Exocet

The meeting with Bernard took place on a tourist barge on the Seine, although because of the heavy rain there were few tourists in evidence. Donner and Bernard sat at a table under an awning in the stem, a bottle of Sancerre between them. At the rail, a few yards away, leaned a man who was even taller than Donner, watching the passing scenery. He wore a raincoat over a dark blue suit, black tie and white shirt. His grey hair was cropped to the skull and he had a flat-boned face whose slanted eyes and open nostrils gave him a faintly Mongolian appearance.

This was Yanni Stavrou, half-Turkish, the other half anyone’s guess. A French national because of service in Algiers as a French Foreign Legion paratrooper, he was a supremely dangerous man. He had been Donner’s chauffeur, body-guard and strong right arm for ten years now.

Professor Bernard said, ‘I thought Garcia would be here?’

‘Not necessary,’ Donner said. ‘I’ve heard everything there is to be heard from him. They need more Exocets desperately.’

‘I can imagine. What is your interest in this affair?’

‘They’ve asked me to find them some. You’ve helped them considerably already, to a degree extremely dangerous for a man in your position. Why did you take such a risk?’

‘Because I didn’t think the arms embargo was right. The government was wrong. We shouldn’t have taken sides.’

‘But you have done so. Why?’

Bernard shrugged. ‘I don’t like the English.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘Not good enough?’ Bernard’s voice rose angrily so that Stavrou turned from the rail, watchful. ‘Let me tell you about the English. In 1940, they ran. Left us to the Germans. When the Boche came to our village, my father and a few others tried to put up a fight. A handful of farmers with First World War rifles. They shot them in the square. My mother and most of the other women, they took into the village hall to make sport for the soldiers. I was ten years old. A long time ago, but I can still hear the screaming.’ He spat over the side. ‘So don’t try to tell me about the English.’

Donner couldn’t have been more delighted. ‘Terrible,’ he said. ‘I understand perfectly.’

‘But you,’ Bernard said. ‘You are English yourself. I don’t understand.’

‘Australian,’ Donner said. ‘A large difference. Also a citizen of the world and a business man, so let’s get down to business. Tell me about Ile de Roc.’

‘Ile de Roc?’ Bernard looked bewildered.

‘They’re testing the latest Exocet there, aren’t they? You told Garcia about that. It’s in your notes.’

‘Yes, of course. It’s an island. A damn great rock really, about fifteen miles off the Brittany coast, south from St Nazaire. If you look out to sea, all there is is the Atlantic and then Newfoundland.’

‘How many people there?’

‘No more than thirty-five. A mixture of Aerospatiale technicians and army personnel from missile regiments. In fact, it’s officially a military installation.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Certainly. On a number of occasions.’

‘And how does one get to the island? By air?’

‘Oh, no, impossible. Nowhere to land. Mind you, that’s not quite true. The Army Air Corps managed to land light aircraft on one of the beaches when the tide was out. But it wasn’t a practical proposition. Even helicopters find it difficult because of the down-draughts from the cliffs. The weather is frequently terrible, but of course the isolation of the place was a necessary factor. Usually, the link with the mainland is by boat. The fishing port of St Martin.’

Donner nodded. ‘Say I needed to know what was going on at Ile de Roc, for example during the next week or ten days. Could you find out? Are your contacts still good?’

‘Excellent,’ Bernard said. ‘I think I can guarantee to obtain any information you require and at the shortest notice.’