Exocet

6

Ferguson worked late that evening at his office at the Directorate-General, for Group Four more than had its hands full these days. In addition to exercising its normal anti-terrorist role against the possibility of Argentine undercover units infiltrating London, Ferguson had been given responsibility by the Director-General himself for handling and co-ordinating all operations connected with Exocet.

Harry Fox came in, looking tired, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. 'I've just had the good word in from Peru. Our people there in co-operation with anti-government guerrillas destroyed a military convoy earlier today which was carrying five Exocets to a Peruvian air force base near Lima for onward transportation to the Argentine.'

'Thank God for that. What about the Libyans?'

'Qadhafi seems to be having second thoughts. Both King Hussein and the Egyptian government have asked him to keep out of it.'

'Which really only leaves the manufacturers, Harry. All right, we know there's been a certain amount of French technical assistance, but that, after all, has been mainly a product of circumstance. The men involved were already there.'

'An interesting question, sir. What would we do if we had trouble with our own Exocet missiles? Expect the French to render technical assistance?'

'We don't wish to know that, Harry. Get back to work.'

Rain dashed against the window pane. He went and peered out and shivered, thinking of the fleet down there in the South Atlantic and winter rolling in.

'God help sailors at sea on a night like this,' he said softly.

It was very quiet in the small study in the Residencia del Presidente at Olivos outside Buenos Aires. The President himself, General Leopoldo Fortunato Galtieri, was in uniform, but had taken off his tunic as he sat at the desk working his way through a mass of papers.

He was a bull of a man, plain spoken, a soldier's soldier, and had frequently been compared to that most colourful of all American generals of the Second World War, George S. Patton.

There was a knock at the door and a young army captain in dress uniform looked in.

The President glanced up. 'What is it, Martinez?'

'General Dozo is here, sir.'

'Good, show him in. See that we are not disturbed. No phone calls for half-an-hour.' He smiled, suddenly looking relaxed and charming. 'Of course, if news comes in that either the Hermes or Invincible has been sunk, disturb me all you like.'

'At your orders, my President.'

Martinez withdrew, and a moment later Brigadier General Basilio Lami Dozo, commander of the Argentine Air Force, entered. He was an elegant, handsome man, whose uniform fitted him to perfection, a natural aristocrat in total contrast to Galtieri who had been born into a working class family and had come up the hard way. Which was perhaps as well for they were compelled to work together, like it or not, together with the commander of the navy, Admiral Jorge Anaya as members of the three man junta that ruled the country.

Lami Dozo took off his hat and lit a cigarette. 'Isn't Anaya coming?'

Galtieri was pouring Cognac into two glasses at the drinks cabinet. 'What for? We might as well not have a navy for all the good it does. Thank God for the air force. True heroes, all those lads of yours.' He handed Lami Dozo a glass. 'Here's to them.'

'What's left of them,' Lami Dozo said bitterly and drank a little Cognac. 'Things are so bad down there at Gallegos that everyone who can fly is going up. Raul Montera, for God's sake! Forty-six next birthday and he's flying Skyhawks to San Carlos Water.' He shook his head. 'I sometimes think I should be back in a cockpit myself.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Galtieri said. 'Raul Montera is a romantic fool, always was.'

'And a true hero.'

'Oh, I'll give you that. Magnificent. I have every admiration for him.'

'That's what the boys call him. El Magnifico. He can't last, of course. He's flown eleven operations during the past week to my knowledge.' He shook his head. 'God knows what I'll find to say to his mother when he goes.'

'Donna Elena?' Galtieri shuddered. 'Keep her away from me, whatever you do. That woman always makes me feel I should be herding cows, bare-footed. How was it today?'

'We hit a frigate, HMS Antelope. When I last heard, there had been some sort of explosion and it was on fire. We think we also damaged a destroyer, the Glasgow, but we can't be sure. Six Mirages and two Skyhawks were shot down. Some made it back to base damaged.' He shook his head in wonder. 'And in spite of that, the spirit of those boys is fantastic. But it can't go on. We'll run out of pilots.'

'Exactly,' Galtieri said. 'Which is why we need more Exocets and according to this report just in from our Embassy in Paris, we could have exactly what we need in a matter of days. Read it.'

He went to the window and looked out at the gardens, bright in the sunshine as he finished his Cognac. Behind him, Lami Dozo said, 'You could be right. But Garcia doesn't seem to have any information as to how or where this man Donner intends to obtain Exocets.'

'True, but he is convinced that Donner can supply and it's worth a try. You notice, of course, that they ask for a top air force officer to liaise on this one, preferably a pilot.'

'Yes.'

'Does anyone spring to mind as being particularly suitable for the job?'

He turned enquiringly. Lami Dozo smiled. 'It would keep him alive, wouldn't it, and as a matter of coincidence, he does speak excellent French.'

'No time to lose. He should be on his way to Paris tomorrow.'

Lami Dozo picked up his cap. 'No problem. I'll fly down to Gallegos myself in the Lear Jet. Bring him back with me.'

'Good, I'd like a word with him before he goes.' As Lami Dozo moved towards the door, Galtieri called, 'You know what the day after tomorrow is?'

'Of course.' It was Tuesday, 25th May and Argentina's national day.

'You've something special planned, I trust?'

'We'll do our best.'

Lami Dozo went out, the President sighed, sat down at his desk and resumed work.

In London, Gabrielle Legrand, shopping in Harrods, found herself walking through the television department. A small crowd had gathered before a television set and the ITV news was on. The screen was showing a series of pictures of San Carlos Water, ships scattered at anchor in a cloud of smoke. Television film, as yet, was not available. An anonymous commentator was describing a raid as it took place, presumably that morning, Argentinian Skyhawks racing in to drop their bombs.

His voice lifted in excitement as he followed the track of a Rapier missile, there was the sound of a violent explosion as a Skyhawk was destroyed.

Several people in the crowd applauded and one man said, 'Got the bastard!' It was understandable. This was the enemy they were looking at. Planes dedicated to destroying their own boys. One of those boys was her half-brother, Richard. She knew he was on the aircraft carriers two hundred miles to the west of San Carlos Water but that was not safety. Helicopter pilots like Richard flew towards danger every day and their carriers were the constant targets of the Argentine missiles. Gabrielle prayed that God would protect twenty-two-year-olds.

She turned away, physically sick, Raul in her mind.

Thank God he's too old to fly those things, she thought, and hurried out.

Raul Montera, at that moment, was fifty miles off the southern tip of Argentina, five hundred feet above the sea, trying to nurse home a Skyhawk to port that had most of its tail missing, a plume of smoke drifting gently behind it.

The boy in the cockpit was badly wounded; Montera knew that and had long since abandoned any attempt at proper procedure.

'Hang on, Jose, not long now.'

'No use, colonel.' The boy's voice was very tired. 'She's going down. I can't hold her any longer.'

As the Skyhawk's nose dipped, Montera said, 'Eject boy.'

'And freeze to death?' The boy laughed faintly. 'Why bother.'

'Lieutenant Ortega,' Montera cried. 'Eject now. That's an order.'

A second later the canopy flew into space, the boy was catapulted out. Montera followed him down, already giving base the position, watching the parachutes drift, hoping that the air sea rescue launch would be in time.

He made a quick pass as Ortega hit the water, saw him break free of the chute. The small yellow dinghy inflated and, as he watched, the boy tried to climb in.

There was a sudden warning buzz from the instrument panel that told him how low he was on fuel. He made one more pass, waggled his wings and curled away towards the coast.

When Montera got out of the cockpit of the Skyhawk at the Gallegos base, Sergeant Santerra, the technical crew chief, was already examining the plane and shaking his head.

'Look at the tail, for Christ's sake, colonel. Cannon shell, at least four. Holes all over the place.'

'I know. We had a couple of Harriers on our tails on the way out of San Carlos. They got Santini. Young Ortega almost made it and ditched about fifty miles out.'

'Your luck is good, colonel. Amazing. I can't understand it. You should have been dead days ago.'

'I put it all down to the love of a good woman myself.' Raul Montera reached up and touched the legend Gabrielle which was painted on the side of the cockpit. 'Thank you, my love.'

When he went into the Intelligence Room in the Operations building, it was empty except for Major Pedro Munro, an Argentinian of Scots extraction, the senior intelligence officer.

'Ah, there are you, Raul. One of these days you won't walk through that door,' he said cheerfuly.

'Thanks very much,' Montera answered. 'Any word on Ortega?'

'Not yet. What have you got to tell me?'

Montera helped himself to a cigarette from the pack on the desk. 'That it was hell out there, just like an old war movie on television, only this was real. Men died.'

Munro said, 'Very funny. Now, could I possibly have something concrete? Did you sink anything?'

'I don't think so,' Montera told him, 'for the excellent reason that my bombs didn't explode again. Could you possibly arrange for ordnance to get the blasted timing right on those fuses?'

Munro stopped trying to be amusing. 'I'm damn sorry, Raul. Truly.'

'So am I.' Montera told him, and went out.

He walked towards the officers' mess wearily, his flying boots drumming on the tarmac. He felt depressed, stale, at the end of things. He was too old to be doing this sort of thing, and that was a fact; then he remembered what Gabrielle had said to him about age being a state of mind and smiled.

He thought a lot about her these days. In fact, all the time. She filled his heart and head, flew with him, slept with him. He spoke aloud to her last thing each night.

He walked into the ante-room. The first person he saw was Lami Dozo, standing by the fire, a circle of young officers about him.

The General excused himself and came to meet Montera, genuine pleasure on his face. He gave him the abrazo, the formal hug.

'I saw your mother yesterday at a charity affair. Fundraising for the army. She looked splendid.'

'Was Linda with her?'

'No, she was at school. As I say, your mother looked splendid. You, on the other hand, look dreadful. It must stop, this foolishness, Raul. Eleven missions in a week.'

'Twelve,' Montera said. 'You forget today. And could you kindly get them to do something about the bombs? They will persist in not going off a lot of the time. Very annoying, when one has gone to such a great deal of trouble to deliver them.'

'Have a drink,' Lami Dozo said.

'An excellent idea.' Montera called a mess waiter over. 'Tea. My usual.' He turned to the General. 'Will you join me?'

'Tea?' Lami Dozo said. 'Good God, what's got into you?'

Montera nodded to the waiter who departed. 'Nothing. It's just that a friend of mine when I was in London persuaded me that coffee wasn't good for me.'

'Who is this Gabrielle whose name they tell me is painted on the nose of your Skyhawk?'

'The woman I love,' Raul Montera said simply.

'Have I had the pleasure of meeting her?'

'No. When she isn't living in London, she lives in Paris. Next question.'

'Paris? How interesting. If you had time, you could look her up.'

'I don't understand?'

'You're flying to Paris tomorrow. I'm taking you back to Buenos Aires with me now. Oh, and Galtieri would like a word before you leave.'

'I think perhaps you'd better explain,' Montera said.

Which Lami Dozo did as briefly as possible. When he was finished he said, 'Well, what do you think?'

'I think the world has gone mad,' Raul Montera told him. 'But who am I to argue.'

'It could win us the war, Raul.'

'Win us the war?' Montera laughed harshly. 'We're back with old movies on television, General. We've lost this war already. It should never have started. But by all means send me off to Paris to play games while these boys here continue to die.'

The waiter returned with the tray at that moment and Montera poured himself a cup of tea with hands that shook slightly.

He raised the cup to his lips and drank. 'Much better for you than coffee,' he said and smiled, remembering that morning in Kensington, a thousand years ago, in the bath with Gabrielle.

Lami Dozo looked concerned. 'You've done too much, old friend. You need a rest. Come on, let's go.'

'You think I'm going over the edge.' Montera swallowed the rest of his tea. 'You're quite wrong. I'm already there.'

As they stood up, Major Munro came in. He glanced about the mess, saw Montera and smiled. 'Good news, Raul. Young Ortega — they've picked him up. Badly shot up, but he'll survive. They say it was the coldness of the sea that saved him. Stopped him bleeding to death.'

He recognised the General in the same moment and saluted.

'His luck is good,' Lami Dozo commented.

'Let's hope mine is,' said Raul Montera.

A little under four hours later, he was following Lami Dozo into Galtieri's private study at the Residencia del Presidente.

Galtieri came round the desk to greet him warmly, hand outstretched. 'My dear Montera, a great pleasure. Your efforts on behalf of the cause have been heroic.'

'I've done no more than any other pilot in my command, General.'

'Very commendable, but not quite true. However, General Dozo has briefed you, I'm sure, on the importance of this new mission. We're all counting on you.'

'I'll do my best, General. May I have permission to visit my mother before I leave?'

'But of course. Give Donna Elena my humble duty. And now, I'll detain you no longer.'

He shook hands again and Montera and Lami Dozo departed. When they had gone, Galtieri flicked the intercom and told Martinez to come in.

The young captain presented himself and Galtieri passed across the report from Garcia in Paris. 'This one is highly sensitive, Martinez. Get your book and I'll dictate a brief account of the affair so far, my discussion with General Dozo and the action we have taken.'

'Copies for General Dozo and Admiral Anaya, General, as usual?'

Galtieri shook his head. 'General Dozo knows already and the Admiral doesn't deserve to know. One copy for my personal file.'

'Very well, General.'

Carmela Balbuena was a formidable lady in her fifties. Her husband, an army captain, had been killed seven years previously during the so-called dirty war waged between the government and the back-country guerrillas. She had been on the staff at the Presidential Palace ever since and was now senior secretary.

The report on the Exocet affair was handed over to her by Martinez personally. 'I think you'd better do this one yourself, then straight into his personal file, no copy,' he said.

She took a pride in her work, typing it out meticulously on three sheets of paper, making one carbon copy in spite of what Martinez had said. She took the report and showed it to him.

'Excellent, senora, you've excelled yourself. You can file it later when he's out.'

'I'll put it into the office safe until morning,' she said. 'May I go now? I don't think there's anything else.'

'Of course. See you tomorrow.'

She went back into the other room, tidied her desk, took the copies of the three sheets she had made, folded them neatly and put them into her handbag. Then she left, closing the door behind her.

Carmela Balbuena had never been able to have children and had lavished all her affection on her nephew, son of her only brother. A socialist in her ideas, but no communist, she disliked Galtieri and the military regime that kept him in power, disliked a government that had caused so much repression and had been instrumental in bringing about the disappearance of so many thousands of ordinary people. Like her nephew, for example, who appeared to have been wiped off the face of the earth since his arrest at a student rally three years previously.

And then she'd gone to a cultural evening at the French Embassy and had met Jack Daley, a fresh-faced young American who reminded her so much of her nephew. Daley had been more than attentive, taking her to concerts, the theatre, gradually drawing her out, encouraging her to talk of her work at the Palace.

By the time she discovered he was a Commercial Attache at the American Embassy and probably much more, she didn't really care. Anything he wanted she gave him, which included any information of value from the office.

She phoned him at the Embassy from the first public phone box she came to on her way home and met him an hour later in the Plaza de Mayo where Juan Peron had been so fond of speech making in the old days.

They sat on a bench in one of the gardens and she passed him a newspaper containing the copy of the report.

'I won't hold you,' she said. 'I've read that thing and it's dynamite. I'll see you again.'

Jack Daley, who was in reality an agent of the CIA, hurried back to the Embassy to read the report in peace. Having read it, he didn't waste any time. Twenty minutes later it was being encoded and forwarded to Washington. Within two hours of being received there, it was passed on to Brigadier Charles Ferguson in London by order of the Director of the CIA himself.