by Jack Higgins
'Never mind that now. Donner. Tell me about him. Just the salient facts.'
'Multi-millionaire. The Donner Development Corporation has a vast range of interests. Building, shipping, electronics, you name it.'
'And Donner himself?'
'Very popular media figure, as you can see from the file. Started in property development in a very small way. Really took off in the boom of the sixties.'
'And never looked back?'
'That's it, sir. In the circumstances and considering the size of his bank balance, it seems odd that he would involve himself in an affair like this, even for a couple of million pounds.'
'Exactly.' Ferguson sat looking at the file for a while, frowning. 'I really do smell stinking fish here in a big way. First of all there's the Russian connection. How was Nikolai Belov so certain after being approached by Garcia that Donner was the man who could help?'
'True. So what are you saying, sir?'
'That Felix Donner was an orphan which is very convenient. That every other man who served with him and was taken prisoner in Korea died in captivity. Also very convenient.'
There was a long silence. Fox asked, 'Are you suggesting what I think you are, sir?'
Ferguson got up and walked to the fire and stood there, looking down into the flames.
Fox said, 'He's a highly respected businessman, sir. It doesn't make sense.'
'Neither did the Gordon Lonsdale affair, remember? Also a highly respected business man. A Canadian, to all intents and purposes. Even now, after all these years, there's some doubt as to his real identity.'
'Except that he was a Russian. A professional agent.'
'Exactly.'
'Are you suggesting that Donner could be another Lonsdale?'
'It's a possibility, that's all we can say for the moment. All right, so he could just be a thoroughly unscrupulous business man, out as our American friends would say, to make a buck. We'll have to see.'
'So what do we do, sir, pull him in?'
Ferguson went back to his desk. 'Difficult while he's in France. Oh, I could pull strings at high levels, but if we went public it would create one hell of a stink and we might lose considerable long-term advantages. If we could catch him properly, Harry, we might be able to bring down one hell of a house of cards. All his KGB connections in this country. But only if he is what I think he might be.'
'That's right.'
'And we don't even know what he's up to. Even Garcia has obviously been kept in the dark there. All he can say is that Donner has guaranteed him Exocets by next week. No, what we need now is someone right on his tail who can keep us informed day-by-day.'
Fox said, 'And how on earth can we do that?'
'I should have thought it obvious. The key to this affair is Colonel Raul Montera and our link with Montera is Gabrielle Legrand.'
There was silence between them and then Fox said. 'On the other hand, Gabrielle doesn't like us very much, sir.'
'We'll have to see, won't we? You'd better pull her in.'
At that moment, the red phone buzzed. He picked it up quickly. 'Ferguson here.' He listened, face grave, then said, 'Of course, sir,' and replaced the receiver.
Fox said, 'Trouble?'
'That was the Director-General. It seems the Prime Minister wants to see me.'
* * *
Donner did not, as a rule, enjoy flying in small aircraft - they were noisy, uncomfortable and lacking in the more obvious amenities - but he could find no fault with the plane Stavrou had arranged. It was a Navajo Chieftain with an excellent cabin and tables that one could sit at in a civilized way.
They took off from a small private airfield outside Paris at a place called Brie-Comte-Robert. The pilot was a man called Rabier, a dark, thin-faced man in his early thirties who, according to Stavrou's information, had left the French Air Force under a cloud. He now ran a small air transport firm and didn't ask questions when the money was right. Exactly what they were looking for.
They came in towards the coast over the Vendee, well south of St Nazaire. Donner had moved up next to the pilot and Rabier said, 'Here's where we land. Place called Lancy. It was a Luftwaffe fighter base during the Second World War. Someone tried to run a flying school from there which failed. Since then, it's been deserted.'
Donner pointed to a notation on the map. 'What's that mean?'
'Restricted air space. There's an island out there off the coast, Ile de Roc. Some sort of military testing range. All it means is keep away. Don't worry, navigation is my strong point.'
They landed at Lancy twenty minutes later. There were four hangars and the watchtower was still intact, but the grass between the runways was waist-high and there was an air of desolation to everything.
A black Citroen was parked in front of the old operations building and Wanda Brown got out as the Navajo taxied toward her. She wore jeans and a leather hunting jacket, her dark hair tied back in place with a silk scarf.
Donner descended the airstair ladder, slipped an arm about her shoulders and kissed her. 'Where did you get the car?'
'Hired it from a garage in St Martin. And I think I've found just the place you're looking for. Five miles from here and about as far from the coast.' She took some keys from her pocket. 'The local estate agent entrusted them to me. I explained that my boss didn't like to be bothered with such matters. I'm certain he thinks I'm setting up a love nest for weekends.'
'Looking at you, what else would he think?' Donner asked her. 'Anyway, let's get moving. You drive, Yanni.'
Stavrou sat behind the wheel and Wanda got into the rear. Donner turned to Rabier, who was peering out from the Navajo.
'A couple of hours at the most, I think, then back to Paris.'
'Fine by me, Monsieur.'
Donner got in to the car beside the girl and they drove away.
* * *
The house was called Maison Blanche and nestled amongst beech trees in a hollow. It was quite large and had obviously been imposing once, but now, there was an air of decay to things.
Donner got out of the Citroen and stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the front door under the portico with the green paint peeling rather noticeably.
'Fourteen bedrooms and a stable block at the rear,' Wanda said. 'There's reasonably modern central heating and the oil tanks are full. You could manage here for a few days, I think.'
'What's the story?'
'The owner is in the colonial service in the Pacific. His mother died two years ago and as he wants to retire here eventually, he won't sell. It's fully furnished. The agent lets it off for occasional holiday lets in the summer, otherwise it stands empty.'
She unlocked the door and led the way in. There was a slight musty smell, typical of a house not lived in for a long time, but also a kind of faded magnificence to everything: mahogany panelling and furniture, and good Persian carpets on the floor.
They moved into a drawing-room with a huge fireplace and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Wanda opened the French windows and then the shutters, allowing light to flood in.
'All the comforts of home. Imagine it with central heating going and a log fire. Haven't I done well?'
'Excellent,' Donner said. 'Take it.'
'I already have.'
He pulled her into his arms. 'You're a clever little bitch, aren't you?'
'Some of the time. I aim to please.'
As always, she stirred him physically, which wouldn't do at all for this was neither the time or place. He kissed her once and turned away.
'Right, show me St Martin. Is it possible to see Ile de Roc?'
'On the horizon and only if the weather's good.'
'Let's get going then.'
He went out. As she turned to follow, she was aware of Stavrou, watching her as he always seemed to do, that enigmatic face, and the eyes, so cruel and with something in them especially for her. She hurried past him quickly and he followed her out.
* * *
St Martin was a simple
enough place. There were no more than five or six hundred inhabitants, narrow cobbled streets, cottages roofed with red pantiles, a small harbour enclosed by a single break-water in which thirty or forty fishing boats of the smaller variety were moored.
There was also an army landing craft painted olive green and moored to the jetty; little more than a steel shell, with great steel bow doors as a beaching exit. An army truck stood inside and, as they watched, the craft moved away from the jetty and out to sea.
'So that's their means of transportation to the island,' Donner said.
Wanda nodded. 'Apparently.'
'According to Paul Bernard, the commanding officer out there also has a fine motor launch which is his pride and joy.'
'That's right. It was moored down there for a while yesterday.'
'Good. That's really excellent.'
They drove on, up out of the town, following a narrow coast road until finally Stavrou, under Wanda's direction, turned in through two stone pillars and bumped across a field track.
Donner and Wanda got out and she handed him a pair of Zeiss fieldglasses as they went forward to the edge of the cliffs. There was a bay far below and the path down was no place for the faint-hearted, zigzagging across the face of granite cliffs, splashed with lime, seabirds crying, wheeling in great clouds, razorbills, shags, gulls, shearwaters and gannets - gannets everywhere.
Ile de Roc was a smudge on the horizon that came to life only when he focussed the glasses. It was well named, massive cliffs rising steeply from the sea, only a hint of green on top. There were no installations to be seen, but he already knew they were on the western side of the island.
He lowered the glasses. 'Good, let's go.'
They returned to the Citroen, got in, and Stavrou reversed and drove away.
* * *
On the way back, they passed Maison Blanche again. A few hundred yards on, as they turned into the road leading to Lancy, Donner leaned forward and touched Stavrou on the shoulder.
'Stop a minute. What have we got here?'
In the meadow beside the trees, three wagons were parked around a fire. They were old and battered with patched canvas tilts, and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything from the clothes worn by the four women who squatted by the fire drinking coffee from old cans, to the rags on the children, who played by the stream where three bony horses grazed.
'Gypsies?' Donner said.
'Yes, the agent said there were some in the neighbourhood. Claimed they were no trouble.'
'He would, wouldn't he?' Donner nodded to Stavrou. 'Come on, Yanni, this may work out quite well.'
As they walked down into the hollow, the women looked up curiously, saying nothing. Donner stood there, hands in pockets, then said in French, 'Where's the head man?'
'Here he is, Monsieur.'
The man who had appeared from the trees was old, at least seventy. He had a shotgun crooked in his right arm. He wore a tweed suit which had been patched many times, and white hair showed beneath the blue beret. His face was the colour of oak, wrinkled and covered with stubble.
'And who might you be?' Donner enquired.
'I am Paul Gaubert, Monsieur? Is it permitted to ask you the same question?'
'My name is Donner. I'm the new tenant of Maison Blanche. I think I'm probably right in saying you're camped on my land.'
'But Monsieur, we stay here every year at this time. Never before have we had a problem.'
The young man with him was of medium height with a weak, sullen face. He badly needed a shave. His clothes were as shabby as Gaubert's and black hair poked from beneath a tweed cap. He not only carried a shotgun in his right hand, but a brace of hares in his left.
Donner looked him over and Gaubert said hastily, 'My son, Paul.'
'With my hares, I think? What would the local gendarmes in St Martin have to say about you lot, I wonder?'
Old Gaubert flung his arms wide. 'Please, Monsieur, everywhere we go it is the same. Filthy gypsies, they say. They spit on us while our children go hungry.'
'All right.' Donner took out his wallet. 'I don't need the sob story. You can stay.' He took out a couple of thousand franc notes and stuffed them into Gaubert's breast pocket. 'That's to be going on with. I don't like strangers, understand?'
The old man took out the notes, examined them and smiled broadly. 'I think so, Monsieur.'
'Just keep an eye on things till I'm back down again, or Monsieur Stavrou here.'
'You can rely on me, Monsieur.' Old Gaubert said, and kicked his son on the leg for gawping at Wanda.
They went back to the Citroen, and as they drove away she said, 'Now what?'
'Paris. I've got to make arrangements about this Argentine pilot, Montera. Garcia tells me he's flown twelve missions to the Falklands and survived.'
'An authentic hero,' she said. 'I thought they'd gone out of style.'
'So did I, but this guy is for real and he's going to suit my purpose admirably. By the time I'm finished with him, he'll be world-famous.'
He slipped an arm about her shoulders and leaned back in the seat.
8
At that time, because of the Falklands situation, unusually large crowds had started to congregate in Downing Street and the police had been compelled to take action, cordoning off most of the street.
When Ferguson showed his special pass, his car was allowed through and dropped him outside Number 10, five minutes early for his appointment with the Prime Minister. The policeman on duty saluted, the door was opened even before Ferguson reached it, and he passed inside.
The young aide who greeted him, said, 'This way, Brigadier, the Prime Minister is expecting you.'
Ferguson followed him up the main staircase, not for the first time in his career, past the portraits of previous Prime Ministers, Peel, Wellington, Disraeli, Gladstone. It always filled him with an acute sense of history and he wondered whether the woman who held the most august office in the land, was similarly affected. Probably so. If anyone had a sense of history and destiny, she did. He doubted whether the Falklands venture could have gone forward without her strength of purpose and courage behind it.
In the top corridor, the young man knocked on a door, opened it and ushered Ferguson inside. 'Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister,' he said and left, closing the door.
The study was just as elegant as when Ferguson had last seen it, with pale green walls and gold curtains and comfortable furniture in excellent taste. But as always, nothing could have been more elegant than the woman behind the desk in the neat blue suit and white blouse, the blonde hair perfectly groomed.
She looked at him calmly. 'The last time we had dealings, Brigadier, was in connection with a possible attempt on my life.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Your efforts on that occasion were not conspicuously successful. If the would-be assassin had not thought better of the matter here in this very room...'
She let her words hang for a while and then carried on. 'I see that the Director-General of Intelligence has seen fit, in his wisdom, to place you in charge of all matters relating to the Exocet question.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'I understand that the Libyans had intended to provide the Argentinians with additional supplies, but thanks to pressure from our friends in the Arab world, this is no longer likely?'
'That is correct, Prime Minister.'
'Is there any possibility that the Peruvians might try to help?'
'That contingency has already been taken care of ma'am. We...'
'Please, Brigadier, spare me the details. Which only leaves the French, and I have Monsieur Mitterand's personal assurance that the arms embargo will stay in force.'
'I'm pleased to hear it, ma'am.'
She stood up, walked to the window and looked out. 'Brigadier, if one Exocet hits either Hermes or Invincible, the entire course of this conflict is changed. We would almost certainly have to withdraw.' She turned. 'Can you assure me that there is no possibility of further Exocets
reaching the Argentine from any source whatever?'
'No, ma'am, I'm afraid I can't.'
'Then I suggest you do something about that, Brigadier,' she said calmly. 'Department Four has full power - total authority from this office. Use it, Brigadier, use it any way you can, for the sake of our men in the South Atlantic, for all our sakes.'
'Thank you, Prime Minister. I'll do my best, I can assure you of that.'
Ferguson got the door opened and went out. The eyes of those previous Prime Ministers seemed to follow him as he went down the stairs. He wondered if he'd just secured himself a small niche in history, but decided probably not. Even if it all works perfectly, it was the kind of thing they'd all deny had happened. He chuckled to himself as the aide bowed him to the front door and showed him out.
* * *
As Harry Fox and Ferguson went up in the lift at Kensington Palace Gardens, Fox said, 'We're wasting our time, sir. When I tried to speak to her on the phone, she just told me to get lost.'
'We'll see,' Ferguson said.
He pushed open the lift door, went around the corner to Gabrielle's flat and knocked. After a while the door opened on the chain and she peered out.
'What do you want?'
'To talk to you.'
'Well I don't want to talk to you. Clear off!'
She started to close the door and he pushed his foot in. 'Not even about Raul Montera?'
She stared blankly at him, then took off the chain and turned away. Ferguson followed her in and Fox closed the door behind them.
She went and stood by the fire and lit one of her rare cigarettes. 'Well, get on with it.'
She looked magnificent in her anger, eyes full of hate, and Ferguson decided to go in with both feet.
'Raul Montera arrives in Paris tomorrow to liaise with a man called Felix Donner who the Argentine Government believes can procure them an additional supply of Exocet missiles. I need to find out what they're up to and stop them. I want you to go to Paris, make contact with Montera again, and do whatever is necessary to help us stop them cold.'
'You must be crazy. I'll never work for you again. Never.'
'It's your duty. You're still a British citizen.'