly them against Russian Mig fighters flown by Egyptian and East German pilots.' Fox passed her another photo. 'Taken in Port Harcourt, just before the end of the war.'
He wore an old World War Two leather flying jacket, his hair was tousled, the eyes shadowed, the face drawn with fatigue. The scar on the cheek looked raised and angry as if fresh. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, this man she didn't even know. When she put the photo down, her hand shook slightly.
'What exactly am I supposed to do?'
'He'll be there tonight,' Ferguson said. 'Let's face it, Gabriel
le, few men can resist you at the best of times, but when you take special pains...'
The sentence hung in mid-air unfinished. She said, 'I see. I'm to take him to bed, lie back, think of England and hope he says something worth hearing about the Falklands?'
'Put rather starkly, but close enough.'
'What a bastard you are, Charles.' She got up and picked up her riding crop.
'Will you do it?' he asked.
'I think so,' she answered. 'I'd seen the play before anyway, and to be honest, this Raul Montera of yours looks much more interesting.'
The door closed behind her and Fox poured himself more tea. 'You think she'll do it, sir?'
'Oh, yes,' Ferguson said. 'She loves to take part in the theatre of life, our Gabrielle. How much do you know about her background, Harry?'
'Well, she and Tony were married for what, five years?'
'That's right. French father and English mother. They were divorced when she was quite young. She read politics and economics at the Sorbonne, then did a year at St Hugh's at Oxford. Married Villiers after meeting him at a Cambridge May Ball. Should have known better than attend a function at a second-rate university. How many times has she worked for us, Harry?'
'Only once where I've had direct contact, sir. Four other occasions through you.'
'Yes,' Ferguson said. 'A truly brilliant linguist. No good where the rough stuff is concerned, either physical or anything else. A genuine moralist, our Gabrielle. What family has she got living now?'
'Father in Marseilles. Her mother, sir, and step-father. He's English. They live in the Isle of Wight. She has a half-brother, Richard, aged twenty-two, serving as a helicopter pilot in the Royal Navy.'
Ferguson lit a cigar and sat behind the desk. 'I've met women, Harry, and so have you, of beauty and considerable distinction, but Gabrielle is something special. For a woman like that, only a special man will do.'
'I think we're fresh out of those this year, sir,' Fox said.
'We usually are, Harry. We usually are. Now let's go through the Foreign Office tray.' Ferguson put on his half-moon spectacles.
3
The scene in the ballroom at the Argentine Embassy was splendid, crystal chandeliers taking light to every comer, reflected again in the mirrored walls. Beautiful women, exquisitely gowned; handsome men in dress uniforms; an occasional church dignitary in scarlet and purple. It was all rather archaic, as if the mirrors were reflecting a dim memory of long ago, the dancers turning endlessly to faint music.
The trio playing on a raised dais in one corner were good and the music was exactly the kind Raul Montera liked. All the old favourites: Cole Porter, Rodgers & Hart, Irving Berlin. And yet he was bored. He excused himself from the small group around the Ambassador, took a glass of Perrier water from the tray carried by a passing waiter and went and leaned negligently against a pillar, smoking a cigarette.
His face was pale, the eyes a vivid blue, constantly in motion in spite of his apparent calmness. The elegant dress uniform fitted him to perfection, the medals making a brave show on his left breast. There was an energy to him, an eager restlessness, that seemed to say he found such affairs trivial and longed for something more active.
The Majordomo's voice rose above the hubbub. 'Mademoiselle Gabrielle Legrand.' Montera glanced up casually and saw her standing in the entrance, reflected in the gilt mirror in front of him.
It was as if the breath went out of him for a moment. He stood there, transfixed, then turned slowly to look at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.
Her hair, no longer banded and gathered up as it had been that morning at Ferguson's office, was one of her most astonishing features: very blonde and cut in the French style known as La Coupe Sauvage. It was long enough to hang between the shoulder blades, yet apparently short at the front, layered and feathered at the sides, framing a face of considerable beauty.
The eyes were the most vivid green, the high cheekbones gave her a Scandinavian look and the mouth was wide and beautifully formed. She was wearing an evening dress by Yves St Laurant in silver thread and tambour beading, the uneven hemline well above the knee, for the mini had returned to fashion that season. She balanced on silver high-heeled shoes, carrying herself with a touch of arrogance that seemed to say Take me or leave me, I couldn't care less.
Raul Montera had never seen a woman who looked more capable of taking on the whole world if needs be. She, in her tum, had seen him, and conscious of a strange, irrational excitement, turned away as if looking for someone.
She was immediately accosted by a young Argentinian army captain who was obviously the worse for drink. Montera gave him enough time to make a thorough nuisance of himself, then moved through the crowd to her side.
'Ah, there you are, cherie,' he said in excellent French. 'I've been looking everywhere for you.'
Her reflexes were excellent. She turned smoothly, reached up and kissed him on the cheek. 'I was beginning to wonder if I'd got the wrong night.'
'At your orders, my colonel.' The captain retired in confusion. Montera looked at Gabrielle wryly and they both burst into laughter.
He took her hands and held them lighdy. 'You get a lot of that, I suppose?'
'Since I was about fourteen.'
There was a shadow in the green eyes. He said, 'Which has not improved your opinion of my sex, I think?'
'If you mean, do I like men, no, not very much.' She smiled. 'In the generality, that is.'
He examined her hands. 'Ah, good.'
'What is?' She was puzzled.
'No wedding ring.'
He drew himself up and clicked his heels together. 'Colonel Raul Carlos Montera, very much at your orders and I would consider it a privilege and a joy to secure not only this dance, but every other one available this evening.'
He took her hand and drew her on to the floor, as the trio started to play in slow foxtrot tempo Our Love is Here to Stay.
'How remarkably appropriate,' he said and drew her to him.
And to that, there could be no answer. They danced well together, his arm holding her lightly around the waist.
She touched the scar on his cheek. 'How did you get that?'
'Cannon shell splinter,' he said. 'Aerial combat.'
She played her part well. 'But when? Argentina hasn't been to war in my lifetime.'
'Another man's war,' he said. 'A thousand years ago. Too long a story.'
She touched the scar again gently and he groaned and said in Spanish to himself, 'I've heard of love at first sight but this is ridiculous.'
'Why?' she replied calmly in the same language. 'Isn't it what the poets have been assuring us for centuries now is the only kind worth having?'
'Spanish as well?' he demanded. 'Is there no end to this woman's marvels?'
'Also English,' she said. 'And German. My Russian isn't fluent, though. Only passable.'
'Amazing.'
'You mean, for a beautiful blonde with a good body?'
He noted the bitterness in her voice and moved back to look into her face. There was genuine tenderness in his own and a kind of authority.
'If I have hurt you, forgive me. It was not intended. I will learn, though, to mend my manners. You must give me time.'
And there was that breathlessness in her again as the music stopped and he drew her off the floor. 'Champagne?' he said. 'Being French I would presume it to be your drink.'
'But of course.'
He snapped his fingers to a waiter, took a glass from the proffered tray and handed it to her. 'Dom Perignon - only the best. We're trying to make friends and influence people tonight.'
'I should imagine you'd need to,' she said.
He frowned. 'I don't understand?'
'Oh, there was an item on the television news earlier this evening. Questions in the British Parliament about the Falklands. Apparently your navy is about to go on manoeuvres in the area.'
'Not the Falklands,' he said. 'To us, the Malvinas.' He shrugged. 'A
n old quarrel, but not worth arguing about. The politicians have it in hand. In my opinion, the British will do a deal with us one of these days. Probably in the not too distant future.'
She let it go, slipped a hand in his arm, and they crossed to an open French window and moved out. On the way, he picked another glass of champagne off a passing tray for her.
'Don't you drink?' she asked.
'Not a great deal and certainly not champagne. It creates havoc with me. I'm getting old, you see.'
'Nonsense.'
'Forty-five. And you?'
'Twenty-seven.'
'Dear God, that I should be so young again.'
'Age,' she said, 'is a state of mind. Herman Hesse said somewhere that, in reality, youth and age exist only among ordinary people. All more talented and exceptional people are sometimes young and sometimes old, just as they are sometimes happy and sometimes sad.'
'Such wisdom,' he said. 'Where does it all come from?'
'I went to the Sorbonne and then Oxford,' she said. 'A women's college, St Hugh's. Not a man in sight and thank God for it. Now I'm a journalist. Freelance. Magazine work mainly.'
Behind them the trio started to play A Foggy Day in London Town. 'I was a stranger in your city.' He started to sing the intro softly in English.
'Oh, no,' she said. 'Paris is my city, but Fred Astaire had it right in the movie when he sang that song. Everyone should walk along the Thames Embankment at least once, preferably after midnight.'
He smiled slowly and held her hands. 'An excellent idea. But first, we eat. You look like a girl with an appetite. A little more champagne and then, who knows?'
* * *
It was raining hard and fog crouched at the end of the streets. The trenchcoat he had found for her was soaked, as was the scarf she had bound around her hair. Montera was still in uniform, his magnificence anonymous under a heavy officer's greatcoat. He wore a peaked cap.
They had walked for several miles in the pouring rain followed by his official car, patient chauffeur at the wheel. She wore a pair of flat shoes he had borrowed for her from one of the maids at the Embassy.