Exocet

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 Embassy 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 figure 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.

Donner slid his arms round her waist and pulled her against him, savouring her.

'Is Nikolai looking after you all right?' he said in Russian. 'If not, just let me know. Always glad to help.'

'Bastard,' she said.

'It's been said before,' he laughed, as she left the room.

Juan Garcia sat by the window with Nikolai Belov and drank coffee in silence, while on the other side of the room Felix Donner sat in a wingback chair by the fire and worked his way through the bulky file the Argentinian had provided.

After a while, the Australian closed the file and reached for a cigarette. 'An extraordinary business. The Etendard is manufactured by Dassault in which the French government has a 51 % holding.'

'That's correct,' Garcia said.

'And the makers of the Exocet are the state-owned Aerospatiale Industries, the president of which is General Jacques Mitterand, brother of the President of France? An intriguing situation, in view of the fact that the French government has suspended all military aid to the Argentine.'

Garcia said, 'On the other hand, we were lucky enough to have a team of French technicians already in my country before the outbreak of hostilities. Based at Bahia Blanca they have given invaluable assistance as regards testing and fitting the missile launchers and control systems.'

'And you have also had other help, I see from the file. This man Bernard, Dr Paul Bernard, would seem to have supplied you with information crucial to the success of the operation.'

'A brilliant electronic engineer,' Garcia said. 'At one time head of one of the research sections at Aerospatiale. Now a professor at the Sorbonne.'

'His motives interest me,' Donner said. 'What are they exactly? Money?'

'No, it seems he has no love for the English. He phoned the Embassy at the start of things, when President Mitterand announced the embargo. He offered to help in any way he could.'

'Interesting,' Donner said.

'We have considerable sympathy here in many quarters,' Garcia added. 'Traditionally, France and Britain have never enjoyed what could be termed a warm relationship.'

Donner opened the file and looked at it again, frowning. Belov waited, admiring the performance.

Garcia said, 'Can you help us?'

'I think so. I can say no more than that at this stage. On a purely business footing, of course. Frankly, I'm not interested in the rights and wrongs of this affair. If I can work something out, find you a few Exocets, I should imagine it would cost you in the region of two to three million.'

'Dollars?' Garcia asked.

'My operations are based in the City of London, Senor Garcia,' Donner told him. 'I only deal in pounds sterling. And in gold. Do you have that much available?'

Garcia swallowed hard. 'No problem. The necessary funds are in Geneva now.'

'Good.' Donner stood up. 'I should like to speak to Professor Bernard.'

'When?' Garcia asked.

'As soon as possible.' Donner looked at his watch. 'Let's say at two o'clock this afternoon. Somewhere nice and open.'

'Two o'clock?' Garcia looked hunted. 'I don't know. It's very short notice. It may not be convenient.'

'Then I suggest you make it convenient,' Donner told him. 'After all, time is of the essence in this affair. If we are to do anything, it must be within a week or ten days at the outside. After that, I should have thought it would be too late. Wouldn't you agree?'

'Of course,' Garcia said hurriedly, and turned to Belov. 'May I use the phone?'

'In the study.'

Garcia went out. Belov said. 'You have an idea, I think?'

'Possibly,' Donner said. 'Something in that file that could suit our purposes admirably.'

'You'll be staying in your apartment in the Rue de Rivoli, I suppose?'

'That's right. Wanda has gone ahead to make sure everything's in apple-pie order.'

'How is she? As beautiful as ever?'

'Did I ever settle for anything less?'

Belov laughed. 'I wonder what you'd do if they decided to recall you home to Moscow after all these years?'

'Home?' Donner said. 'Where's that? And they wouldn't. I'm too valuable where I am. I'm the best there is, you know that.'

Belov shook his head. 'I don't understand you, Felix. Why do you do it? You're certainly no patriot and politics you find games for children, you've told me that often enough.'

'It's the only game in town,' Donner said. 'I enjoy every minute of it. I like beating them, Nikolai, whoever they are. It's as simple as that.'

Belov nodded. 'I believe you. I really do. Is Stavrou with you?'

'Downstairs in the car.'

The study door opened and Garcia entered. 'Fine,' he said. 'All organised.'

The meeting with Bernard took place on a tourist barge on the Seine, although because of the heavy rain there were few tourists in evidence. Donner and Bernard sat at a table under an awning in the stern, a bottle of Sancerre between them. At the rail, a few yards away, leaned a man who was even taller than Donner, watching the passing scenery. He wore a raincoat over a dark blue suit, black tie and white shirt. His grey hair was cropped to the skull and he had a flat-boned face whose slanted eyes and open nostrils gave him a faintly Mongolian appearance.

This was Yanni Stavrou, half-Turkish, the other half anyone's guess. A French national because of service in Algiers as a French Foreign Legion paratrooper, he was a supremely dangerous man. He had been Donner's chauffeur, body-guard and strong right arm for ten years now.

Professor Bernard said, 'I thought Garcia would be here?'

'Not necessary,' Donner said. 'I've heard everything there is to be heard from him. They need more Exocets desperately.'

'I can imagine. What is your interest in this affair?'

'They've asked me to find them some. You've helped them considerably already, to a degree extremely dangerous for a man in your position. Why did you take such a risk?'

'Because I didn't think the arms embargo was right. The government was wrong. We shouldn't have taken sides.'

'But you have done so. Why?'

Bernard shrugged. 'I don't like the English.'

'Not good enough.'

'Not good enough?' Bernard's voice rose angrily so that Stavrou turned from the rail, watchful. 'Let me tell you about the English. In 1940, they ran. Left us to the Germans. When the Boche came to our village, my father and a few others tried to put up a fight. A handful of farmers with First World War rifles. They shot them in the square. My mother and most of the other women, they took into the village hall to make sport for the soldiers. I was ten years old. A long time ago, but I can still hear the screaming.' He spat over the side. 'So don't try to tell me about the English.'

Donner couldn't have been more delighted. 'Terrible,' he said. 'I understand perfectly.'

'But you,' Bernard said. 'You are English yourself. I don't understand.'

'Australian,' Donner said. 'A large difference. Also a citizen of the world and a business man, so let's get down to business. Tell me about Ile de Roc.'

'Ile de Roc?' Bernard looked bewildered.

'They're testing the latest Exocet there, aren't they? You told Garcia about that. It's in your notes.'

'Yes, of course. It's an island. A damn great rock really, about fifteen miles off the Brittany coast, south from St Nazaire. If you look out to sea, all there is is the Atlantic and then Newfoundland.'

'How many people there?'

'No more than thirty-five. A mixture of Aerospatiale technicians and army personnel from missile regiments. In fact, it's officially a military installation.'

'You've been there?'

'Certainly. On a number of occasions.'

'And how does one get to the island? By air?'

'Oh, no, impossible. Nowhere to land. Mind you, that's not quite true. The Army Air Corps managed to land light aircraft on one of the beaches when the tide was out. But it wasn't a practical proposition. Even helicopters find it difficult because of the down-draughts from the cliffs. The weather is frequently terrible, but of course the isolation of the place was a necessary factor. Usually, the link with the mainland is by boat. The fishing port of St Martin.'

Donner nodded. 'Say I needed to know what was going on at Ile de Roc, for example during the next week or ten days. Could you find out? Are your contacts still good?'

'Excellent,' Bernard said. 'I think I can guarantee to obtain any information you require and at the shortest notice.'

Donner refilled his glass. 'This Sancerre is really very fine.' He looked at Stavrou. 'I think we'll have another bottle.' He lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and said to Bernard, 'Okay, fill me in on the island. For example, tell me in detail about your last trip there.'

Wanda Brown was a graceful girl, the soft contours of whose body were accentuated by her white silk blouse and black velvet skirt, but she was still small in spite of the high-heeled shoes. Her hair was black, she had wide, almond-shaped eyes and a small, corrupt mouth. Her appearance was one of extreme elegance, for she had learned the hard way, Donner's cardinal rule, that less is always better.

She was one quarter negro, which showed in her skin, and, when she opened her mouth, her London East End origin was plain.

Donner had picked her off a Soho Street one night, where her current boyfriend had been attempting rather forcibly to introduce her into a life of prostitution. Stavrou had left him in a doorway with two ribs and his left arm broken and Wanda had found herself plunged headlong into a world of luxury and delight.

She had been all of sixteen, but then Donner had always liked his women young. Her one fear was that he might discard her now that she had reached the magic age of twenty, an appalling prospect in view of the fact that she genuinely loved him.

When she went into his study in the sumptuous apartment in the Rue de Rivoli, he had turned the swivel chair behind the desk. He sat, arms folded, looking up at a large scale map he'd had Stavrou procure that afternoon of Ile de Roc and the coastal area around St Martin. He had already discussed the problem with her in bed after making love to her that afternoon. He had never kept secrets from her and she clung to the belief that this was evidence of trust.

She set down the coffee and put an arm round his neck. He slipped a hand under her skirt in an absent-minded way and stroked her thigh.

'You think there's a way?' she asked.

'Oh, yes, there's always a way, if one looks close enough.'

'Nikolai and this man Garcia are here.'

'Good.' He turned and kissed her neck, pulling her on to his knee. 'I've told Stavrou to hire a private plane. I want you to fly down here,' he pointed at the map, 'to this St Martin place first thing in the morning. See if you can find us a house in the area. Something substantial that's immediately available. There's bound to be something. Always is in that kind of country area.'

'Anything else?'

'Maybe later. Now show Nikolai and Garcia in.'

She went out and a moment later the two men entered. Donner got up and walked to the window, stretching. The view of the city was panoramic and always delighted him.

'Thank God it's stopped raining.'

Garcia said impatiently. 'Please, Senor Donner. You said you would have news for me.'

Donner turned. 'But I do. It's all in hand, my friend. In fact I think I can guarantee you, let's say, ten of the latest mark of Exocet missile by next Monday.'

Garcia gazed at him in awe. 'Can this be so, senor?'

'Definitely. You can leave it all in my hands. Just one thing for you to do. I want an Argentine air force officer to liaise with me on this one. No desk type either. Preferably a first rate pilot. After all, it's only a fifteen hour flight from Buenos Aires to Paris. You get a message off tonight and he could be here tomorrow or the next day.'

'Of course, senor. I'll get a message off right away. And the financial arrangements?'

'We'll settle all that later.'

Garcia left and Donner went to the drinks cabinet and poured whisky into two glasses.

'What are you up to?' Belov demanded.

Donner handed him one of the glasses. 'How would it suit you if, in getting these Exocets, I dropped the Argentinians right in the manure, the French breaking off diplomatic relations, a real international scandal? How would you like that?'

'I think I'd like it immensely,' Belov said. 'Tell me more.'

So Donner did, in finest detail.