by Jack Higgins
'There is a plane for Paris leaving in two hours, Raul. It is essential that you do not miss it. The Air France flight for Buenos Aires leaves at ten-thirty this evening. They need you back there, my friend. You mustn't fail. I'm sending a car round.'
The Malvinas. That's all it could be. So many things fell into place now. Yet there was Gabrielle. What was he going to do about her? My one real chance of happiness in this accursed life, he thought, and the gods decide to screw it up for me.
He packed hurriedly, just one bag with essentials, and the doorbell rang as he was finishing. The chauffeur was waiting on the step as Montera emerged, still wearing his jeans and the old flying jacket.
'Heathrow, my colonel,' the chauffeur said as Montera got into the front seat beside him.
'By way of Kensington Palace Gardens,' Raul Montera said. 'And step on it! We don't have much time.'
* * *
Gabrielle had not changed, was sitting at the mirror in the old robe and about to make herself up, when the doorbell buzzed. She went and lifted the answerphone.
'It's me, Raul. Please hurry.'
She half-opened the door and waited, conscious of a dreadful foreboding, heard the lift door clang outside. He appeared, eyes wild, real pain on his face.
'Two minutes, that's all I've got. I've got a plane to catch to Paris. I've been recalled to Buenos Aires.'
'But why?' she cried.
'Does it matter?' He took her by the arms and kissed her savagely, all his anger and frustration pouring out of him. 'All I've got time for. Isn't life hell?'
He turned and was gone. The lift doors clanged again. She stood there, frozen, then ran into the bedroom and started to dress.
* * *
At Heathrow, Montera was just about to go through into the international departure lounge when she called his name, high and clear. As he turned, she came running through the crowd in a yellow cotton jumpsuit, hair tousled, face pale.
She ran into his arms. He held for a moment, then pushed her away. 'You look wonderful.'
'Nonsense,' she said. 'My hair's a mess, no make-up and wearing the first thing that came to hand.'
'Wonderful,' he said. 'Did I find time to tell you that I've now discovered what joy is? Thank you for that.'
'Raul, I love you. I love you so much.'
He smiled. 'We have a saying. Love is a gift that must be returned fourfold. What a burden you place on me. What a wonderful burden.'
Above their heads the tannoy called his name.
'Will you write?' she demanded.
'It may be difficult. Don't worry, even if there is a gap for a while. There are good reasons. I'll be back, I swear it. That's all that matters.'
She moved with him to the gate, hanging on. He turned for the last time. 'I'll make a bargain with you. No more partings ever again. No more saying goodbye. This is the last time. The only time.'
And then he was gone and she turned her face into a pillar and wept. After a while, she crossed to the telephones and dialled Ferguson's number, reversing the charge.
'He's gone,' she said. 'Just left for Paris to make a connection with Buenos Aires.'
'Rather sudden,' Ferguson said. 'Did he explain?'
'No.'
'You sound upset, Gabrielle.'
She told him what to do then, in French of the kind definitely not taught in any finishing school, sharp, succinct and to the point, slammed down the receiver and walked away.
* * *
When she opened the door of the flat and went in, Villiers appeared from the bedroom.
'Sorry about this,' he said. 'My leave's been cancelled and they want me back at Hereford. I needed a few things.'
He went back into the bedroom and returned to packing the bag which was open on the bed. She followed him through, her rage and frustration focusing on him.
'A few more throats need cutting somewhere, is that it?'
'I suppose so.'
'How was Belfast this time?'
'Pretty awful.'
'Good - you deserve each other.'
He closed the case and said calmly, 'I used to think that had a special significance where we were concerned.'
'No, Tony,' she said. 'Whatever else I may have deserved in this life, I didn't deserve you.'
'What did I do?' he said. 'What terrible thing did I do that you should hate me so, because you do, you know.'
'I married a stranger,' she said. 'Oh, you looked wonderful in uniform, Tony, and then it started. Every rotten little war that came along, you had to volunteer. Borneo, the Oman, Ireland. Even Vietnam, for Christ's sake. God, what I could say about that and you and your precious SAS if it wasn't for the Official Secrets Act.'
His face was bleak. 'This isn't getting us anywhere.'
'You're good at one thing, Tony. One thing only are you truly good at. Killing people.'
He pointed at the bed, the pillows still crumpled from where she had lain with Raul Montera, and picked up the white skirt and yellow tee shirt which still lay on the floor where she had dropped them.
'I've heard of the line of duty, Gabrielle, but this does really seem to be taking it too far.'
Her face crumpled like a little girl's, she slumped down on the bed. 'I love him so much, Tony. I never knew love could be like this. And he's gone. He's gone.'
He picked up his bag and stood there, feeling helpless, conscious of the desolation in her voice. He tried to speak, but there was nothing he could say. He turned and went out, leaving her to her grief.
* * *
Ferguson, still at his desk, stretched wearily. Paper and yet more paper. It never seemed to stop. He got up and went to the window and peered out into the square. Behind him, the door opened from the office and Harry Fox rushed in.
'Signal just in, sir. Units of the Argentine fleet have detached themselves from manoeuvres and are proceeding towards the Falkland Islands.' He handed the signal sheet to Ferguson. 'What do you think it means, sir?'
'Well, I never thought to have to say this again in my lifetime, Harry, but believe it or not, I think it means war.'
5
A cold wind lifted across the Seine and dashed rain against the windows of the all-night cafe by the bridge. It was a poor sort of place, usually much frequented by prostitutes, but not on such a night or rather, morning, for it was almost five a.m.
The barman leaned on the zinc-topped counter reading a newspaper and Nikolai Belov sat at a table in the corner drinking coffee, the only customer.
Belov was in his early fifties and for twelve of them had been Cultural Attache at the Soviet Embassy in Paris. His dark suit was of English cut, as was the dark blue overcoat which fitted him to perfection. He was a handsome, rather fleshy man with a mane of silver hair which made him look more like a distinguished actor than what he was, a colonel in the KGB.
The coffee was good and he said to the barman, 'I'll have another and a Cognac. Is that the early edition you have there?'
The barman nodded. 'Hot off the press at four o'clock. Have a look if you like. The news is all bad for the British down there in the Falklands.'
Belov sipped his Cognac and read the front page. Argentine Skyhawks had continued to bomb the British task force at San Carlos and Falkland Sound.
'Mind you, this Exocet missile is the thing,' the barman said. 'What a weapon, and all French. You fire it from forty miles away, it drops to the surface and skims the waves at ten feet, just under the speed of sound. There was an article about it in Paris Match yesterday. The damn thing can't miss.'
Which wasn't quite true, but Belov wasn't prepared to argue. 'A triumph for French technology!' He raised his glass and the barman toasted him back.
The door opened in a flurry of wind and rain and a man entered. He was small, dark-haired with thin features and a moustache. His raincoat was wet and he carried an umbrella which he was experiencing difficulty in closing. His name was Juan Garcia and he was a First Secretary in the Commercial Department of the Argentine Em
bassy in Paris. In reality, he was a major in military intelligence.
'Nikolai.' He spoke in good French and held out his hand with genuine warmth. 'It's good to see you.'
'And you,' Belov said. 'Try the coffee. It's excellent and the Cognac will clear your pipes.'
He nodded to the barman and lit a cigarette, waiting for Garcia to take off his wet coat. The barman brought the coffee and Cognac and departed to the back kitchen.
'You said it was urgent,' Belov said. 'I certainly hope so. This is an appalling time in the morning to be about.'
'It is urgent,' Garcia said. 'Of the utmost importance to my country. You've seen the morning paper?'
'Indeed I have. You seem to be giving our British friends a hard time. Another frigate blown up, a destroyer damaged, The toll is mounting.'
'Unfortunately there is another side to all this,' Garcia said. 'So far, around half our Skyhawk fighter bombers are not making it back to base. A quite unacceptable loss rate.'
'To put it frankly, you'll be running out of pilots before you know where you are. On the other hand, the British fleet does have to sit it out as best it can in Falkland Sound and San Carlos Water and you still have the Exocet. The attack on the Sheffield speaks for itself.'
'But we don't have enough,' Garcia said. 'Two were launched against Sheffield, one missed altogether. There have been other attacks where they've been launched unsuccessfully. It takes time to get used to such a weapon. We think we've got it together now. We've had the right kind of assistance.'
'From French experts?'
'President Mitterand would deny it, but yes, we have had French help with the missile launchers and control systems. And we have, of course, a squadron of Super Etendard bombers which are essential to the whole task. I'm no technician but apparently their radar system is compatible with the Exocet, which can't be used with a Mirage, for example.'
There was something he was holding back. Belov said gently, 'Better tell me, Juan.'
Garcia stirred his coffee, obviously under considerable stress. 'A few days ago a Unit of the British Special Air Service made a commando attack on our base at Rio Gallegos. They managed to destroy six Super Etendards.'
Belov, who had known of the incident to the smallest detail for some days, nodded sympathetically. 'That must really reduce your capability.'
'Of course, we have dispersed the other Etendards to secret locations. And we still have enough to do the job.'
'Which is?'
'The British have two aircraft carriers, Hermes and Invincible. Sink either one and the effect on their air cover would be dramatic. They would be forced to withdraw the fleet.'
'And you think this can be done?'
'Our experts say, only a question of time, but we need more Exocets.' He hammered his fist on the table.
'Which the French, under pressure from the European Community, won't give you.'
'Exactly.'
'I heard the Libyans were going to help.'
'You know what Qadhafi is like. A hell of a lot of talk. Oh, he might do something eventually, but by then it will be too late.'
There was silence. Belov lit an American cigarette. 'So what do you want from me, my friend?' he asked gently.
'Your government has helped us already. Discreetly, it is true. Satellite information and so on; all very useful. We know you're on our side in this.'
'No, Juan,' Belov said. 'On this one, we don't take sides.'
Garcia was exasperated and showed it. 'For God's sake, you want to see the British defeated, don't pretend. It will suit your purposes very well; the psychological effect of such a defeat on the Atlantic Alliance would be disastrous.'
'So what do you want?'
'Exocets. I have the money to pay. Ample funds in Geneva in gold or any currency you like. All I want from you is the name, a contact. Don't tell me you can't do something.'
Nikolai Belov sat looking at him for a moment, then glanced at his watch. 'All right, leave it with me. I'll be in touch later this morning. Not at the Embassy. Be at your flat.'
'You mean you've got somebody?'
'Perhaps. Go now. I'll follow later.'
Garcia departed. The door closed behind him. A small wind drifted round the room, lifting a paper on the floor in the corner. Belov shivered, looking around him at the squalor with distaste and stood up.
The barman came in from the kitchen. 'Anything else, Monsieur?'
'I don't think so.' Belov dropped a note on the counter and buttoned his coat. 'I wonder if God really knew what he was doing when he made mornings like these?'
He opened the door and departed.
* * *
Belov lived in an apartment on the top floor of a luxury building of some distinction on the Boulevard St Germain. He went straight there from his assignation with Garcia. He was tired and cold and the prospect of Irana Vronsky waiting for him filled him with conscious pleasure. She was a handsome, full-bodied woman of thirty-five and undeniably attractive. She had been Belov's secretary for ten years or more and he had seduced her within a month of her taking up the appointment. She was totally devoted to him.
When she opened the door to him, she was wearing a superb black silk dressing gown which gaped as she moved forward, revealing black stockings and the hint of a garter belt.
Belov took her in his arms. 'You smell wonderful.'
There was concern on her face. 'Nikolai, you're frozen. Let me get you some coffee. What was it all about?'
'First the coffee,' he said. 'We go to bed and you warm me up. Then, I tell you what Garcia wanted and you can put that fine commonsense of yours to work.'
* * *
Later, lying sideways in bed, watching him smoke a cigarette, she said, 'Why bother, Nikolai? They're a bunch of fascists down there in the Argentine. Under military rule, thousands have disappeared. I'd rather have the British any day of the week.'
'Keep that up, you'll have me defecting, just so you can live in Kensington and shop at Harrods every day.' He smiled and then became serious. 'There is more than one reason for taking an interest in this business. A mini-war we are not involved in personally, is always useful, especially when it sets two anti-communist countries at each other's throats. A great deal of technical information can be derived from their use of weaponry and so on.'
'Good point.'
'An even better one is this, Irana. Exocets or no Exocets, the British are going to win this war. Oh, the Argentine air force has performed magnificently, but their navy stays in harbour and their army of occupation in the Falklands consists mainly of conscripts. I shudder to think what British Marines and Paratroopers will do to them once they start rolling.'
'What are you saying then? That you won't help Garcia?'
'Not at all. I'm all in favour of giving him exactly what he wants, but what if one could do it in such a way that it would discredit the ruling junta in Argentina? If we could only bring down the military government, Irana, the opportunities of government by the people would be limitless.'
'My God,' she said. 'What an imagination! You already see a Russian fleet installed in Rio Gallegos, controlling the South Atlantic.'
'I know; beautiful, isn't it?'
He lay there for a while longer and she ran the fingers of her right hand up over his thigh and across his belly. He grabbed her hand and pushed it away, a sudden excitement on his face.
'I have it. Donner. This should suit him down to the ground. Where is he?'
'In London this week, I think.'
'Get him on the phone now. Tell him to get the shuttle from Heathrow. I want to see him here before noon.'
She got out of bed and went to the phone while Belov lit another cigarette, thoroughly pleased with himself.
* * *
Felix Donner was a magnificent figure of a man, at least six foot three in height with a great breadth of shoulder and dark hair swept back over his ears. As chairman of the Donner Development Corporation, he was a well-known and highly respected fi
gure in London financial circles.
Everyone knew his story. The Australian from Rum Jungle, south of Darwin, in the Northern Territory, who had served with the Australian Army in Korea. He had been a prisoner of the Chinese for two years, and then came to London, where he'd hacked his way up to his first million in the property boom of the sixties. Since then he'd never looked back and his interests were varied, from shipping to electronics.
He was a popular figure with the media and was often photographed mingling with the stars at a film premiere, playing polo, shooting grouse, even shaking hands with royalty at a charity dinner.
It was rather ironic when one considered that this benign and popular man was, in reality, one Victor Marchuk, a Ukranian who had not seen his homeland for thirty years.
The Russians had a number of spy schools in the Soviet Union, each one with a distinctive national flavour. In Glacyna agents were trained to work in English-speaking countries in a replica of an English town, living exactly as they did in the west.
The original Felix Donner, an orphan with no relatives, had been specially selected from a Chinese prison camp and transported to Glacyna where Marchuk could observe him as closely as any prize specimen in a laboratory. It was Marchuk who was eventually returned to Chinese custody to labour in a Manchurian coal mine. As by arrangement he was the only one of the six members of his original unit captured to survive, there was no one to identify the gaunt scarecrow almost four stone under weight, who was released the following year.
But he looked healthy enough as he stood up and stretched later that morning, just before noon, and went to the window of Belov's apartment.
'Interesting possibilities.'
'You think you might be able to do something?' Belov asked.
Donner shrugged. 'I don't know. Let's have a talk with this Argentinian, Garcia. Tell him to come round with everything he's got on this whole Exocet thing. Then we see.'
'Good,' Belov said. 'I knew I could rely on you. Excuse me I'll phone him from my study.'
He went out and Irana Vronsky came in with fresh coffee. Her hair was tied back with a black bow and her neat grey skirt, white blouse, dark stockings, accentuated her charms.