Exocet

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.

'We could always break your other arm for you,' he said in a low, dangerous voice.

The bearded man swung up an arm defensively. 'No, that's it! Enough!'

He turned to the boy, grabbed him by the shoulder with his good hand and they staggered away.

'Sodding amateurs,' Jackson said. 'We should have known,' but Villiers had already turned away and was walking up the slope towards the road, very fast, head down.

The apartment on Avenue Victor Hugo was large and airy, high ceilings, tall windows. The furnishings were simple, but striking, the palest of green curtains, soft and restful, a couple of impressionist paintings a vivid splash of colour against white walls.

Montera sat at one end of an enormous green marble bath sunk into the floor and she came in from the kitchen, naked, with two china mugs of tea on a tray. She handed him one, stepped in the other end of the bath and sat down.

'To us,' he said, toasting her.

'To us.'

And for the moment, she was still able to forget the dreadful situation she was in, was able to think only of the present moment and of the fact that they were together.

He leaned back in the warm water and drank a little tea. 'Haven't we done this before somewhere?'

She frowned, running a finger down an ugly half-healed scar six or seven inches long below his right shoulder.

'What happened?'

'Cannon shell splinter. I was lucky that day.'

Once again, she had to simulate ignorance. 'You mean you've been flying? Flying down there in the Falklands?'

'Malvinas.' He grinned. 'Always remember that. But yes, I flew a Skyhawk fighter-bomber named Gabrielle. Featured prominently on television news several times a day.'

'You're joking.'

'Painted right across the nose of my plane beneath the cockpit, I assure you. You've been to San Carlos Water and back many times, my love.'

Suddenly she remembered the incident in the television department at Harrods, the sound of the commentator's voice, the planes coming in low over San Carlos Water, the missile exploding the Skyhawk and the people listening who had clapped.

'Yes,' he went on wryly. 'Who would have thought I'd become a television star at my time of life.'

She was genuinely angry. 'At your age, flying a jet plane in action. I never heard of anything so ridiculous.' She touched his face. 'Was it really that bad, Raul?'

'I have been to hell and back many times now,' he said. 'Seen young boys blown out of the sky around me and for what?' His eyes were haunted, full of pain. 'When I left Rio Gallegos, we'd lost approximately half our pilots. Down the drain, Gabrielle. All down the drain. Such waste.'

She responded to his pain instinctively. 'Tell me about it, Raul. Make me feel it. Get rid of it, my love. Get rid of it.'

She reached for his hands and he gripped them tightly as they sat facing each other. 'Remember that uncle of mine, the bullfighter?'

'Yes.'

'He used to pray to the Virgin on his knees, just before going into the bullring. Save me from the horns of the beasts, he used to say. I've gone to the horns many times during the past few weeks.'

'Why, Raul? Why?'

'Because it's what I do. I fly. It's also what I am, and down there, there was no choice. Could I sit at a desk while those boys went to hell on their own? You know what we called Falkland Sound? Death Valley.'

His eyes were fixed, the skin stretched tightly over the cheekbones. 'In the bullring, they have a red door — the door the bulls come through. It's called the Gate of Fear. Death comes through that gate, Gabrielle, a black beast who is dedicated to the idea of killing me. When I flew to San Carlos, the only thing which kept that door closed was you. Once at one of my worst moments, when she wouldn't respond to the controls, I was getting ready to eject when I swear I smelt that Opium perfume you use. Crazy, perhaps, but it was as if you were with me.'

'What happened?'

All strain went out of him. 'I'm here, aren't I?' He smiled. 'I should have had a photo in the cockpit and written underneath the words: "I'm Gabrielle — Fly me". You can give me one to take back.'

'Take back?' She was shocked. 'You're not going back down there to fly again?'

He shrugged evasively. 'I'll be here for a few days more. I don't know what happens when I return.'

'What are you doing here?'

'Business for my government.' In a way, he was telling her the truth. 'The arms embargo which the French imposed is giving us problems. But enough of that. What about you?'

'I'm doing a series for Paris Match.'

'Supported by that estimable father of yours?'

'Of course.'

'Yes. A Degas on one wall, a Monet on the other.'

She slid on to her knees and kissed him on the mouth very, very softly, her tongue savouring him. 'I'd forgotten just how gorgeous you are.'

'That word again,' he mocked her. 'Can't you think of something else?'

'Not right now, but take me to bed and I'll try.'

Later, lying there in the half-light, the curtains partly drawn, she leaned on an elbow and watched him as he slept. His face tightened, there was pain there, he groaned and suddenly there was sweat on his forehead and he opened his eyes, wide, staring.

She smoothed back his hair from his forehead and kissed him, gently, like a child. 'It's all right. I'm here.'

He smiled weakly. 'I had the dream again. I've had it so often. Remember, I told you, that time at your flat in London.'

'An eagle descending,' she said.

'That's right, coming down hard, claws reaching.'

'Well just remember what I told you. Drop your flaps. Eagles overshoot too.'

He pulled her close, kissed her neck. 'God, you smell good. Warm, womanly — or am I being sexist in saying that? I'm never too sure of my position with you feminists.'

'Oh, I'll explain your position in considerable detail.' She smiled beautifully and ran a finger down his arm. 'I'm Gabrielle — fly me!'

She came awake again and found him gone. The sensation of panic was terrible. She sat up and glanced at the bedside clock. It was four o'clock. Then he came in, wearing the old black tracksuit and carrying a newspaper.

'I found it in your letter box.'

He sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. 'Anything interesting?' she asked.

'Yes, British forces have broken out of the San Carlos bridgehead. Sky hawks attacked the troops on land. Two shot down.' He threw down the paper and ran his hands over his face. 'Let's go for a walk.'

'All right. Give me five minutes.'

He waited in the sitting room, smoking a cigarette, and when she joined him, she was wearing the jeans and reefer coat he remembered from London.

They went downstairs and got her car and drove to the Bois de Boulogne. Then they simply walked, holding hands, quiet a great deal of the time.

'You're looking better and more relaxed,' she said.

'Well, that's you.' They were sitting on two deck chairs someone had left out in the rain. 'Some people like drugs, some people like booze, but I'm on Gabrielle, much more efficacious.'

She leaned forward and kissed him. 'You're such a nice man, Raul. The nicest man I ever knew.'

'Ah, well, you make me that way, you see, I told you once before, you make me better.'

They got up and walked back towards the carpark arm-in-arm. 'What's going to happen to us?' she asked.

'You mean, are my intentions honourable? But of course. I will marry you at the appropriate moment, if only to get my hands on the Monet and the Degas.'

'And in the immediate future?'

'A couple of days, if we're lucky, then I must return to Argentina.'

She made a determined effort to be cheerful. 'So, at least tonight is secure. Let's go somewhere nice where we can dine and dance and be together.'

'Where would you suggest?'

'There's a place in Montmartre called Paco's. He's Brazilian. The music is excellent.'

'Paco's it is then. I'll pick you up at eight o'clock. Is that okay?'

'Fine.'

She glimpsed Tony Villiers by the newstand on the far side of the carpark and anger touched her as she unlocked the door of her car. 'I'll drop you off at your place.'

Which she did, getting out of the Mercedes to stand and talk to him for a moment, before driving away.

On the other side of the road, sitting on a bench reading a newspaper, one of Nikolai Belov's men noted the registration number of the car, got up and walked away as Montera went into the apartment block.

Back at her flat, Gabrielle paced up and down, waiting for the ring at the door which she knew must come. When it did she went and opened it quickly to admit Villiers. She walked back into the sitting room, thoroughly angry, and turned to face him.

'Well?' he said. 'Anything to report?'

'He's here on business for his government in connection with the arms embargo.'

'That really is a very fair description. Anything else?'

'Yes, I don't want you dogging my heels all the time, Tony. I mean that. This is difficult enough as it is.'

'You mean I'm an embarrassment.'

'Put it any way you please. I certainly don't need you tonight. We're dining in Montmartre.'

'And then coming back here?'

She went and opened the door. 'That's all, Tony.'

'Don't worry,' he said. 'Harvey and I have other fish to fry tonight.'

He went out and Gabrielle turned, went into the bathroom and ran her second bath of the day. When she looked forward to the evening it was with anticipation. Whatever else happened, she was going to have that.

Donner was in the shower when Wanda came in with the hand phone. 'Belov wants a word with you.'

Donner dried his hands, leaned out and took the phone. 'Nikolai, what can I do for you?' He listened for a while, face inscrutable. 'That certainly is interesting. Yes, keep me informed. If they go out anywhere tonight, for example, let me know.'

He handed the phone back to her. 'Trouble?' she said.

'Apparently our war hero has found himself a girlfriend. A spectacularly beautiful young woman according to Belov's information, who lives on the Avenue Victor Hugo.'

'That usually means money.'

'A reasonable deduction. Name of Gabrielle Legrand. Belov's going to keep me informed on the situation. I must say, if she's as good as she sounds, it might be worth taking a look at her.'

'You would,' she said bitterly and put the hand phone down on the small table by the door. 'Do you want anything else?'

'Yes,' he said. 'You can come and scrub my back.'

'If you like.'

She started to undress slowly, thinking already with a certain fear, of a girl she had never met, some strange sixth sense telling her she could be in trouble.

Montera had brought only one reasonably formal suit with him and wore it now, single-breasted, dark blue mohair with a plain white shirt and black tie.

'You look extremely elegant,' she said as they sat together in the back of the cab.

'I pale into insignificance beside you.'

She was wearing that spectacular silver mini-dress that she'd worn at their first meeting at the Argentine Embassy in London, the sunburst hair brushed out in La Coupe Sauvage.

'The last time we were out together you introduced me to the romance of the Embankment at midnight. What have you in store for me tonight, I wonder?'

Gabrielle smiled and took his hand. 'Nothing very much,' she said. 'Just me.'

Donner was watching the latest news about the Falklands on television when Belov phoned again.

'They've gone out on the town,' the Russian said. 'A Brazilian restaurant in Montmartre called Paco's.'

'Sounds interesting,' Donner said. 'Is the food any good?'

'Fair, but the music is excellent. The young woman, by the way, is the daughter of an extremely wealthy industrialist named Maurice Legrand.'

'What's his line?'

'Just about everything. Operates out of Marseilles. If he went bust, so would the Bank of France.'

'Even more interesting,' Donner said. 'All right, leave it with me.' He put down the phone and turned to Wanda who was reading a magazine by the fire. 'Okay, put your glad rags on. We're going dancing.'

Belov sat beside the phone at his flat for some time after speaking to Donner, a frown on his face. Irana Vronsky brought coffee in from the kitchen on a tray and set it down.

'Something wrong?'

'I don't know. It's this Legrand girl. Something about it doesn't fit.'

'What exactly?' she asked as she poured coffee.

'I don't know,' he said in considerable irritation. 'That's the trouble.'

'Then ease your mind in the obvious way,' she said as she handed him the coffee. 'Run a scale one check on her.'

'An excellent idea. Get started on it first thing in the morning when you go into the office.' He sipped some coffee and made a face. 'Montera was right. Filthy stuff. Is there any chance of a cup of tea?'