by Jack Higgins
Birdcage Walk, the Palace, St James's Park. Montera had never enjoyed himself so much in the company of another human being.
'Sure you haven't had enough?' he asked, as they moved down towards Westminster Bridge.
'Not yet. I promised you something special, remember?'
'Ah, I was forgetting.'
They came to the bridge and she turned on to the Embankment. 'Well, this is it. The most romantic place in town. In that old movie, Fred Astaire would have held my arm and sung to me as we strolled with the car following us, crawling along the kerb.'
'Ah, but the traffic situation has changed since that, as you can see,' he told her. 'Too many cars parked at the kerb already.'
Above them, Big Ben chimed the first stroke of midnight. 'The witching hour,' she said. 'Have you enjoyed your guided tour?'
He lit a cigarette and leaned on the parapet. 'Oh, yes, I like London. A wonderful town.'
'But the English not so much?'
It was there again, that extraordinary perception. He shrugged. 'They're all right. I trained with the RAF at Cranwell and they were good - the best. The trouble is that to them we're all dagos, we South Americans, so if the dago is a good flyer, it's because they've done a good job on him.'
'That's shit,' she said, coldly angry. 'They don't owe you a thing. You're a great pilot. The best.'
'Am I?' he said curiously. 'And how would you know that?'
The rain increased into a solid drenching downpour and he turned and whistled to the car. 'I'd better get you home.'
'Yes,' she said. 'It would seem appropriate,' and she took his hand and they ran together towards the car.
* * *
The Pissaro on the wall of the sitting room of the flat in Kensington Palace Gardems was beautiful. Montera, standing before it, a brandy in his hand, examined it closely.
Gabrielle came out of the bedroom, brushing her hair. She wore an old bathrobe, a man's obviously, several sizes too big for her.
Montera said, 'Do my eyes deceive me or is the Pissaro an original?'
'My father, I'm afraid, is disgustingly wealthy,' she said. 'Electronics, armaments, things like that. His headquarters are in Marseilles and he tends to indulge me.'
He took in the robe and said gravely. 'It was too much to expect that a girl like you could have reached the ripe old age of twenty-seven without complication. You are married, I think? I was wrong.'
'Divorced,' she said.
'Ah, I see.'
'And you?'
'My wife died four years ago. Leukaemia. I was always rather difficult to please so my mother arranged things. She's like that. She was the daughter of a family friend.'
'A suitable match for a Montera?'
'Exactly. I have a ten-year-old daughter named Linda who lives contentedly with her grandmother. I am not a good father. Too impatient.'
'I can't believe that.'
And then he was close and she was in his arms and his lips brushed her face. 'I love you. Don't ask me how, but it's true. I've never known anyone like you.'
He kissed her and for a moment she responded; then she pushed him away and there was something strangely like fear in her eyes.
'Please, Raul, no. Not now.'
He took her hands gently and nodded. 'Of course. I understand. I do, believe me. May I call you in the morning?'
'Yes, please do.'
He released her, picked up his greatcoat, went to the door and opened it. He turned and smiled, an inimitable, wry smile of such charm that she ran across the room and put her hands on his shoulders.
'You're so damned nice to me. I'm not used to that. Not from men. Give me time.'
'All you need.' He smiled again. 'You made me feel so gentle. I amazed myself.'
The door closed softly behind him, she leaned against it, filled with a delight that she had never known in her life before.
* * *
Outside, Montera got into the back of the Embassy car, the driver drove away. A moment later Tony Villiers stepped out of a nearby doorway. He lit a cigarette and watched the cargo, then turned to look up at the windows of the flat. As he did so, the lights were turned out. He stood there for a moment longer, then walked away.
* * *
Brigadier Charles Ferguson was sitting in bed, propped against pillows, working his way through a mass of papers, when the red phone rang, the line that connected him directly with his office at the Directorate-General of the Security Service in the large, anonymous white and red brick building in the West End of London not far from the Hilton Hotel.
'Ferguson here.'
Harry Fox said, 'Coded message from the CIA in Washington, sir. They seem to think that the Argentinians will hit the Falklands within the next few days.'
'Do they indeed? What does the Foreign Office have to say?'
'They think it's a load of cobblers, sir.'
'They would, wouldn't they? Any word from Gabrielle?'
'Not yet.'
'An interesting point, Harry. Raul Montera is one of the few pilots in the Argentine Air Force with genuine combat experience. If they were going to start anything, you'd think they'd recall him.'
'Even cleverer to leave him in London, sir.'
'That's true. Anyway, I'll see you in the morning. If we haven't heard from Gabrielle by noon I'll phone her.'
He put down the receiver, picked up a file and went back to work.
4
When she admitted Montera the following morning, she was fresh from the bath and wearing the same robe. He was wearing jeans and an old black leather flying jacket. He had rung her at eight o'clock, unable to bear the waiting.
'You said to make it informal,' he said.
She kissed him on the cheek and fingered the gold crucifix on the chain that hung around his neck. 'You look gorgeous.'
She had spoken in English and he replied in the same language. 'Gorgeous? Is this a word to apply to a man?'
'Gorgeous,' she insisted. 'Stop role-playing. I thought we'd go for a walk. Across Kensington Gardens and down to Harrods. I've some shopping to do.'
'Fine by me.'
He lit a cigarette and sat reading the morning paper while she went to dress. There was an account of yesterday's proceedings in Parliament and questions to the Prime Minister on the Falklands. He read the Report with interest, only looking up when Gabrielle stepped back into the room.
She was an astonishing sight in a yellow tee shirt which clearly outlined her breasts, a tight white skirt that ended above the knee and a pair of high heeled cowboy boots. A pair of sunglasses were perched on top of her blonde hair.
'Shall we go?' she said.
'Yes, of course,' he said, stood up and opened the door for her. He smiled. 'You are a woman of surprises. Did anyone ever tell you that?'
'Often,' she said, and moved past him.
* * *
The crowd in Kensington Gardens was remarkably cosmopolitan; Arabs and Asians of every variety mingling freely with the native British. People lounged on the grass, boys played football in the bright sunshine, and Gabrielle drew admiring glances on every hand.
She took his arm. 'Tell me something. Why do you fly?'
'It's what I do.'
'You're probably filthy rich. Everyone knows the Argentine Air Force is staffed by the aristocracy. You could do anything you want.'
'Perhaps I can explain,' he said. 'When I was a boy, I had an uncle Juan, my mother's brother, who lived in Mexico City. He was a fabulously wealthy man, a member of one of the oldest families in Mexico, and yet from boyhood, he had room for only one passion.'
'Women?'
'No, I'm being serious. Bulls. In fact, he became a torero, a professional bullfighter, and a great shame to the family because bullfighters are usually gypsies or poor boys, up from the gutter.'
'So?'
'I sat with him while they dressed him in his suit of lights for a special appearance in the Grand Plaza at Mexico City. I counted the scars of the horns on his body
. Nine times he had been gored. I said, "Uncle, you have everything - title, money, power - yet you go to the bulls. You face, week by week, animals specifically trained to kill you. Why do you do this thing?"'
'And what did he reply?'
'He said, it's what I am. There's nothing else I want to do. Flying's like that with me.'
She touched the scar. 'Even when it almost gets you killed?'
'Ah, but I was younger then. More foolish. I believed in causes, justice, freedom. Beautiful nonsense. Now I am older. All used up.'
'We'll have to see about that.'
'Is that a promise?'
'Never mind. What happened to your uncle?'
'Oh, he finally went to the horns one time too many.'
She shivered. 'I don't like it.'
She had tightened her grip on his arm as if to reassure herself. They crossed from the gardens and started down Kensington Road.
He said, 'I think I've done rather well to hold myself in this far, but I feel I ought to point out that you look spectacularly tarty in that outfit. By intention, I presume?'
'You swine,' she said amiably, and held his arm even tighter.
'Is one permitted to enquire the purpose?'
She shrugged. 'Does it matter? I don't really know. It's nice to play games occasionally, don't you think?'
He stopped and half-turned towards her as she still clung to his arm. 'You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life,' he said, 'in spite of that appalling outfit.'
'So kind.'
'Think nothing of it.'
He kissed her gently on the mouth. 'Oh, my beautiful, glorious tart. Can't you see how much I'm loving you? I don't have any choice in the business. It's like a moral imperative.'
There were tears in her eyes. 'Oh, God,' she said angrily. 'I hate men and yet you're so damn nice. I've never ever known a man like you.'
He waved to a passing taxi. As it swung in to the kerb she said, 'What is this? Where are we going?'
'Back to the flat,' he said. 'Kensington Palace Gardens. Such a good address. Close to the Russian Embassy.'
* * *
Lying in bed, an arm about her, watching the white curtains rise and fall in the slight breeze from the partly open window, he felt more content, more at peace with himself than he had done for years.
There was a radio cassette player on the small table beside the bed. She reached to switch it on and Ella Fitzgerald's unique and wonderful voice moved into Our Love is Here to Stay.
'Just for you,' she said.
'Very civil of you.'
He kissed her lazily on the forehead. She gave a small grunt of infinite content, turned her stomach into his thigh and sighed. 'That was lovely. Can we do it again some time?'
'Could you possibly give me time to catch my breath?'
She smiled and ran a hand across his belly. 'The poor old man. Just listen to him. Move away a little. I want to look at you.'
They lay a couple of feet apart, heads on the same pillow, the green eyes wide and starry as if she was committing him to memory.
'The scar,' she said. 'Tell me about it.'
He shrugged. 'I was flying from Fernando Po to Port Harcourt in Biafra during the Nigerian civil war. We usually flew by night. Dakotas mostly, but they needed medical supplies in a hurry.' His eyes stared back into the past. 'It was raining like hell. A real thunderstorm. I got a Russian Mig fighter on my tail. Egyptian pilot, I found out later. He started to shoot me out of the sky, it was as simple as that. Within seconds the other three crew members were dead or dying. That's when I got this.' He fingered the scar.
'What did you do?'
'Took her down to five hundred feet. Next time he came in on my tail, I dropped the Dakota's flaps. It was like stopping dead in mid-air. I almost stalled.'
'And the Mig?'
'No space left to work in. Overshot me and ploughed straight into the jungle.'
'Clever boy.'
She ran a finger along his lips. He said drowsily, 'I want to be totally honest with you, can you understand that? I've never felt so with any human being before. I want to give all of myself that there is to give.'
There was pain in her then because of her own deceit. She managed to smile. 'Don't worry about it. Go to sleep. We've got all day.'
'You're wrong,' he said. 'We have the rest of our lives.' He smiled. 'I've always loved cities by night. The feeling of the potential things. When I was a young man, walking by night in Paris, London or Buenos Aires, there was always a magic, something bracing about the night air. A feeling that at the end of the street, something marvellous was waiting just around the corner.'
'What are you trying to tell me?' she asked.
'Forty-five,' he said. 'Six in July. You've been a long time coming. Thank God you made it. I didn't ask you your sign.'
'Capricorn.' Her arms were about him now, her lips on his forehead.
'Dreadful combination, Leo and Capricorn,' he muttered. 'No hope at all.'
'Is that a fact?' She kissed him and a moment later he was asleep.
* * *
She was standing by the window, looking out across the gardens, thinking about him, when the phone sounded in the sitting room. She went through quickly and picked it up.
Ferguson said, 'Ah, there you are. Anything to report?'
'Nothing,' she said.
'Is he with you now?'
She took a deep breath. 'Yes. Asleep in the other room.'
'Things are hotting up,' he said. 'All the signs point to an invasion down there. You're sure he's staying in London?'
'Yes,' she said. 'Very sure.'
'Fine. I'll be in touch.'
She put down the phone, at that moment hating Ferguson more than she had ever hated anyone in her life. There was a sudden sharp cry as Raul Montera called out and she turned and ran into the bedroom.
* * *
The dream was more real than anything he had ever known. The plane was in a hell of a state, he knew that, great holes ripped in the body, pieces of fuselage rattling in the turbulence. He could smell smoke and burning oil. Panic gave him strength as he fought to release the plastic canopy that enveloped him.
'Dear God, don't let me burn,' he thought and then the canopy swung away from him.
His fingers, warm with his own blood, groped for the quick release handle that would eject him and then a shadow passed overhead. There was a beating of wings and he looked up to find a great eagle, claws distended, dropping down on him. He screamed aloud in fear. He came awake then, and found himself in Gabrielle's arms.
* * *
They sat in the large bath, facing each other, totally at ease, drinking tea from china mugs, Montera smoking a cigarette.
'The tea is excellent,' he said.
'Much better for you than coffee.'
'From now on, coffee no longer exists.'
'An eagle descending,' she said. 'Obviously only one thing to do.'
'And what would that be?'
'You told me yourself. Drop your flaps. Even eagles will overshoot.'
'Brilliant,' he said. 'What a pilot you would have made.' He stood up and reached a towel. 'What next?'
'I'd like to see Cats again.'
'But tickets are unobtainable,' he said as he started to dress.
'A challenge for you.'
'Taken. And dinner afterwards?'
'Daphne's, I think. I feel very Frenchy today. And make sure they give you a booth.'
'At your orders, senorita,' he said formally in Spanish.
As he pulled on his flying jacket, his wallet fell to the floor. Amongst the items which cascaded out was a small photo. She picked it up and examined it. The woman in the cane chair was beautifully gowned, the hair groomed to perfection, all the arrogance of the true aristocrat in her face. The child who stood beside her wore a formal white dress and was tall with wide dark eyes.
'She's beautiful,' Gabrielle said. 'A lot like you. But your mother looks as if she could be difficult.
'
'Donna Elena Llorca de Montera difficult?' He laughed. 'Only most of the time.'
'Off you go,' she said. 'I've things to do.'
He smiled, moved to the door and paused. When he turned, he was no longer smiling, but stood there looking extraordinarily vulnerable in the black opened-necked shirt and the old flying jacket.
'You really do look gorgeous,' she said.
'I've been in the trenches a long time.'
'You've got me now,' she said in a kind of reflex, without thinking.
'Good.' He kissed her gently, then picked up the photo which had fallen on the floor and put it on the side. 'You can have that.'
The door closed behind him. She stared up at the ceiling, thinking of Ferguson, wishing he were dead.
* * *
Ferguson was seated at his desk at Cavendish Place with Fox, going through various papers, when the door opened and Villiers pushed past Kim before the Gurkha could announce him.
'My dear Tony, you look quite agitated,' Ferguson said as Kim withdrew.
'What's going on between Gabrielle and this Argentinian, Montera?' Villiers asked. 'I followed him home last night, so don't attempt to deny it. She's on a job for you, isn't she?'
'None of your business, Tony,' Ferguson said. 'And neither is she any longer.'
Villiers lit a cigarette and paced to the window. 'All right, point taken. I can still show concern, can't I? That last job she did for you in Berlin, she nearly ended up in the canal.'
'But she didn't,' Ferguson said patiently, 'because you, dear Tony, turned up in the nick of time as usual. This Montera business is very small beer. She's simply out to extract what useful information she can about the Falklands situation.'
'How, by taking him to bed?'
'Not your affair, Tony. And you have, if I may say so, more important things to worry about.'
Harry Fox passed a note across. 'They've cancelled your leave, Tony. They want you back in Hereford as soon as possible.'
Bradbury Lines, Hereford, was the headquarters of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.
'But why, for God's sake?' Villiers demanded.
Ferguson sighed and removed his reading glasses. 'Quite simple really, Tony. I think you may be going to war sooner than you think.'
* * *
And at his flat off Belgrave Square, Raul Montera gripped the telephone tightly, listening with horror to what the Military Attache at the Embassy was saying to him.