Exocet (1983)

by Jack Higgins

  Montera lit a cigarette. 'All right, so what exactly have you arranged?'

  Donner had always found that a basis of fact made a phoney story sound better.

  'As you know, the Libyans have a plentiful supply of Exocets, but due to pressure from the rest of the Arab world, Colonel Qadhafi has not been able to release them to the Argentine as he first intended - or perhaps I should say, not officially. There's always a way round most things in this life, or so I've found.'

  'So?' Montera said.

  'I've taken a house in Brittany near the coast close to an old wartime bomber station. A place called Lancy. Disused now, but the runways are still perfectly usable. Two days from now, possibly three, a Hercules transport en route from Italy to Ireland will put down at Lancy, quite illegally, of course. There will be ten of the latest mark of Exocet missile on board.'

  'Holy Mother of God!' Garcia said.

  'You, Colonel Montera, will check that cargo. If you're satisfied, you will phone Senor Garcia here in Paris who will make immediate arrangements to have three million pounds in gold transferred as I direct in Geneva.'

  'I must congratulate you, senor,' Montera said softly. 'That really is the way to wage war.'

  'I've always thought so,' Donner said. 'I presume, by the way, that you will want to take off with the Hercules when it leaves, not for Ireland, but for Dakar in Senegal. They're very liberally minded there, especially when it comes to business. The Hercules will re-fuel, fly across to Rio, where it will re-fuel again for the final leg of the journey which will be to any air force base which takes your fancy in the Argentine.'

  There was silence. Garcia said with some awe, 'Magnificent.'

  'And you, colonel?' Donner looked up at Montera. 'Do you think it's magnificent?'

  'I'm a professional soldier,' Montera said. 'I don't have opinions. I just do as I'm told. When do you want me at this place?'

  'The day after tomorrow. We'll fly down by private plane.' Donner stood up. 'Until then, enjoy yourself. This is Paris. I'd say you've earned it after your efforts down there in the South Atlantic'

  Montera went and opened the door for them. As they went out, Donner said, 'I'll be in touch.'

  He and the Russian moved down the hall, Garcia lingered a moment. 'What do you think?'

  'I think I don't like him,' Montera said. 'But that's not what I'm here for.'

  'I'd better go,' Garcia said. 'If anything of importance comes up, I'll phone you. Otherwise, colonel, you might as well do as Senor Donner suggests - enjoy yourself.'

  * * *

  Gabrielle went riding in the Bois de Boulogne at noon. It had stopped raining and there were few people about. She'd slept badly, had stayed in bed until just before noon and hadn't really caught up with herself since. She felt tired and dull, sick with apprehension about the task ahead.

  Corwin moved into the shelter of an oak tree as rain began to spot the ground again. He watched Gabrielle canter up through the trees from the direction of the lake, the same route Montera had taken that morning. The ride had brought colour back into her cheeks and she looked magnificent.

  She reined in as Corwin stepped into view. 'Oh, it's you.'

  She dismounted and Corwin produced a number of prints of the photos he'd taken that morning and passed them to her.

  'Have a look at those. I'll hold the horse.'

  She looked at the first one. Corwin said, 'The small man is Juan Garcia. The big one is Donner and then Belov, the KGB man. Montera, of course, you know.'

  She stared down at the photo, her stomach hollow, then glanced at the next one. 'That's Yanni Stavrou, Dormer's minder. Very rough customer.'

  And then she came to the ones Corwin had taken of Montera running in the park and there was one, where he was at maximum effort, saturated with the pure joy of running, face clear, no pain there at all, and she was filled with such love for him that the sensation was almost unbearable.

  She handed them back and took the reins of the horse. 'Are you all right?'

  'Why shouldn't I be? When does Tony get in?'

  'Around five o'clock. Harry Fox will be in before then. The Brigadier wants him to brief your husband thoroughly before he sees you.'

  'He's not my husband, Mr Corwin,' Gabrielle said and pulled herself up into the saddle. 'A very elementary error on your part. People in our game can't afford errors, not even little ones.'

  She was right, of course, Corwin knew that. Strange that he didn't feel any anger as he watched her canter away.

  * * *

  As Corwin, Jackson and Tony Villiers went up in the lift to the tenth floor of the apartment block on the Avenue Victor Hugo, Corwin said, 'It's quite a reasonable little service flat. I had to take it for a month though, that was the minimum.'

  'I'm sure the Department can stand it,' Villiers said.

  'Of course, the reason I took it was because Gabrielle lives just up the road. All very convenient.' His effort at a smile died in the face of Villiers' implacable hostility.

  'I know where she lives, or hadn't that occurred to you?'

  He was surprised at the extent of his own anger over what was, after all, such a trivial point. He was tired, that was the trouble, far too tired. Also frustrated and occasionally filled with hate when he thought of Charles Ferguson.

  The lift stopped, they got out, and Corwin led the way along the corridor, took out a key and opened the door. He passed the key to Villiers.

  'All yours.'

  He led the way in and Villiers and Jackson followed. The flat was small, neat and functional, more like a good modern hotel room than anything else.

  Harry Fox sat by the window reading a newspaper. Villiers stood looking at him. 'Anything interesting?'

  'Not really.' Fox put the newspaper down. 'The push from San Carlos is expected at any minute.'

  Villiers tossed his bag on to the bed. 'All right, Harry, what's it all about. Last time I saw Ferguson I told him to lay off Gabrielle, so what's his game?'

  'You won't like it, Tony.'

  Villiers said to Jackson, 'Get us all a drink, Harvey, I think I'm going to need it.' He turned back to Fox. 'Okay, let's have it.'

  * * *

  At Maison Blanche, the old gypsy, Maurice Gaubert, and his son, Paul, were setting traps for rabbits in the wood above the house when a truck turned into the stable yard below and braked to a halt. As the Gauberts watched, a number of men got out and a couple who had stayed inside started to pass out various items of equipment. Stavrou got out of the driving cab and unlocked the main stable doors.

  Paul Gaubert said, 'It's Monsieur Donner's man. The one with the funny name.'

  'The only funny thing about him,' his father said. 'Stavrou.' He dropped the traps he was holding and picked up his shot gun. 'We'll go and see what this is all about.'

  Stavrou was just coming out of the stables as they approached. He lit a cigarette, leaned against the truck and waited.

  'Bonjour, Monsieur,' Maurice Gaubert said. 'Rather more of you this time.'

  'That's right.'

  'And Monsieur Donner, he comes also?'

  'Probably tomorrow.'

  Paul Gaubert shifted nervously from one foot to the other under Stavrou's grim stare. His father said, 'Is there anything you wish us to do, Monsieur?'

  'Keep an eye out for any strangers.' Stavrou took a couple of thousand franc notes from his wallet and held them up. 'You understand me?'

  'Perfectly, Monsieur.' Gaubert took the money. 'Your business is, after all, your own business. If anything unusual occurs, I will let you know.'

  Stavrou watched them go, then turned into the stables where his men were sorting the supplies which had been unloaded from the truck.

  'All right, line up,' he said. 'At the double.'

  They ran to obey his command and a moment later, stood in line, rigidly at attention. He paced up and down, looking them over.

  'As far as I'm concerned, you're back in the army now, so the sooner you get used to that idea, t
he better.'

  * * *

  Corwin had supplied a Citroen car, and when it pulled up outside Gabrielle's apartment in the Avenue Victor Hugo later that evening, Jackson was at the wheel, Harry Fox and Villiers in the rear.

  'So that's it,' Fox said. 'At least you know the score now.'

  'So it would seem.'

  'One other thing. This Professor Bernard I mentioned. They're still phoning him from Buenos Aires for technical information on various aspects of the Exocets they've got left, which can't be many. Our people in B.A. monitored two calls last night.'

  'That's not so good,' Villiers said.

  'I know. Brigadier Ferguson feels it can't be allowed to continue. In the circumstances, he'd like you to take care of it while you're here.'

  'All right,' Villiers said without emotion.

  'Good. Now if the sergeant major wouldn't mind running me out to Charles de Gaulle airport, I'll just have time to catch the last shuttle to London.'

  'All right, Harvey. You take care of Captain Fox,' Villiers said. 'Don't bother to pick me up. I'll walk back. See you later.'

  He got out and as he started away Fox half-opened the door. 'Tony.'

  Villiers turned. 'What is it?'

  'Go easy on her.'

  Villiers stood there looking at him, face quite blank, hands in pockets, then he turned and went into the entrance without another word.

  * * *

  'You're looking well,' he said.

  She was standing by the fire, gas logs flickering brightly on the hearth, and wore a black silk jump suit, her feet bare, hair tied back from the face.

  'So are you. What was it like down there?'

  'Rather like the Scottish Highlands on a bad day.' He laughed harshly. 'As far as I'm concerned, the Argentinians can have it. North Falkland has very little to commend it. I'd rather take Armagh or the Oman any day.'

  'So what's it all about then?' she demanded. 'What are we all playing at, Tony?'

  Suddenly, there was an intimacy again, a warmth. Not love, not in the strict sense of that word, but something between them that she knew always would be there. Would never go away till the day she died.

  'Games, my love.' Villiers walked to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. 'That's what we're playing at every level from the Prime Minister, Galtieri and Reagan downwards.'

  'And you, Tony, what kind of game have you been playing all these years? The Death-wish game?'

  He smiled slightly. 'God help me, Gabrielle, but don't you think I haven't looked for an answer to that question a thousand times?'

  She frowned, as if trying to get it straight in her own mind, and sat down. 'You see, Tony, in the end, do we control the game or does the game possess us? Can we stop it if we want or must it always be the same?'

  He had never felt closer to her. He sat down opposite, that intimacy between them again.

  'Montera - you love him, don't you?'

  'He's the one thoroughly decent thing that ever happened to me,' she said simply.

  'Do you think you can go through with this?'

  'I hope so. I don't really have much choice, Ferguson made sure of that.'

  'One of these days I intend to run him down with a rather large truck,' he told her. She smiled and he took her hands. 'That's better. Now, let's discuss how you and Montera are going to get together again.'

  'And just how do you intend to arrange that?'

  'Simple. Corwin tells me he saw Montera running in the Bois de Boulogne yesterday morning.'

  'So?'

  'He apparently runs extremely well, which would indicate that he's in regular practice and only fanatics turn out in the pouring rain, the kind who refuse to miss a day's training. My hunch is he'll be there tomorrow.'

  'And what about me?'

  'You can go riding again. Let me explain.'

  When he was finished she smiled reluctantly. 'You always were inventive, Tony.'

  'In some things.' He stood up. 'Anyway, I'll be keeping an eye on you. Don't bother to get up. I'll let myself out.'

  He hesitated and then reached for her hand. She held on tight and when she looked up, her face was tragic.

  'I love him, Tony, isn't that the strangest thing? Just like everything I ever read about in the story books and poetry. Love at first sight. Total possession, so that I can't get him out of my mind.'

  'I understand.'

  'And now,' she said. 'I'm destroying that love as surely as I possibly can by my actions and I've no choice.' There were tears in her eyes. 'Wouldn't you say that was rather ironic?'

  He had no answer, of course, none at all, only a terrible rage deep inside, against himself and Ferguson and the world they inhabited. He kissed her gently on the forehead, turned and let himself out quietly.

  11

  It was raining again the following morning as Gabrielle took the horse forward to the edge of the trees and waited as Villiers had instructed her. It was very quiet, only the sound of rain hissing through the branches. There was an air of unreality to everything and she was conscious of that strange sensation again of being an observer watching herself as in a dream.

  Then far below from the trees beside the lake, a figure in a black tracksuit emerged and started to run up the hill. Raul. She recognised him instantly, watched for a few moments as she had been told and then kneed the horse forward.

  There was a movement somewhere on her right and two men came out of the trees. One of them was bearded and wore a reefer coat. The other was younger with long yellow hair in jeans and a patched denim jacket. And they were trouble, she knew that instantly.

  The one with the beard ran forward, flinging up his arms, making the horse rear. As he grabbed for the reins, the other reached up and caught her right arm. She cried out in genuine fear as she was pulled from the saddle.

  They both had her then, the bearded one holding her arms behind her and the boy with the yellow hair moving in close, reaching under her jacket for the breasts.

  As the horse cantered away, the bearded one said, 'Get her into the trees.' She cried aloud again, not in fear now, but in rage at every man who had ever put a hand on her and kicked out savagely.

  * * *

  Montera, hearing the first cry, paused and looked up in time to see her come off the horse. He didn't recognise her then, saw only a woman in difficulty and ran very fast up the slope, his running shoes making no sound on the wet grass.

  She was on the ground now, the bearded one trying to pull her up, the other one watching. Montera descended like a thunderbolt, delivering a terrible blow to the kidneys, knuckles extended. The boy screamed and fell on his knees. As the bearded man glanced up Montera kicked him in the face.

  The soft running shoe didn't do much harm and the man rolled over and came to his feet, pulling a knife from his pocket.

  In the same moment, Gabrielle turned, scrambling to her feet, and Montera saw her. He paused, total astonishment on his face and reached for her instinctively.

  She cried a warning as the bearded man rushed in. Montera shoved her away and swayed to one side like a bullfighter, the man stepping past him.

  Raul Montera knew a killing rage now, such as he had never known in his life before. He poised, balanced on both feet, waiting. The man rushed in again, knife extended. As it came up, Montera grabbed the wrist, twisting the arm up and to one side, taut as a steel bar. The bearded man screamed, Montera struck him a devastating blow across the side of the neck with the edge of his hand and he went down.

  The boy with the yellow hair was being sick and Gabrielle leaned against a tree, her face pale, streaked with mud.

  'Gabrielle. Oh, my God!' Her name burst out of him and suddenly he was laughing as he held her by the arms and looked at her.

  She said shakily, 'You don't do things by halves, do you?'

  'I could never see the point. In this sort of business, do it properly or run away. I'll get your horse.'

  It was grazing peacefully nearby and he caught the reins and
brought it over. 'Do you want to ride?'

  'I don't think so.'

  The bearded man groaned and tried to sit up. The boy was standing now, leaning against a tree.

  'What do you want me to do about these animals? The police?'

  'No, let it go,' she said. 'You've handed out sufficient punishment for one morning.'

  They started up toward the gates. 'This is amazing, truly amazing. I arrived yesterday. I didn't have a Paris address for you, but I did ring the London flat. No answer.'

  'Obviously not. I'm here.' And now it was necessary for her to say the right things. 'But what's going on, Raul? You're at war. Why aren't you in Buenos Aires?'

  'It's a long story. I'm staying just across the road in Avenue de Neuilly. What about you?'

  'My apartment is in Avenue Victor Hugo.'

  'Also not too far away,' he smiled. 'My place or yours?'

  The joy in her was so great, that for the moment she forgot everything. 'Oh, Raul, it's so good to see you.'

  She reached up and kissed him. He held her for a moment. 'Isn't this what the English call serendipity? A spectacularly marvellous, but totally unexpected delight?'

  'I believe they do.'

  There was laughter in his eyes and the mouth was touched by that inimitable smile she knew so well. 'I'd say that more than anything else at this particular moment you could do with a nice hot bath.'

  She smiled. 'My car is at the stables.'

  'Then what are we waiting for?'

  They went up the slope together, his arm around her, the horse trailing behind them.

  * * *

  After they'd gone, Tony Villiers and Harvey Jackson moved out of the trees and approached the two assailants. The bearded man was on his feet, clutching his arm, his face twisted with pain. The boy was being sick again.

  'I told you to frighten her a little, that's all,' Villiers said, 'but you tried to be clever. Anything you got, you asked for.'

  Jackson took several bank notes from his wallet and stuffed them into the bearded man's shirt pocket. 'Five thousand francs.'

  'Not enough,' the man said. 'He's broken my arm.'

  'That's your hard luck,' Jackson told him in his bad French.

  Villiers was angry, face dark, remembering her struggling in their hands and part of that anger was directed at himself for being responsible.