Exocet (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  '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 calle
d 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?'

  12

  Paco's was a great success, full of character and life, tables crowded together and the five piece band sensational. They had a booth to themselves from which they could watch the action. She had a whisky sour and he ordered Perrier Water with lime.

  She said, 'You're still not drinking?'

  'I have to stay fit; keep on top of things. Middle-aged man, younger woman. You know how it is?'

  'Keep taking the pills,' she said. 'You're doing all right. Of course, I'm only after your money,'

  'No,' he said. 'You've got it wrong. At the present rate of inflation in the Argentine, I'm after your money. Even the Monteras may feel the pinch when this war is over.'

  But the mention of war brought reality back to her and that would not do at all. She took his hand. 'Come on, let's dance,' she said and pulled him to his feet.

  The band was plaing a bossanova and Montera led her perfectly, dancing extremely well.

  As the music finished, Gabrielle said, 'That was good. You should have been a gigolo.'

  'Exactly what my mother used to say. A gentleman shouldn't dance too well.' He grinned. 'I always adored it. I haunted all the tango bars when I was a boy. The tango, of course, is the only real dance for an Argentinian. It mirrors everything. Political struggles, depressions, life, love, death. You do dance the tango?'

  'I've been known to.'

  He turned to the bandleader and said in Portuguese, 'Heh, compadre, what about a real tango? Something to move the heart like Cambalache.'

  'Which means the senor is an Argentinian,' the bandleader said. 'I thought I recognised the accent. A long way from home, especially now, so this is for you and the lady.'

  He went to the back of the stage and returned with an instrument slightly longer than a concertina. 'Ah,' Montera said in delight. 'We're going to get the real thing. That, my love, is what we call a bandoneon.'

  'Sounds good,' Gabrielle commented.

  'Wait and see.'

  The bandleader started to play, accompanied only by piano and violin, and the music touched something deep inside her for it spoke of the infinite sadness, the longing of love, that knowledge that all that makes life worth living is in the hands of another, to give or withhold.

  They danced as one person, together in a way she would never have thought possible. No domination from him, no leading. He danced superbly, but also with the most enormous tenderness. And when he smiled, his love was plain, an honest gift, making no demands on her.

  It was a performance that fascinated many people, not least Felix Donner, who was sitting at the bar with Wanda.

  'Dear God in heaven,' he said. 'What a creature. I've never seen anything like her.'

  Wanda knew panic then, as she had never known it before, at the look on his face and
in his eye.

  'Anybody can look good in a dress like that.'

  'Fuck the dress,' Donner said simply. 'She'd look good in anything - or nothing.'

  As the music faded, several people applauded, but Montera and Gabrielle stayed together for a moment, oblivious.

  'You really do love me very much,' she said softly, a wonder in her voice.

  'I have no choice,' he said. 'You asked me why I fly. I told you it's what I am. Ask me why I love you. I can only give the same answer. It's what I am.'

  The feeling of certainty, of serenity that flooded through her, was incredible. She took his hand. 'Let's sit down.'

  At the table, he ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. 'Yes, tango is a way of life in Buenos Aires. I'll take you to San Telmo, the old quarter. The best tango bars in the world. We'll go to El Viejo Almacen. They'll turn you into an expert there in one night.'

  'When?' he said. 'When does all this happen?'

  'Well, I'll be damned,' Donner said. 'Senor Montera. What a pleasant surprise.'

  He stood there looking down at them, Wanda at his side, and reluctantly Montera got to his feet.

  * * *

  It was raining when Paul Bernard alighted from the cab on the corner of the street beside the Seine and paid off the driver. It was an area of offices and tall warehouses, busy during the day, but deserted by night. He moved along the pavement, searching for the address Garcia had left for him in the phone message he'd received in his office at the Sorbonne earlier that evening.

  He found what he was looking for, a sign over a warehouse that said Lebel & Company, Importers. He tried the small judas gate in the main entrance. It opened to his touch. He slipped through. The warehouse inside was in darkness but there was a light on in the glass-walled office high above.

  'Garcia?' he called. 'Are you there?'

  He saw a shadow behind the frosted glass of the office, the door opened, a voice said, 'Up here.'

  He mounted the rickety wooden steps cheerfully. 'I haven't got much time. One of my post-graduate students, a girl of rather interesting proportions, has asked me round to have supper and check her thesis over with her. With any luck it should take me till morning.'

  He went in through the door and found Tony Villiers sitting at the desk in front of him.