‘You haven’t won the war.’ Gaffney was a realist, with a bluntness of speech not quite becoming an Irishman.
‘Not yet, not yet.’ Anaya showered Gaffney with his indulgent smile. ‘What is important today is that we have won the people.’
‘You mean they are marching with you where before they were protesting against you? Beware, Admiral, beware. Anti-British isn’t being exactly the same as pro-Junta. Your crowd will turn ugly again if you don’t crush the English and drive them out of the South Atlantic forever.’
‘Are you sure your own prejudices aren’t showing up, Mr Gaffney?’
Gaffney blushed a shade redder than normal. He always had to tread such a fine line in promoting the IRA’s interests with these dictatorial damn dago cowboys. He knew he lacked the diplomacy necessary to be an outstanding success as the representative in far South America. He hungered instead for the action of Belfast and London, where he had carved quite a reputation as a fine terror tactician. If only those new lads he had with him in the West End in ’77 had not bungled so badly … but Gaffney’s realist streak told him he could never return safely to England or Ulster. His face was too notorious now.
Best to make a good fist of the job he had. And he was sure there was profit to be had for the IRA from this Falklands business, if only he could handle it carefully enough. ‘Curb your tongue, Patrick me boy,’ he thought to himself. ‘Curb your tongue.’
‘I was only meaning, Admiral, that it’s in your own best interest to drive on with the attack. You’ve shown you can beat the English once. My advice is to go on and beat the bastards once and for all.’
‘With your assistance, Mr Gaffney?’
‘Haven’t I already offered to help you any way we can? Why, we already are with that woman in Dorset. Give me the order to unleash my dogs, Admiral, and you’ll see how well the IRA keeps its word.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied Anaya. ‘In fact, if any of the men you have detailed on that surveillance is inclined to be trigger-happy, I would appreciate it if you were to have him replaced post haste.’
‘I take it the husband has seen reason?’
‘He is cooperating, yes. More, he is contributing as a highly qualified naval officer should. However, I have no delusions regarding his loyalty. His sole motivation, I am sure, is the protection of his family, which is enough for our purposes. He has demanded to speak with his wife before proceeding.’
‘Surely you can’t permit that.’
‘It depends. Mr Gaffney, I want your opinion on something. But first we toast my pilots who hit the Sheffield.’
Anaya poured two drinks, Gaffney noticing as Hawker had that the steward was absent from the room. They sipped the toast, stiff and formal as two soldiers at a unit reunion.
Gaffney had a good idea of what was coming up. He had, after all, carefully inspired Anaya’s enthusiasm to murder Prince Andrew in the first place. He had commenced that project on the day he heard that Andrew was to sail with Invincible to the South Atlantic. The lad had been of no particular concern to Gaffney or the IRA command before – he was a low-ranking royal target. In the context of the Falklands conflict, however, Gaffney saw a new importance for the royal pup. Could he not be the means to escalate the Falklands from a local territorial skirmish to a major war of principle?
Gaffney knew the havoc the death of a prince, singled out as a specific target, would create in England. Perhaps enough havoc to cause that Thatcher woman to divert more forces to the south, away from their normal duties in places which may seem quiet by comparison. Places like Ulster, for instance.
Gaffney was proud of the fact that headquarters had ratified his plan so quickly after it had been properly presented by one of his friends in Belfast. IRA activity in Britain had dropped in recent weeks, and even before he had official approval he began work on Anaya. Gaffney was amazed at how eagerly the Argentine admiral had grasped the concept. He needed no convincing that Prince Andrew was a key to victory.
It came as a shock, then, when Anaya poured a second drink into his own and Gaffney’s glasses, motioned for them to settle in the comfort of the armchairs, and calmly announced, ‘I have rejected the assassination strategy.’
‘I … I suppose that is a possibility we had not considered,’ Gaffney stammered a few minutes later, after Anaya had recounted Hawker’s argument against the plan to kill the prince. Blast Hawker and his Englishness!
‘Perhaps you could use a further opinion from my comrades on the spot in London.’
Anaya waved him silent and went on to describe Hawker’s plan, lavishly illustrated with expressive Latino arm movements as his hands whipped through the air, playing a stricken yacht, helicopters and warships in turn. Gaffney let out a silent sigh of relief that the old man’s enthusiasm had carried him past any sense of suspicion, and then found himself sitting forward, listening intently to every tiny detail. When the admiral finished, trying unsuccessfully to hide a beam of self-satisfaction from his face, Gaffney sat back and whistled loudly.
‘It is indeed a devil of a plan, sir.’ It was more than that. It was more than the whole IRA could wish for in all its wildest dreams. British royalty, hostage!
‘I take it you agree with my thinking,’ said Anaya.
‘Agree with it? I don’t know why we didn’t think of it ourselves ever before! Why, it’s the last place the English would be prepared for it. The only place their royals are not packed around like sardines with security guards.’
‘So, you will help us?’
‘How?’
‘Hawker wants a crew that is not only convincingly British but also has some deep water sailing experience. I cannot provide this from my own resources.’
Gaffney’s mind was racing like a flywheel. Think, man, think ahead. You have all the good cards. Play them right and take the jackpot.
‘I have just the people you require. They can be available three – no, two days from now. How many will you be needing?’
‘Hawker says three.’
‘Perfect. Though, this mission being a different kettle of fish from the job in Dorset, my bosses will be after wanting a different price.’
‘What this time?’ Anaya’s scowl could not disguise his lack of surprise at such a demand.
‘No more guns or bullets. Not anymore.’
‘How much then?’ Anaya sighed. He hated this petty bargaining. Like snivelling market traders.
Gaffney got up, poured himself another drink, leaned over to pour more into Anaya’s glass. Holding the bottle over the crystal tumbler he paused for a moment of tantalising silence, then said:
‘The Exocet missile.’
Thursday 6 May 1982
‘Do you realise what the French charge for a single one of those things?’ Anaya glared angrily at Gaffney.
They were in the same office, in the same chairs, fiercely arguing the same lines. The only difference was the time. More than 24 hours had passed since their first meeting in the wake of the Sheffield’s sinking. 24 hours of frantic activity on both sides, involving intricately coded telexes to the British Isles for Gaffney, tedious meetings with ordnance officers and his fellow Junta members for Anaya.
‘Cost, cost, cost! You can’t really expect me to believe that blarney when you’re loosing them off at the Royal Navy every other hour. And risking far more valuable aircraft to do it.’ Gaffney glared back like a rusty haired little terrier. If the truth were told, he was enjoying this scrap immensely. He knew he would win. Unlike his adversary, he was fighting on one front only. And time was on his side.
‘At the English navy. You make my point for me.’ Anaya huffed. ‘We are embargoed by the French, all efforts to locate an alternative source of supply have so far failed, we may soon run out of Exocets to fire. It is not just because of money that we cannot afford to give you even one of these missiles.’
‘Bullshit! You have a whole fleet full of the bloody things!’
‘And we need every single
one,’ said Anaya, struggling to maintain a façade of reason. He had to win the negotiation. Hawker was adamant that he could only attempt his raid with a true English speaking crew. Gaffney was his only chance to find one without going out to the Anglophone mercenary market – where British intelligence could easily discover enough to destroy the mission before it began.
‘Double bullshit! Your fleet is in port. Its Exocets are useless.’
‘Until we transfer them to our air bases.’
‘Where they’d be as useful as tits on a bull. They’re not compatible.’
Anaya shot a quick glance to Grivas, who he had brought in as much for moral support as anything else.
Gaffney drove on.
‘The Exocets you’re loading on to your planes are the AM39, the air to surface type. They’re quite different from the original MM38, the surface to surface mark that you’ve got on your ships, admiral.’ He settled comfortably further into the cushioned back of his armchair and slid into an avuncular tone of voice. ‘The MM38 is longer and heavier and has a very different fuse system. The hard points on your Super Etendards can’t even carry one, let alone launch it.
‘Now I don’t deny you might run out of Exocets for your pilots to fire if this war goes on much longer, but all the MM38s in the world aren’t going to help you one little jot.’
Anaya glanced again at Grivas, who nodded his head and shrugged.
‘You are correct,’ said the old man, not yet quite vanquished, ‘and since you know so much you will also know that the missiles by themselves are as worthless to you as they are to me. They need the right guidance equipment.’
‘Not much more sophisticated than the fish-seeking sonar, radar and gyro compasses on modern trawlers, to which we have unlimited access. As well as the technicians to do the necessary fiddling.’ Gaffney smiled. ‘Did you know we’ve been screwing the SAS radar surveillance in Ulster for years with nothing more than old tellies and portable Japanese radios?’
‘But six missiles?’ Anaya’s hands spelled out his exasperation. ‘There is no way my government could ever give you six Exocets as you say your superiors so stubbornly demand.’
Gaffney’s face remained still. Inside he was smiling fit to burst.
‘We are reasonable men, Admiral Anaya. Did I forget to inform you that my superiors have now authorised me to settle for three?’ He allowed a small smile to creep out. ‘Now that’s fair, isn’t it? One Exocet for each crew member we’re providing.’
‘Three?’ Anaya rapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘No, there is still no way my Junta colleagues would agree to such an exchange.’
‘I am surprised and more than a little shocked,’ Gaffney replied evenly, ‘to discover that you need their approval on matters of utilisation of your fleet ordnance. Admiral.’
Anaya managed to shrug off the sting. With a stony face he went into a huddle with Grivas. Their Spanish was too rapid for Gaffney to follow – he had earlier won from them the concession of conducting these negotiations in English, giving himself another psychological advantage, which now faded slightly. All he could comprehend of their conversation was the constant repetition of many numbers.
Finally, Anaya turned back to the Irishman.
‘You have a deal. Not with the Argentine government, but with my Navy. With me. There will be nothing on paper, and nothing of this must ever be repeated outside the highest naval ranks. Details of delivery will be mutually decided and sealed by handshake, subject to two conditions.’
‘Which are?’
“Delivery of the missiles must take place at sea, outside Argentina’s territorial waters. And it will only take place on confirmation that Hawker has succeeded in landing his target – alive – in the Malvinas.’
‘And you get all the glory for the coup that wins the war. I can agree to that, to be sure.’
Gaffney put out a stumpy red hand, like a miniature ham. When Anaya shook it, he noticed the admiral’s grip was moist and limp.
Paul Hawker was making love with Anne. Her wispy blonde hair had flown forward and gently bound their faces together as they both rose toward the climax of an ecstasy higher than they’d ever been before.
Paul could feel Anne’s nipples hard against his skin, backed by the deliciously contrasting softness of her breasts, as she rubbed her body up and down against his, slowly at first and then with rising urgency. She clenched his buttocks with her legs and he could feel the velvet smoothness of the skin inside her thighs urging him in tighter with every stroke, the muscles relaxing and tautening in delightful counterpoint to his own motion. He could feel her own soft buttocks moving under his clasp, and he could feel her fingers running up and down his back.
They rolled, together as one, so that now Paul was on his back with Anne as light as a pillow on top of him. They were both utterly naked in a field of tiny ripe daisies under a pure blue sky. Paul could now see the sky, filtered through the straw of Anne’s hair. She was coming closer to the summit. He could feel her tighten around him, yet still soft and delectably warm. He hugged her closer still, wanting to feel her pleasure pulsating around him but never wanting this embrace to end, when the soft murmur of her moans was drowned out by the suddenly harsh rasp of metal on metal.
Paul peered through the filter of his wife’s hair and clutched her tighter to him in alarm. Where there was nothing but blue sky before were now the dark and towering figures of a sinister scrum of men.
They were savage and menacing, completely black and featureless expect for their flashing eyes and teeth. Sharp white teeth, bared in carnivorous grins. Eyes shining cold and hard.
There was the clatter of metal on metal again as a couple of the men slid the bolts of heavy rifles and aimed them point blank at Anne’s back. But Anne did not see them. Deep in rapture and aware of nothing else, she continued with her love for him. And then he saw his daughter.
Little Elizabeth was crying, half with terror, half with the shyness of innocence, as the biggest and most brutal of the men forced her to watch her parents. Paul could see her small naked body shudder with huge sobs. He reached his hand up and around Anne, reaching out to Lizzie. But the man tightened his grip on her little arm and his teeth flashed sharper as he pressed a gun barrel to her temple. Paul tried calling to her. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He tried to twist out of Anne’s embrace, desperately attempting to shout a warning to both mother and daughter. But still no sound came from his tongue and still Anne continued to thrust, coming to joyful oblivious climax. As her orgasm swept over her under the press of the gun barrels, she moaned his name over and over.
‘Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul. Paul!’
Paul clenched his eyes closed against the terror. He could feel Anne’s hand, solid and real on his shoulder. He grabbed at the hand, desperate to shake her into awareness of her peril, but still he could only hear his name.
‘Paul! Paul!’
He opened his eyes. Grivas looked down at him with concern, shaking him vigorously by the shoulder.
‘Paul, wake up by the mercy of God. You have been sleeping in terror.’
‘Yes … yes, I know,’ Hawker mumbled groggily. He battled to bring his mind back to reality, his heart racing as if he’d run a 200 metre sprint. ‘What … what time is it?’
‘1300. Thursday. You’ve had nearly four days and nights in here to dream up your nightmares but it’s over now. Action at last.’
Hawker sat up on the grey steel bed against the wall of the cell. Grivas straightened from where he had been leaning over him. Two armed guards loomed behind him, their faces as stony and impassive as the block wall behind them. Hawker was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the warm moist patch at his crotch.
‘Give me a minute to get ready.’
Grivas backed away, gesturing to a canvas sailing bag he’d placed on the floor near the bed.
‘Your toilet kit and some more clothes from your apartment. Take five minutes.’
He motioned the guard
s out through the door and left Hawker to change and wash with a splash of icy water from the brass tap which was the cell’s major luxury.
He pounded on the door when he was finished and left the cell for what he hoped would be the last time, sailing bag hurriedly stashed with his meagre kit slung over his shoulder. As he marched down the corridor with Grivas and the guards in their customary formation, he tried to shake off the vivid horror of his dream. He failed.
In Anaya’s office the nightmare became reality.
‘Begorrah, but it’s good to see you again, Mr Hawker,’ beamed Gaffney as he and Grivas come through the door.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Hawker snarled at Anaya.
‘Calm down, man.’ The admiral was cool and assured, the officer in command once again. ‘You wanted to phone your wife. Mr Gaffney is here to help us arrange it.
‘He has also contracted to provide the crew you require for your coming enterprise.’
‘Irishmen?’ Hawker kept his glare fixed on Anaya.
‘Not entirely,’ crooned Gaffney. ‘Being after people with the qualifications you say you’re wanting, you can’t afford to be choosy, you know. So, I’ve had to give you some non-Irish as well. Unfortunately.’
He plucked a sheet of typewritten paper from the table. It was the crew specifications Hawker had dictated to Anaya’s secretary two days earlier. He began to read it aloud, the Spanish fractured almost beyond comprehension by his thick Irish accent.
‘I know what it says,’ Hawker rasped over the droning litany. He knew damned well he had given Anaya a list of requirements that was almost impossible to meet. He insisted that the ideal ruse was an apparently British yacht and crew. No hint of a South American connection could be permitted. And they had to have, as well as the qualifications to mount what was effectively a special forces commando raid, enough blue water experience to adequately describe the horrific rounding of Cape Horn they would be supposed to have endured. ‘But there is no time to select, recruit and bring in people from Ireland or anywhere else in the British Isles.’
Prince Hunter Page 6
