Exocet (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  'Surplus stock, French military prisons for the use of.' He was thoroughly enjoying himself. 'We got them cheap.' He turned to Jarrot. 'Right, Claude, you can do the honours.'

  Within a couple of minutes, the four men lay on the floor, face down beside the unconscious sergeant, all with their wrists handcuffed behind their backs. Faure was already examining the radio equipment.

  'Any problems?' Stavrou asked.

  Faure shook his head. 'Most of it is standard military stuff.'

  'Good. You know what to do. Get in touch with the trawler, tell them it's safe to move in and get me an estimated time of arrival.'

  'Okay.' Faure sat down at one of the sets.

  Stavrou turned to Jarrot. 'Eighteen military personnel in all, that's what Mr Donner said. Five down - eleven to go.' He grinned. 'Let's visit the sergeants' mess next, Claude. You lead the way.'

  * * *

  Donner, standing at the window of Major Espinet's office, a glass of Cognac in hand, watched the two men emerge from the door at the base of the radio tower. They moved to the truck, Stavrou climbed up behind the wheel, Claude stood on the running board and they moved away.

  Donner said, 'When do you intend to put us to work, Major?'

  'No rush,' Espinet said. 'Got to get acclimatized. All the time in the world in a bloody place like this.'

  'Not for me there isn't - time, I mean.' Donner produced a Walther from his pocket, a heavy silencer screwed on the end.

  Espinet stood up behind his desk, eyes bulging. 'What in the hell is going on?'

  'Quite simple,' Donner said. 'I'm taking over.'

  'You must be mad.' Espinet turned to Jobert. 'Pierre, ring through to the guardroom.'

  Donner shot him through the back of the head, killing him instantly, knocking him back across his chair into the corner. The obscenity of his death was somehow intensified by the almost complete lack of sound due to the fact that the Walther was silenced.

  Jobert said, 'Who are you, for God's sake?'

  Donner said, 'You can use your intelligence. Sufficient to say that my country is at war and we need more Exocets. I've got a boat coming in here soon and we're going to take as many as we can lay our hands on and you're going to help.'

  'Like hell, I will,' Jobert said.

  'Oh, all very gallant and French are we today?' Donner touched the end of the silencer between his eyes. 'You'll do exactly as you're told because if you don't, I'll parade your entire unit and shoot every third man.'

  And Jobert believed him, which was the important thing, sudden despair in his eyes, shoulders sagging. Donner poured himself another brandy and toasted him.

  'Cheer up, sport,' he said. 'After all, you could be like Espinet. You could be dead. Now let's get moving.'

  They went up the street together to where the truck was parked outside one of the huts. Stavrou and Jarrot were emerging from another hut on the left and they met just as three more of the mercenaries came out of the hut opposite.

  Stavrou said, 'Five in the radio room, six in the segeants' mess, two corporals in the office of that hut opposite. Every man on his face in steel bracelets.'

  'Which leaves three military personnel unaccounted for.' Donner turned to Jobert. 'Where are they, Captain?'

  Jobert hesitated, but only for a moment. 'On duty in the missile pen.'

  'Good. Now for the civilians. Twenty of them, isn't that right?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'How many of them in the pens at the moment?'

  'Probably five. They work shifts. The others will be eating or sleeping.'

  'Excellent. Then if you'll be good enough to lead the way, we'll introduce ourselves, shall we?'

  * * *

  From her vantage point in the loft, Wanda could see Rabier through the kitchen window. He had been sitting there for some time now at the table, eating bread and cheese and drinking Cognac - drinking a great deal of Cognac.

  Wanda was cold and very hungry. She moved to the corner of the loft, raised the trapdoor and descended a flight of wooden steps. She found herself in the stables Roux's men had used as their quarters. There were sleeping bags in the stalls and various items of equipment laid out on a trestle table, including an assortment of weapons.

  She opened the door and looked outside. It was still raining and she tiptoed cautiously across the cobbles towards the kitchen door. Gabrielle, who had been peering out through the cellar window, saw her coming.

  'Wanda!' she whispered urgently. 'Over here.'

  Villiers was on his feet in a second. 'What is it?'

  Wanda hesitated, then crossed to the wall and crouched down at the window. 'They've all gone except Rabier, the pilot.'

  'I know,' Gabrielle said. 'Come down and let us out as fast as you can.'

  Wanda nodded. 'I'll try,' she said. 'But Rabier's on guard.' She stood up and hurried to the back door, opened it cautiously and started along the passage, pausing at the kitchen door which stood ajar. Rabier stood at the table opening a fresh bottle of Cognac. Wanda tiptoed past him and opened the door into the hall. It creaked slightly in spite of the care with which she closed it and in the kitchen, Rabier paused in the act of pouring Cognac into a glass and listened, a slight frown on his face, head cocked to one side. He went out into the passage, still holding the bottle of Cognac.

  Wanda paused in the hall for a moment. The house was silent. She crossed to the door leading to the cellar steps, opened it and went down. At the bottom, she felt for the light switch and whispered, 'Gabrielle, where are you?'

  'Here, Wanda! Here!' Gabrielle called.

  Wanda hesitated at the cellar door, peering in through the bars, aware of Gabrielle inside, Villiers at her shoulder. There was a great rusting bolt at the top of the door which pulled back without too much difficulty, but the other bolt at the bottom of the door was a different proposition. She got on her knees, tugging at it with both hands. Suddenly there was a movement behind her, a hand fastened in her hair, pulling her head back painfully, dragging her to her feet. She twisted round to find Rabier smiling at her.

  'Naughty,' he said. 'Very naughty. I can see I'm going to have to take you in hand.'

  He was very drunk and thrust the neck of the Cognac bottle into her mouth. It jarred painfully against her teeth and she choked as the fiery liquid poured down her throat. He laughed again, not pleasantly, eyes fixed, an ugly look on his face, and put the bottle on a shelf beside them.

  'And now,' he said, 'I'll teach you how to do as you're told.' He forced his mouth on hers, holding her against the wall, one hand still fastened in her hair, the other pawing at her breasts.

  Gabrielle cried out in anger and then Villiers pulled her to one side, reached through the bars with one hand and got Rabier by the hair, yanking him back against the door with considerable force.

  'The bottle, Wanda!' he ordered. 'The bottle.'

  For Wanda now, Rabier was every man who had ever used her, the anger, the humiliation of the years welling up in a killing rage. She grabbed the Cognac bottle by the neck and clubbed Rabier across the side of the head. He cried out, staggering back and she hit him again, sending him to his knees. She kicked him out of the way and the rage in her was still so strong that this time when she reached for the bolt, it opened with no difficulty and Gabrieile and Villiers moved out to join her.

  * * *

  When the phone rang, Ferguson was just out of the shower. He listened to what Villiers had to say and then said, 'Right, Tony. You stay where you are. Let the French handle it now. Good work.'

  He slammed down the phone and ran into the sitting room, clutching the towel around him.

  'Harry, where the devil are you?'

  Fox appeared from the study. 'You wanted me, sir?'

  'Tony's cracked it. Now all we need is some fast action from the French. Get Colonel Guyon in Paris for me now. Top priority. Most urgent.'

  He ran back into his bedroom and started to dress.

  * * *

  Rabier was tied up a
nd bundled into the butler's pantry and Villiers helped himself to the Walther he carried. 'I should imagine the Brigadier's on to Paris now.'

  'It will still take time for them to move,' Gabrieile said. 'What about Raul? You've got to do something Tony.'

  'Yes, I know.' Villiers turned to Leclerc. 'Are you game to fly the Chieftain out to Ile de Roc and try landing her on that beach.'

  Leclerc smiled. 'It would certainly give Donner one hell of a surprise and we could take half a dozen of my men.'

  Villiers turned to look at them. They seemed fit enough, but rather more intellectual than the average soldier and two of them wore glasses.

  'These boys are technicians, aren't they? Electronics wizards?'

  'And good soldiers, too, believe me. What we lack are weapons.'

  Wanda said, 'There are rifles and things in the stables where those men of Donner's were staying. I just saw them.'

  Leclerc turned to his men. 'Come on then. What are we waiting for?' He led the way out.

  Gabrielle put a hand on Villier's arm. 'Take care, Tony, and try to be in time.'

  'I will.' On impulse he kissed her on the forehead. He walked to the door.

  She called, 'Tony?'

  'Yes?'

  'I think you were always worth something better.'

  'Than you?'

  'Oh, no. I'm too too arrogant to admit that.' She smiled. 'Than what you do, Tony. You're worth so much more than Ferguson and all his dark games. Worth a little joy. And I'm sorry about us - sorry about a lot of things.'

  He smiled, looking suddenly as charming as on the first time she'd met him. 'I'm not. When the going was good, it was bloody marvellous. I wouldn't have missed you for anything.'

  He went out. A moment later she heard the Peugeot estate start up and move away and then there was only the silence.

  * * *

  In Espinet's office, Raul Montera sat in a chair, hands still bound by the silk scarf. The major lay in the corner, covered by a blanket. Donner turned from a cupboard and held up a bottle of champagne.

  'The old devil did himself well. Krug 71. An exceptional year. Pity there isn't time to chill it. Still, you can't have everything in this life.' He thumbed off the cork and laughed as the champagne foamed. 'You'll join me in a glass?'

  'As you well know, it doesn't agree with me,' Montera said calmly.

  'Well, it agrees with me, old sport.' Donner filled a glass, went to the window and peered out. 'Things have certainly gone well, you must admit. Nothing like a little organisation.'

  'I heard some shooting.'

  'Just a little. A couple of guards up at the missile pens loosed off a few rounds before my boys cut them down. Very useful that. It makes it all hang together when we leave you face down with a bullet in you, from one of their weapons naturally.'

  The door opened and Stavrou entered.

  Donner said, 'Have you made contact with the trawler?'

  'Yes, they should be here in thirty-five minutes.'

  'Everything else under control?'

  'Everyone under lock and key except for ten civilian personnel who are loading Exocets on to trucks in the missile pens.'

  'Excellent,' Donner said. 'You get back up there and keep things moving. We'll join you in a few minutes. The colonel might find it interesting.'

  Stavrou went out. Donner refilled his glass and raised it in mock salute to Montera as rain rattled the window.

  'Not long now, old sport.'

  * * *

  Sitting in the cockpit of the Chieftain beside Leclerc, Villiers saw Ile de Roc lift out of the sea on the horizon, a grey hump under cumulus clouds, the cliffs at the northern end wreathed in mist. They were flying at no more than three hundred feet above the sea, Leclerc's hands steady on the column, and below the grey-green surface of the sea was being whipped into whitecaps.

  Villiers said, 'What about wind direction? Will it be all right for landing?'

  'Good enough, I think. It's the down-draughts from those cliffs we'll have to watch for.'

  The island crouched there like a grey beast, waiting for them, the great cliffs rearing three hundred feet high at one end, the rest of the desolate land mass sloping steeply towards the harbour.

  'You realise they'll know we're coming?' Leclerc said. 'No way of avoiding that.'

  'I know,' Villiers said. 'It can't be helped, so you might as well cut right in across the island and let us see the state of the game. A little panic and confusion always helps.'

  The Chieftain went in across the cliffs, the mist parting before it, roaring across a desolate rain-soaked moonscape, a nightmare world of deep gullies fissured into grey rock, relieved by the occasional green of bog or moorland. Leclerc pulled back on the column; they lifted over a ridge and found the missile pens and the concrete buildings of the camp complex no more than a hundred feet below.

  Donner and Raul Montera were walking up the street towards the missile pens. Donner glanced up in alarm, then pushed Montera into a stumbling run towards the shelter of the tunnel entrance leading to the pens as Leclerc banked, came in again at fifty feet this time, then turned and moved out to sea.

  Stavrou had observed the incident from the shelter of the tunnel entrance. As Donner and Montera ran in beside him, he said, 'I don't understand. That was our plane. What in the hell is going on?'

  'Villiers, you imbecile,' Donner said. 'Who else could it be. God knows what's gone wrong back there at the house.'

  He looked out from the tunnel entrance to where the Chieftain banked over the sea and came in again, heading for the cliffs and disappearing from view.

  'What the hell are they doing?' Stavrou exclaimed. 'There's nowhere to land on this rock.'

  'Oh, yes there is,' Donner said. 'If the tide's right, there's plenty of beach at the base of those cliffs. The French Air Force proved it could be done last year. It just wasn't a practical proposition on a long term basis, that's all.'

  'So what do we do? If that is Villiers, then he must have contacted the French authorities. We could have paratroopers round our necks before we know it.'

  'Let's see how things are inside,' said Donner calmly.

  He pushed Montera ahead of him. They moved along the tunnel and entered a large concrete cave brightly lit by floodhghts. Four of the special trucks built to carry the missile were lined up at a loading ramp, where the civilian personnel in Aerospatiale overalls toiled to load the Exocets with the assistance of special hydraulic hoists, closely supervised by armed mercenaries.

  Jarrot was in charge. 'What stage are you at?' Donner asked.

  'Difficult to say. With luck, another twenty minutes and we can move down to the harbour.'

  Donner turned to Stavrou. 'I'll stay here. You take some men and get up on those cliffs. If anyone is trying to get through, stop them. You must give us the time we need.'

  Stavrou grinned savagely. 'My personal guarantee on it.' He nodded to Jarrot. 'Come on, Claude. We've got work to do.'

  They ran back along the tunnel. Donner took out a cigarette and lit it. 'Villiers,' he said. 'How incredible.' He laughed, totally without malice. 'God damn him, he must be nearly as good as me.'

  'What was it you said?' Montera asked. 'Nothing like a little organisation?'

  'One of those days,' Donner said amiably. 'Everyone has them.'

  'So now what happens?'

  'We wait and see, old sport, but preferably back in Espinet's office in comfort. I left that bottle of Krug on his desk and it's too good to waste, chilled or not.'

  'You're finished,' Montera said, 'and you know it.'

  'We'll see, old sport, we'll see.' Donner grinned and pushed him along the tunnel.

  * * *

  Leclerc took the Chieftain in on a trial run, feeling for the wind. A cross current from the island caught them so that they rocked violently in the turbulence. He brought the Chieftain round in a tight circle and came in low over the waves, throttling back and dropping flaps.

  The wheels seemed to touch the
surface of the water and then they were down, biting into the hard wet sand and running forward through the shallows, spray flying up in great clouds on either side. Leclerc taxied to the far end of the beach, turned into the wind and switched off the engines.

  'The tide's on the turn. Maybe an hour and there won't be enough beach left for a take-off.'

  'It doesn't matter,' Villiers told him. 'After all, it isn't our plane.'

  He produced the Walther he had taken from Rabier, checked the action, then put it back in his pocket. Leclerc's men had already got the airstair door open and were scrambling out on to the beach one by one, each man taking with him a weapon from the supply of arms they had brought from the Maison Blanche. Villiers picked up an Armalite, slipped a hand grenade into his pocket and joined them.

  A cold wind drove rain in across the wet flats as they stood around him in a semi-circle. 'How many of you have had combat experience?' he demanded.

  Leclerc indicated a tall, fit-looking young man with close cropped hair, whose steel-rimmed glasses were already misting with rain. 'Sergeant Albray here was on detachment with the Foreign Legion in Chad two years ago. He's been under fire more than once. As for the rest of us ...' He shrugged.

  'All right,' Villiers said. 'There's only time for me to say one thing of importance to you. No boy scout ethics like giving those bastards a fair chance. Shoot them in the back if you have to because that's exactly what they'll do to you. Now let's get out of here,' and he turned and started to run across the sand towards the base of the cliffs.

  They had seemed impregnable on the flight in from the sea, but on a closer view, were breached by an enormous gully, water running down the centre. It provided an easy if strenuous route up from the beach.

  Ten minutes later they were over the top and starting down the slope through a jumble of broken grey boulders, sparse grass, everything shrouded in clinging mist. Villiers sensed voices somewhere below, held up his hand to caution Leclerc and the others to silence.

  They went forward through the mist and came to the edge of an escarpment and there below, toiling up the slope, was Jarrot, followed by three other men. Villiers had eyes only for Stavrou bringing up the rear, could see only Harvey Jackson's tortured face as he sat tied to the chair in that wretched little bungalow near Lancy.