Exocet

7

Raul Montera moved out on to the terrace of the house at Vicente Lopez Floreda and took in the gardens below with a conscious pleasure. Palm trees waved in the slight breeze, water gurgled in the conduits and fountains, and the scent of mimosa was heavy on the air. Beyond the perimeter wall the River Plate sparkled like silver in the evening sun.

His mother and Linda were sitting at a table beside a fountain on the lower terrace and it was the child who saw him first. She cried out in delight and came running towards him, arms outstretched, dressed for riding in jodhpurs and a yellow sweater, hair tied back in a ponytail.

'Papa, we didn't know! We didn't know.'

She clutched him and he held her tightly and she smiled up at him, fierce and proud. 'You were on the television at Rio Gallegos with General Dozo. I saw you. So did all the girls at school.'

'Is that so?'

'And the Skyhawks at Death Valley, we saw that too and I knew you must be flying one of them.'

'Death Valley?' He stopped short. 'How did you know about that?'

'Isn't that what the pilots call it, the place where they make their run on the British fleet? Two girls in my class at school have lost brothers.' She hugged him again. 'Oh, I'm so pleased you're safe. Will you be going back?'

'No, not to Gallegos, but I'm going to France in the morning.'

They reached the table. His mother sat watching him calmly, cool, elegant, perfectly groomed as usual, looking fifteen years younger than her seventy years.

'I'm supposed to be going riding,' Linda said. 'I'll cancel it.'

'Nonsense,' Donna Elena told her. 'Run along now. Your father will be here when you get back.'

Linda turned to him. 'Promise?'

'On my honour.'

She hurried up the steps and Montera turned and reached for Donna Elena's hands. 'Mother,' he said formally as he kissed them. 'It's good to see you.'

Her eyes took in every aspect of the face, so finely drawn, the haunted eyes. 'Oh God,' she whispered. 'My dearest boy, what have they done to you?'

She was, by nature, self-sufficient, controlled, had learned many years before never to give too much of herself away. The result was that they had always enjoyed a highly formalised relationship.

She tossed all that out of the window now, jumped to her feet and flung her arms around him. 'It's so good to have you back safe and well, Raul. So good.'

'Mama.' He hadn't used that term since he was a little boy and felt hot tears of emotion cloud his eyes.

'Come, sit down. Talk to me.'

He lit a cigarette and sprawled back, letting everything go. 'This is wonderful.'

'So, you're not going back?'

'No.'

'I must thank the Virgin for that in some suitable way. A man of your age flying jet planes. What nonsense, Raul. A miracle you are here.'

'Yes, it is, when you come to think of it,' Montera said. 'I'd better light a few candles to someone myself.'

'To the Virgin or to Gabrielle?' He frowned warily, and she said, 'Here, give me a cigarette. I'm not a fool, you know. I've seen you on television three times now in that Skyhawk of yours. One can hardly miss the inscription just below the cockpit. Who is she, Raul?'

'The woman I love,' he said simply, repeating the words he had used to Lami Dozo.

'Tell me about her.'

So he did, pacing up and down the terrace beside her restlessly. When he was finished, she said, 'She sounds a remarkable young woman.'

'An understatement,' Montera told her. 'The most extraordinary human being I have ever met. Extraordinary for me, that is. I plunged head first in love with her the very first moment. It isn't just her quite astonishing beauty; there's a joy to her that goes way beyond physical passion.' He suddenly laughed out loud and the lines seemed to vanish from his face and he no longer looked tired. 'She's so bloody marvellous in every way, Mama. I always had faith that there was something special about life and she's it.'

Donna Elena Llorca de Montera took a deep breath. 'There's no more to be said then, is there? I presume I'll be introduced in your own good time. Now, tell me why you're going to France.'

'Sorry,' he told her. 'Top secret. All I can say is that it's for what our President is pleased to call the cause. He also believes that if I'm successful, it could win us the war.'

'And will it?'

'If he believes that, he'll believe anything. The cause.' He walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out across the river. 'We've lost half our pilots so far, Mama. Half. That's what the newspapers don't tell you. The crowds cry out, wave flags; Galtieri makes speeches; but the reality is the butchery at San Carlos Water.'

She stood up and took his arm. 'Come on, Raul, let's go inside now,' and together they went up the steps.

At Cavendish Place, Ferguson was seated at the desk, working his way through the CIA signal for the umpteenth time, when Harry Fox came in carrying a couple of files.

'All here, sir. Everything on Felix Donner.'

'Tell me, is Gabrielle still in town or has she gone back to Paris?'

'Still at Kensington Palace Gardens. I was having dinner at Langans last night and she was there with some friends. Why?'

'I should have thought it obvious, Harry. She was considerably smitten by Raul Montera's charms and he with her. We can put that to good use.' He looked at Fox's face and raised a hand. 'Don't start getting moral on me, Harry. This is war we're playing at now, not patty fingers.'

'Yes, well there are days when I definitely would rather be doing something else.'

'Never mind that now. Donner. Tell me about him. Just the salient facts.'

'Multi-millionaire. The Donner Development Corporation has a vast range of interests. Building, shipping, electronics, you name it.'

'And Donner himself?'

'Very popular media figure, as you can see from the file. Started in property development in a very small way. Really took off in the boom of the sixties.'

'And never looked back?'

'That's it, sir. In the circumstances and considering the size of his bank balance, it seems odd that he would involve himself in an affair like this, even for a couple of million pounds.'

'Exactly.' Ferguson sat looking at the file for a while, frowning. 'I really do smell stinking fish here in a big way. First of all there's the Russian connection. How was Nikolai Belov so certain after being approached by Garcia that Donner was the man who could help?'

'True. So what are you saying, sir?'

'That Felix Donner was an orphan which is very convenient. That every other man who served with him and was taken prisoner in Korea died in captivity. Also very convenient.'

There was a long silence. Fox asked, 'Are you suggesting what I think you are, sir?'

Ferguson got up and walked to the fire and stood there, looking down into the flames.

Fox said, 'He's a highly respected businessman, sir. It doesn't make sense.'

'Neither did the Gordon Lonsdale affair, remember? Also a highly respected business man. A Canadian, to all intents and purposes. Even now, after all these years, there's some doubt as to his real identity.'

'Except that he was a Russian. A professional agent.'

'Exactly.'

'Are you suggesting that Donner could be another Lonsdale?'

'It's a possibility, that's all we can say for the moment. All right, so he could just be a thoroughly unscrupulous business man, out as our American friends would say, to make a buck. We'll have to see.'

'So what do we do, sir, pull him in?'

Ferguson went back to his desk. 'Difficult while he's in France. Oh, I could pull strings at high levels, but if we went public it would create one hell of a stink and we might lose considerable long-term advantages. If we could catch him properly, Harry, we might be able to bring down one hell of a house of cards. All his KGB connections in this country. But only if he is what I think he might be.'

'That's right.'

'And we don't even know what he's up to. Even Garcia has obviously been kept in the dark there. All he can say is that Donner has guaranteed him Exocets by next week. No, what we need now is someone right on his tail who can keep us informed day-by-day.'

Fox said, 'And how on earth can we do that?'

'I should have thought it obvious. The key to this affair is Colonel Raul Montera and our link with Montera is Gabrielle Legrand.'

There was silence between them and then Fox said. 'On the other hand, Gabrielle doesn't like us very much, sir.'

'We'll have to see, won't we? You'd better pull her in.'

At that moment, the red phone buzzed. He picked it up quickly. 'Ferguson here.' He listened, face grave, then said, 'Of course, sir,' and replaced the receiver.

Fox said, 'Trouble?'

'That was the Director-General. It seems the Prime Minister wants to see me.'

Donner did not, as a rule, enjoy flying in small aircraft — they were noisy, uncomfortable and lacking in the more obvious amenities — but he could find no fault with the plane Stavrou had arranged. It was a Navajo Chieftain with an excellent cabin and tables that one could sit at in a civilized way.

They took off from a small private airfield outside Paris at a place called Brie-Comte-Robert. The pilot was a man called Rabier, a dark, thin-faced man in his early thirties who, according to Stavrou's information, had left the French Air Force under a cloud. He now ran a small air transport firm and didn't ask questions when the money was right. Exactly what they were looking for.

They came in towards the coast over the Vendee, well south of St Nazaire. Donner had moved up next to the pilot and Rabier said, 'Here's where we land. Place called Lancy. It was a Luftwaffe fighter base during the Second World War. Someone tried to run a flying school from there which failed. Since then, it's been deserted.'

Donner pointed to a notation on the map. 'What's that mean?'

'Restricted air space. There's an island out there off the coast, Ile de Roc. Some sort of military testing range. All it means is keep away. Don't worry, navigation is my strong point.'

They landed at Lancy twenty minutes later. There were four hangars and the watchtower was still intact, but the grass between the runways was waist-high and there was an air of desolation to everything.

A black Citroen was parked in front of the old operations building and Wanda Brown got out as the Navajo taxied toward her. She wore jeans and a leather hunting jacket, her dark hair tied back in place with a silk scarf.

Donner descended the airstair ladder, slipped an arm about her shoulders and kissed her. 'Where did you get the car?'

'Hired it from a garage in St Martin. And I think I've found just the place you're looking for. Five miles from here and about as far from the coast.' She took some keys from her pocket. 'The local estate agent entrusted them to me. I explained that my boss didn't like to be bothered with such matters. I'm certain he thinks I'm setting up a love nest for weekends.'

'Looking at you, what else would he think?' Donner asked her. 'Anyway, let's get moving. You drive, Yanni.'

Stavrou sat behind the wheel and Wanda got into the rear. Donner turned to Rabier, who was peering out from the Navajo.

'A couple of hours at the most, I think, then back to Paris.'

'Fine by me, Monsieur.'

Donner got in to the car beside the girl and they drove away.

The house was called Maison Blanche and nestled amongst beech trees in a hollow. It was quite large and had obviously been imposing once, but now, there was an air of decay to things.

Donner got out of the Citroen and stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the front door under the portico with the green paint peeling rather noticeably.

'Fourteen bedrooms and a stable block at the rear,' Wanda said. 'There's reasonably modern central heating and the oil tanks are full. You could manage here for a few days, I think.'

'What's the story?'

'The owner is in the colonial service in the Pacific. His mother died two years ago and as he wants to retire here eventually, he won't sell. It's fully furnished. The agent lets it off for occasional holiday lets in the summer, otherwise it stands empty.'

She unlocked the door and led the way in. There was a slight musty smell, typical of a house not lived in for a long time, but also a kind of faded magnificence to everything: mahogany panelling and furniture, and good Persian carpets on the floor.

They moved into a drawing-room with a huge fireplace and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Wanda opened the French windows and then the shutters, allowing light to flood in.

'All the comforts of home. Imagine it with central heating going and a log fire. Haven't I done well?'

'Excellent,' Donner said. 'Take it.'

'I already have.'

He pulled her into his arms. 'You're a clever little bitch, aren't you?'

'Some of the time. I aim to please.'

As always, she stirred him physically, which wouldn't do at all for this was neither the time or place. He kissed her once and turned away.

'Right, show me St Martin. Is it possible to see Ile de Roc?'

'On the horizon and only if the weather's good.'

'Let's get going then.'

He went out. As she turned to follow, she was aware of Stavrou, watching her as he always seemed to do, that enigmatic face, and the eyes, so cruel and with something in them especially for her. She hurried past him quickly and he followed her out.

St Martin was a simple enough place. There were no more than five or six hundred inhabitants, narrow cobbled streets, cottages roofed with red pantiles, a small harbour enclosed by a single break-water in which thirty or forty fishing boats of the smaller variety were moored.

There was also an army landing craft painted olive green and moored to the jetty; little more than a steel shell, with great steel bow doors as a beaching exit. An army truck stood inside and, as they watched, the craft moved away from the jetty and out to sea.

'So that's their means of transportation to the island,' Donner said.

Wanda nodded. 'Apparently.'

'According to Paul Bernard, the commanding officer out there also has a fine motor launch which is his pride and joy.'

'That's right. It was moored down there for a while yesterday.'

'Good. That's really excellent.'

They drove on, up out of the town, following a narrow coast road until finally Stavrou, under Wanda's direction, turned in through two stone pillars and bumped across a field track.

Donner and Wanda got out and she handed him a pair of Zeiss fieldglasses as they went forward to the edge of the cliffs. There was a bay far below and the path down was no place for the faint-hearted, zigzagging across the face of granite cliffs, splashed with lime, seabirds crying, wheeling in great clouds, razorbills, shags, gulls, shearwaters and gannets — gannets everywhere.

Ile de Roc was a smudge on the horizon that came to life only when he focussed the glasses. It was well named, massive cliffs rising steeply from the sea, only a hint of green on top. There were no installations to be seen, but he already knew they were on the western side of the island.

He lowered the glasses. 'Good, let's go.'

They returned to the Citroen, got in, and Stavrou reversed and drove away.

On the way back, they passed Maison Blanche again. A few hundred yards on, as they turned into the road leading to Lancy, Donner leaned forward and touched Stavrou on the shoulder.

'Stop a minute. What have we got here?'

In the meadow beside the trees, three wagons were parked around a fire. They were old and battered with patched canvas tilts, and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything from the clothes worn by the four women who squatted by the fire drinking coffee from old cans, to the rags on the children, who played by the stream where three bony horses grazed.

'Gypsies?' Donner said.

'Yes, the agent said there were some in the neighbourhood. Claimed they were no trouble.'

'He would, wouldn't he?' Donner nodded to Stavrou. 'Come on, Yanni, this may work out quite well.'

As they walked down into the hollow, the women looked up curiously, saying nothing. Donner stood there, hands in pockets, then said in French, 'Where's the head man?'

'Here he is, Monsieur.'

The man who had appeared from the trees was old, at least seventy. He had a shotgun crooked in his right arm. He wore a tweed suit which had been patched many times, and white hair showed beneath the blue beret. His face was the colour of oak, wrinkled and covered with stubble.

'And who might you be?' Donner enquired.

'I am Paul Gaubert, Monsieur? Is it permitted to ask you the same question?'

'My name is Donner. I'm the new tenant of Maison Blanche. I think I'm probably right in saying you're camped on my land.'

'But Monsieur, we stay here every year at this time. Never before have we had a problem.'

The young man with him was of medium height with a weak, sullen face. He badly needed a shave. His clothes were as shabby as Gaubert's and black hair poked from beneath a tweed cap. He not only carried a shotgun in his right hand, but a brace of hares in his left.

Donner looked him over and Gaubert said hastily, 'My son, Paul.'

'With my hares, I think? What would the local gendarmes in St Martin have to say about you lot, I wonder?'

Old Gaubert flung his arms wide. 'Please, Monsieur, everywhere we go it is the same. Filthy gypsies, they say. They spit on us while our children go hungry.'

'All right.' Donner took out his wallet. 'I don't need the sob story. You can stay.' He took out a couple of thousand franc notes and stuffed them into Gaubert's breast pocket. 'That's to be going on with. I don't like strangers, understand?'

The old man took out the notes, examined them and smiled broadly. 'I think so, Monsieur.'

'Just keep an eye on things till I'm back down again, or Monsieur Stavrou here.'

'You can rely on me, Monsieur.' Old Gaubert said, and kicked his son on the leg for gawping at Wanda.

They went back to the Citroen, and as they drove away she said, 'Now what?'

'Paris. I've got to make arrangements about this Argentine pilot, Montera. Garcia tells me he's flown twelve missions to the Falklands and survived.'

'An authentic hero,' she said. 'I thought they'd gone out of style.'

'So did I, but this guy is for real and he's going to suit my purpose admirably. By the time I'm finished with him, he'll be world-famous.'

He slipped an arm about her shoulders and leaned back in the seat.