Exocet (v5) (12 page)

* * *

Raul Montera slept surprisingly well that night, the strain and fatigue of the past few weeks catching up on him. The result was that he didn't rise until ten o'clock. For years he had been in the habit of running regularly, each morning. The only time he'd had to deviate from his usual practice was during his flying operations out of Rio Gallegos.

He said good morning to Gabrielle, a ritual now, and went to the window. When he drew the curtain and looked out, it was raining hard, the Bois de Boulogne shrouded in mist. He felt suddenly exhilarated. He'd been so tired on the previous evening that he hadn't unpacked his holdall. He did so now, pulled on his old black track suit and some running shoes, had a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator and let himself out.

He liked the rain; it gave him a safe, enclosed feeling, rather like being in a world of one's own. He ran through the park, thoroughly soaked and enjoying every minute of it. And he wasn't the only one. There were a number of fellow rain-lovers about, some like him, running, others walking the dog, even the odd horseback rider.

George Corwin, hidden in the back of a parked milk van on the Avenue de Neuilly, watched Montera running fast from the direction of the lake. He came to a halt only a few yards away and stood breathing heavily. Corwin took several pictures of him with a special camera through a tiny hole in the side of the van.

As Montera crossed the road, a black Mercedes pulled in at the kerb outside the apartment block. Garcia got out, followed by Donner, then Belov.

'Would you look at that now?' Corwin said softly. 'Dear old Nikolai himself,' and the camera whirred again several times before the three men turned and went into the building.

Stavrou got out of the car to make some sort of adjustment to the windscreen wipers and Corwin snapped him too, for good measure.

'Nasty looking bit of work,' he murmured.

Stavrou got back in the car and Corwin made himself comfortable, lit a cigarette and waited.

* * *

Raul Montera didn't care for Donner one little bit. There was something about the man, something inimical, that offended him. Belov, he quite liked. A reasonable enough man, working for his own side, which was fair enough although Montera had never had any great liking for the communist cause.

He brought a tray in from the kitchen and set it down. 'Coffee, gentlemen?'

'Aren't you going to join us, colonel?' Donner asked.

'I never touch the stuff. Bad for the nerves.' Montera went into the kitchen again and returned with a china mug in one hand. 'Tea.'

Dormer laughed and there was an edge to it that indicated the dislike was mutual. 'Rather unusual for a South American, I would have thought.'

'Oh, it's surprising what we dagoes get up to on occasions,' Montera told him. 'The British navy would have a useful opinion on that.'

Belov said smoothly. 'I agree with you, colonel. A very civilized habit, tea drinking. We Russians have existed on the stuff for years.'

Garcia said, 'Perhaps we can get down to business. Maybe Senor Dormer is now prepared to give us more detail about the operation.'

'Of course,' Donner said. 'I was only waiting for Colonel Montera's arrival. The whole thing, with any kind of luck, should be wrapped up within the next couple of days, which is good, because according to the newspapers this morning, the British troops at San Carlos are getting ready to move out.'

Montera lit a cigarette. 'All right, so what exactly have you arranged?'

Donner had always found that a basis of fact made a phoney story sound better.

'As you know, the Libyans have a plentiful supply of Exocets, but due to pressure from the rest of the Arab world, Colonel Qadhafi has not been able to release them to the Argentine as he first intended - or perhaps I should say, not officially. There's always a way round most things in this life, or so I've found.'

'So?' Montera said.

'I've taken a house in Brittany near the coast close to an old wartime bomber station. A place called Lancy. Disused now, but the runways are still perfectly usable. Two days from now, possibly three, a Hercules transport en route from Italy to Ireland will put down at Lancy, quite illegally, of course. There will be ten of the latest mark of Exocet missile on board.'

'Holy Mother of God!' Garcia said.

'You, Colonel Montera, will check that cargo. If you're satisfied, you will phone Senor Garcia here in Paris who will make immediate arrangements to have three million pounds in gold transferred as I direct in Geneva.'

'I must congratulate you, senor,' Montera said softly. 'That really is the way to wage war.'

'I've always thought so,' Donner said. 'I presume, by the way, that you will want to take off with the Hercules when it leaves, not for Ireland, but for Dakar in Senegal. They're very liberally minded there, especially when it comes to business. The Hercules will re-fuel, fly across to Rio, where it will re-fuel again for the final leg of the journey which will be to any air force base which takes your fancy in the Argentine.'

There was silence. Garcia said with some awe, 'Magnificent.'

'And you, colonel?' Donner looked up at Montera. 'Do you think it's magnificent?'

'I'm a professional soldier,' Montera said. 'I don't have opinions. I just do as I'm told. When do you want me at this place?'

'The day after tomorrow. We'll fly down by private plane.' Donner stood up. 'Until then, enjoy yourself. This is Paris. I'd say you've earned it after your efforts down there in the South Atlantic'

Montera went and opened the door for them. As they went out, Donner said, 'I'll be in touch.'

He and the Russian moved down the hall, Garcia lingered a moment. 'What do you think?'

'I think I don't like him,' Montera said. 'But that's not what I'm here for.'

'I'd better go,' Garcia said. 'If anything of importance comes up, I'll phone you. Otherwise, colonel, you might as well do as Senor Donner suggests - enjoy yourself.'

* * *

Gabrielle went riding in the Bois de Boulogne at noon. It had stopped raining and there were few people about. She'd slept badly, had stayed in bed until just before noon and hadn't really caught up with herself since. She felt tired and dull, sick with apprehension about the task ahead.

Corwin moved into the shelter of an oak tree as rain began to spot the ground again. He watched Gabrielle canter up through the trees from the direction of the lake, the same route Montera had taken that morning. The ride had brought colour back into her cheeks and she looked magnificent.

She reined in as Corwin stepped into view. 'Oh, it's you.'

She dismounted and Corwin produced a number of prints of the photos he'd taken that morning and passed them to her.

'Have a look at those. I'll hold the horse.'

She looked at the first one. Corwin said, 'The small man is Juan Garcia. The big one is Donner and then Belov, the KGB man. Montera, of course, you know.'

She stared down at the photo, her stomach hollow, then glanced at the next one. 'That's Yanni Stavrou, Dormer's minder. Very rough customer.'

And then she came to the ones Corwin had taken of Montera running in the park and there was one, where he was at maximum effort, saturated with the pure joy of running, face clear, no pain there at all, and she was filled with such love for him that the sensation was almost unbearable.

She handed them back and took the reins of the horse. 'Are you all right?'

'Why shouldn't I be? When does Tony get in?'

'Around five o'clock. Harry Fox will be in before then. The Brigadier wants him to brief your husband thoroughly before he sees you.'

'He's not my husband, Mr Corwin,' Gabrielle said and pulled herself up into the saddle. 'A very elementary error on your part. People in our game can't afford errors, not even little ones.'

She was right, of course, Corwin knew that. Strange that he didn't feel any anger as he watched her canter away.

* * *

As Corwin, Jackson and Tony Villiers went up in the lift to the tenth floor of the apartment block on the Avenue Victor Hugo, Corwin said, 'It's quite a reasonable little service flat. I had to take it for a month though, that was the minimum.'

'I'm sure the Department can stand it,' Villiers said.

'Of course, the reason I took it was because Gabrielle lives just up the road. All very convenient.' His effort at a smile died in the face of Villiers' implacable hostility.

'I know where she lives, or hadn't that occurred to you?'

He was surprised at the extent of his own anger over what was, after all, such a trivial point. He was tired, that was the trouble, far too tired. Also frustrated and occasionally filled with hate when he thought of Charles Ferguson.

The lift stopped, they got out, and Corwin led the way along the corridor, took out a key and opened the door. He passed the key to Villiers.

'All yours.'

He led the way in and Villiers and Jackson followed. The flat was small, neat and functional, more like a good modern hotel room than anything else.

Harry Fox sat by the window reading a newspaper. Villiers stood looking at him. 'Anything interesting?'

'Not really.' Fox put the newspaper down. 'The push from San Carlos is expected at any minute.'

Villiers tossed his bag on to the bed. 'All right, Harry, what's it all about. Last time I saw Ferguson I told him to lay off Gabrielle, so what's his game?'

'You won't like it, Tony.'

Villiers said to Jackson, 'Get us all a drink, Harvey, I think I'm going to need it.' He turned back to Fox. 'Okay, let's have it.'

* * *

At Maison Blanche, the old gypsy, Maurice Gaubert, and his son, Paul, were setting traps for rabbits in the wood above the house when a truck turned into the stable yard below and braked to a halt. As the Gauberts watched, a number of men got out and a couple who had stayed inside started to pass out various items of equipment. Stavrou got out of the driving cab and unlocked the main stable doors.

Paul Gaubert said, 'It's Monsieur Donner's man. The one with the funny name.'

'The only funny thing about him,' his father said. 'Stavrou.' He dropped the traps he was holding and picked up his shot gun. 'We'll go and see what this is all about.'

Stavrou was just coming out of the stables as they approached. He lit a cigarette, leaned against the truck and waited.

'Bonjour, Monsieur,' Maurice Gaubert said. 'Rather more of you this time.'

'That's right.'

'And Monsieur Donner, he comes also?'

'Probably tomorrow.'

Paul Gaubert shifted nervously from one foot to the other under Stavrou's grim stare. His father said, 'Is there anything you wish us to do, Monsieur?'

'Keep an eye out for any strangers.' Stavrou took a couple of thousand franc notes from his wallet and held them up. 'You understand me?'

'Perfectly, Monsieur.' Gaubert took the money. 'Your business is, after all, your own business. If anything unusual occurs, I will let you know.'

Stavrou watched them go, then turned into the stables where his men were sorting the supplies which had been unloaded from the truck.

'All right, line up,' he said. 'At the double.'

They ran to obey his command and a moment later, stood in line, rigidly at attention. He paced up and down, looking them over.

'As far as I'm concerned, you're back in the army now, so the sooner you get used to that idea, the better.'

* * *

Corwin had supplied a Citroen car, and when it pulled up outside Gabrielle's apartment in the Avenue Victor Hugo later that evening, Jackson was at the wheel, Harry Fox and Villiers in the rear.

'So that's it,' Fox said. 'At least you know the score now.'

'So it would seem.'

'One other thing. This Professor Bernard I mentioned. They're still phoning him from Buenos Aires for technical information on various aspects of the Exocets they've got left, which can't be many. Our people in B.A. monitored two calls last night.'

'That's not so good,' Villiers said.

'I know. Brigadier Ferguson feels it can't be allowed to continue. In the circumstances, he'd like you to take care of it while you're here.'

'All right,' Villiers said without emotion.

'Good. Now if the sergeant major wouldn't mind running me out to Charles de Gaulle airport, I'll just have time to catch the last shuttle to London.'

'All right, Harvey. You take care of Captain Fox,' Villiers said. 'Don't bother to pick me up. I'll walk back. See you later.'

He got out and as he started away Fox half-opened the door. 'Tony.'

Villiers turned. 'What is it?'

'Go easy on her.'

Villiers stood there looking at him, face quite blank, hands in pockets, then he turned and went into the entrance without another word.

* * *

'You're looking well,' he said.

She was standing by the fire, gas logs flickering brightly on the hearth, and wore a black silk jump suit, her feet bare, hair tied back from the face.