Exocet

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 took 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?'

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, the 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.