by Jack Higgins
'That looks like it,' Villiers said.
There was a dark saloon car parked by the sea wall. As they approached, the door opened and a man in an anorak got out and stood waiting.
'A nice night for a walk, senores,' he said in Spanish.
And Villiers gave the required answer in English. 'Sorry, we're strangers here and don't speak the language.'
The other smiled and held out his hand. 'Jimmy Nelson. Everything went all right then?'
'Soaked to the bloody skin is all,' Jackson said.
'Never mind. Get in and I'll take you back to my place.'
As they drove away, Villiers asked: 'Is there any chance of finding out what all this is about?'
'Search me, old boy. I just do as I'm told. Orders from on high and so on. I've got clothes waiting for you, all you need. Full details were supplied as to sizes. Someone was very efficient. Also passports made out in your own names as there seemed no reason why not. Occupation, sales engineer, that holds true for both of you.'
'And where do we go?'
'Paris. One snag about that. There's only one direct flight to that fair city and it's on Fridays. However, I've pulled a few strings and got you on an Air France cargo-carrying jumbo that leaves in,' he glanced at his watch, 'around three hours from now, so it's all worked out rather well. You'll be in Paris tomorrow evening, their time. I always get confused about time changes.'
'And then what?'
'Search me. I presume Brigadier Ferguson will explain when he sees you.'
'Ferguson?' Villiers groaned. 'You mean he's behind this?'
'That's right. Anything wrong, old man?'
'Not really, except I'd rather be back behind the lines in the Falklands,' Villiers told him.
10
At Charles de Gaulle Airport, Captain George Corwin was leaning against a pillar, reading a newspaper. It was dark outside, for it was just after nine o'clock. Garcia was standing over by the news stand, trying to look casual and not doing too well at it, when Raul Montera appeared at the exit from Immigration and Customs. He carried a canvas holdall in one hand and wore jeans and his old black leather flying jacket, a scarf at his throat. Corwin recognised him instantly from the photo supplied by Group Four.
Garcia hurried forward. 'A great pleasure to see you colonel and a personal honour for me. Juan Garcia, at your orders.'
'At yours,' Montera replied politely. 'On the other hand, don't you think it might be an excellent idea not to call me colonel?'
'Of course,' Garcia said. 'So foolish of me.' He tried to take the bag from him.
'I can manage,' Montera told him, beginning to feel mildly irritated.
'Of course,' Garcia said. 'This way, then. My car is just outside. I have secured you a fine apartment in the Avenue de Neuilly.'
Behind them, as they pulled away from the front entrance, George Corwin was already in the back of a black Rover saloon. He tapped the driver on the shoulder.
'Right, Arthur, that green Peugeot estate car. Where it goes, so do we.'
* * *
The apartment was pleasant enough, modern and luxurious, but with no great character. The sort of place which is the same the world over. Its one advantage was the magnificent view of the Bois de Boulogne, just across the road.
'I hope you will find this to your satisfaction, colonel.'
'It's fine,' Montera said. 'Just fine. After all, I presume I won't be here very long.'
'Senor Donner and Belov, who represents the Russian interest in the affair, would like to see you in the morning at eleven a.m., if that is convenient.'
'All right. But then what happens?'
'I've no idea. Senor Donner insists on total secrecy. Perhaps he will be more forthcoming tomorrow.'
'Let's hope so.' Montera escorted him to the door and opened it. 'I'll see you tomorrow then.'
He closed the door behind Garcia, turned back to the sitting room, opened the French window and moved out on the terrace. Paris, one of his favourite cities and it now very possibly meant Gabrielle.
His stomach hollow with excitement, he went to the phone books, found the one he needed, and leafed through quickly. It was hopeless. There were a large number of Legrands but no hint of a Mademoiselle Gabrielle.
There was London, of course, where she might very well be. The number of the flat in Kensington was burned into his brain. And why not? Even if he didn't speak, he could at least listen to her voice. He checked the area code for London, picked up the phone and dialled the number. He let it ring for a long time at the other end before putting it down.
There was wine in the refrigerator in the ultra-modern kitchen and sherry. He poured himself a glass of ice-cold Manzanilla and went and stood on the terrace, sipping it slowly, thinking of her, more alone than he had ever felt in his life before.
'Where are you, Gabrielle?' he whispered aloud. 'Come to me. Just a hint.'
Sometimes it worked. On the San Carlos run it had saved him more than once, the thought of her, her tangible presence, but not now. Now, there was nothing. He finished his sherry, suddenly tired, went back inside and went to bed.
* * *
No more than a mile away on the Avenue Victor Hugo, Gabrielle leaned on the rail of the balcony of her own apartment.
There was an unreality to the whole thing. It was like a dream where things happen in slow motion and one is somehow an observer and not a participant. Somewhere out there was Raul, for Corwin had phoned to warn her that he was expected that night.
The telephone rang in the room behind her and she hurried in and picked it up. Corwin said, 'He's here. I followed him and Garcia to an apartment block on the Avenue de Neuilly. Just did a bit of judicious bribery and got the number of the apartment. Here's the address.'
She wrote it down. 'What am I supposed to do? Go round and knock on the door?'
'Not really a good idea,' Corwin said. 'Let's leave it to Major Villiers, shall we? He'll be arriving tomorrow.'
He put down the phone. Gabrielle stood, looking at the address for a moment, committing it to memory, then she tore the paper into pieces, went into the kitchen and put it down the waste disposal.
'And now the lies begin,' she whispered, 'and the deceit and the betrayal,' and she turned slowly and went back into the sitting room.
* * *
The address Belov had given Donner turned out to be a small, back-street nightclub in Montmartre not far from the Madeleine, run by a man named Gaston Roux.
He was small with horn-rimmed glasses and his pinstripe suit, while of excellent cut, was most conservative. He could have been a lawyer or accountant or even a prosperous business man, which in a way he was, except that crime was his business. Anything from drugs to prostitution and his ruthlessness was a byword in the Paris underworld.
'Muscle is what I need,' Donner told him as he sipped Roux's excellent Cognac. 'My contact told me you were just the man to provide it.'
'I have a certain reputation, Monsieur,' Roux said. 'That is true. How many men would you need?'
'Eight.'
'And our mutual friend tells me you would prefer ex-soldiers and that one of them must be ex-Army Signals.'
'That's correct.'
'So the task would be a formidable one. Can you give me any further information?'
'Not really.'
Roux tried again. 'Would there be the possibility of a little shooting?'
'Yes, which is why I'm offering twenty-five thousand francs per man.'
Roux nodded. 'How long would you require them?'
'To sit on their hands in the country for two to three days and receive a certain amount of instruction in what's expected of them. The actual task will take no more than three to four hours in all.'
Roux took a deep breath. 'Very well. My terms are as follows. One hundred thousand francs for my services as agent for which I will guarantee you, for thirty thousand francs apiece, eight men who would shoot their grandmothers if you told them to.'
'I felt
sure I'd come to the right place.'
Donner snapped his fingers at Stavrou who was standing by the door and he came forward, put a dark blue briefcase on the table and opened it. It was filled with packages of banknotes.
Donner tossed packet after packet across the table. 'Two hundred and forty thousand for them, one hundred for you. Let's make it three-fifty. I can't stand loose change.'
'In advance?' Roux said. 'All of it?'
'Why not. Let's just call it an act of faith on my part.'
Roux smiled, showing the glint of gold-capped teeth. 'Monsieur, I like you. I really do. In anticipation of a satisfactory conclusion to our business, I have already gathered in a number of suitable specimens. You may take your pick. If you'd like to accompany me, we can settle the matter now.'
* * *
The sign above the door in the building two streets away said Roux & Son, Undertakers.
Roux said as he opened the door and led the way in, 'A legitimate enterprise. I started it to give a veneer of respectability to certain of my ventures, but my only son, Paul, has really taken it seriously.'
'Well, there's no accounting for taste,' Donner said.
Roux led the way along a dark corridor lined with waiting chapels. There were actually coffins in some of them and the heavy, cloying scent of flowers lay on the air.
The murmur of voices came from behind a closed door at the end of the corridor. Roux opened it and led the way into a large garage containing three hearses and two trucks. There were at least a dozen men waiting, four of them playing cards on the ground, the others lounging around smoking and talking.
They were as rough looking a lot as Donner had seen in a long time, most of them old hands from the look of it, aged around the late thirties or forty mark.
Roux turned. 'If you would like to wait outside for a couple of minutes, I'll explain the situation to them.' He smiled bleakly. 'I always like to achieve a certain understanding with people I engage. Something special between me and them. You understand, Monsieur?'
'But of course,' Donner said cheerfully.
He and Stavrou slipped out through a small judas gate into a back yard. Donner took out a cigarette and Stavrou gave him a light.
'Think you can handle them? They look rough.'
'Not if you look twice,' Stavrou said.
'We'll see.'
Roux opened the door. 'Come in, gentlemen.'
The men now stood in a line and Donner looked them over. Roux said, 'I've explained the situation. Every man here would like to take part.' He pointed to one who was standing apart from the others. 'This is the Signals expert. As for the rest, the choice is yours.'
Donner simply picked the eight worst-looking ones in his own estimation. As he reached the end of the line, tapping each man of his choice on the chest, a large man with a broken nose and close-cropped red hair, one of those left out, said, 'Merde!' and spat on Donner's left shoe.
Donner slapped him in the face. The man reeled in shock, then roared with rage and reached out to destroy. Stavrou was somehow in the way. He grabbed for the man's right wrist, twisted it up and around. The man screamed as muscle tore, and still keeping that terrible hold in position, Stavrou ran him headfirst into a stack of packing cases in one corner. The man fell on his knees, face covered in blood.
'Would anyone care to change his mind?' Donner enquired, and nodded at Stavrou. 'I should warn you, my friend here will be in charge.'
No one moved. In fact no one said a word, except Roux, who sighed heavily and offered Donner a cigarette. 'A terrible thing, the corrupting power of money, wouldn't you agree, Monsieur?'
* * *
Ferguson had retired to bed early, not to sleep, but to work on more papers in the comfort of his bed. He was just deciding to call it a day when the phone rang. It was Harry Fox.
'Just heard from George Corwin in Paris, sir. Raul Montera turned up on schedule. He was met by Garcia who took him to an apartment in a block on the Avenue de Neuilly close to the Bois de Boulogne. He's given Gabrielle the address.'
'Good,' Ferguson said.
'I'm still worried about her, sir. We're asking a hell of a lot.'
'I know. I happen to think she's up to it.'
'But dammit all, sir, what you're really requiring her to do is serve your purposes and destroy herself in the process.'
'Perhaps. On the other hand, how many men have died already down there in the South Atlantic, Harry, on both sides? Look at the death toll when the Belgrano went down. What we've got to do is stop the bloody carnage, or don't you buy that?'
'Of course I do, sir.' Fox sounded weary.
'When does Tony get in?'
'About five o'clock tomorrow evening, French time.'
'You can take the shuttle over there tomorrow afternoon Harry. You and Corwin meet him. I want you to fill him in on the whole scene in finest detail.'
'He won't like it, sir. Gabrielle's involvement.'
'Are you trying to tell me he still loves her?'
'It isn't as simple as that,' Fox said. 'They were married for five years. All right, a hell of a lot of bad in there, but you can't just toss the relationship out of the window. She's important to him. Let's put it in an old-fashioned way. He still cares for her.'
'Excellent. Then he'll make damn sure she doesn't come to any harm. I want you back here tomorrow night, Harry.'
'Very well, sir.'
'Anything else before I turn out the light?'
'What about the French connection, sir? Isn't it time we brought them in on this?'
'Not really. Certainly not at the moment. We still don't know what Donner is up to. If the French arrested him now, a good lawyer would have him on the street in an hour.'
'At least speak to Pierre Guyon, sir.'
'I'll think about it, Harry. Go to bed.'
Ferguson put down the phone and sat back against the pillows, doing exactly what he had told Fox he would do-thinking about it.
The French Security Service, the Service de Documentation Exterieure et de Contre-Espionage, the SDECE, is divided into five sections and many departments. The most interesting one is Section Five, more commonly known as the Action Service, the department which had been responsible for destroying the OAS. Colonel Pierre Guyon was in charge of that department, and he was not only Ferguson's opposite number but one of his oldest friends.
Ferguson reached for the phone and dialled the area code for Paris, hesitated, then replaced the receiver. He was taking a chance, he knew that, his entire career on the line. But his instinct, the product of years of experience in intelligence work, told him that he should let things ride and he always trusted his instinct. He switched off the light, turned over and went to sleep.
* * *
Raul Montera slept surprisingly well that night, the strain and fatigue of the past few weeks catching up on him. The result was that he didn't rise until ten o'clock. For years he had been in the habit of running regularly, each morning. The only time he'd had to deviate from his usual practice was during his flying operations out of Rio Gallegos.
He said good morning to Gabrielle, a ritual now, and went to the window. When he drew the curtain and looked out, it was raining hard, the Bois de Boulogne shrouded in mist. He felt suddenly exhilarated. He'd been so tired on the previous evening that he hadn't unpacked his holdall. He did so now, pulled on his old black track suit and some running shoes, had a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator and let himself out.
He liked the rain; it gave him a safe, enclosed feeling, rather like being in a world of one's own. He ran through the park, thoroughly soaked and enjoying every minute of it. And he wasn't the only one. There were a number of fellow rain-lovers about, some like him, running, others walking the dog, even the odd horseback rider.
George Corwin, hidden in the back of a parked milk van on the Avenue de Neuilly, watched Montera running fast from the direction of the lake. He came to a halt only a few yards away and stood breathing heavily. Corwin too
k several pictures of him with a special camera through a tiny hole in the side of the van.
As Montera crossed the road, a black Mercedes pulled in at the kerb outside the apartment block. Garcia got out, followed by Donner, then Belov.
'Would you look at that now?' Corwin said softly. 'Dear old Nikolai himself,' and the camera whirred again several times before the three men turned and went into the building.
Stavrou got out of the car to make some sort of adjustment to the windscreen wipers and Corwin snapped him too, for good measure.
'Nasty looking bit of work,' he murmured.
Stavrou got back in the car and Corwin made himself comfortable, lit a cigarette and waited.
* * *
Raul Montera didn't care for Donner one little bit. There was something about the man, something inimical, that offended him. Belov, he quite liked. A reasonable enough man, working for his own side, which was fair enough although Montera had never had any great liking for the communist cause.
He brought a tray in from the kitchen and set it down. 'Coffee, gentlemen?'
'Aren't you going to join us, colonel?' Donner asked.
'I never touch the stuff. Bad for the nerves.' Montera went into the kitchen again and returned with a china mug in one hand. 'Tea.'
Dormer laughed and there was an edge to it that indicated the dislike was mutual. 'Rather unusual for a South American, I would have thought.'
'Oh, it's surprising what we dagoes get up to on occasions,' Montera told him. 'The British navy would have a useful opinion on that.'
Belov said smoothly. 'I agree with you, colonel. A very civilized habit, tea drinking. We Russians have existed on the stuff for years.'
Garcia said, 'Perhaps we can get down to business. Maybe Senor Dormer is now prepared to give us more detail about the operation.'
'Of course,' Donner said. 'I was only waiting for Colonel Montera's arrival. The whole thing, with any kind of luck, should be wrapped up within the next couple of days, which is good, because according to the newspapers this morning, the British troops at San Carlos are getting ready to move out.'
Montera lit a cigarette. 'All right, so what exactly have you arranged?'