Exocet

He kissed her and for a moment she responded; then she pushed him away and there was something strangely like fear in her eyes.

‘Please, Raul, no. Not now.’

He took her hands gently and nodded. ‘Of course. I understand. I do, believe me. May I call you in the morning?’

‘Yes, please do.’

He released her, picked up his greatcoat, went to the door and opened it. He turned and smiled, an inimitable, wry smile of such charm that she ran across the room and put her hands on his shoulders.

‘You’re so damned nice to me. I’m not used to that. Not from men. Give me time.’

‘All you need.’ He smiled again. ‘You made me feel so gentle. I amazed myself.’

The door closed softly behind him, she leaned against it, filled with a delight that she had never known in her life before.

Outside, Montera got into the back of the Embassy car, the driver drove away. A moment later Tony Villiers stepped out of a nearby doorway. He lit a cigarette and watched the car go, then turned to look up at the windows of the flat. As he did so, the lights were turned out. He stood there for a moment longer, then walked away.

Brigadier Charles Ferguson was sitting in bed, propped against pillows, working his way through a mass of papers, when the red phone rang, the line that connected him directly with his office at the Directorate-General of the Security Service in the large, anonymous white and red brick building in the West End of London not far from the Hilton Hotel.

‘Ferguson here.’

Harry Fox said, ‘Coded message from the CIA in Washington, sir. They seem to think that the Argentinians will hit the Falklands within the next few days.’

‘Do they indeed? What does the Foreign Office have to say?’

‘They think it’s a load of cobblers, sir.’

‘They would, wouldn’t they? Any word from Gabrielle?’

‘Not yet.’

‘An interesting point, Harry. Raul Montera is one of the few pilots in the Argentine Air Force with genuine combat experience. If they were going to start anything, you’d think they’d recall him.’

‘Even cleverer to leave him in London, sir.’

‘That’s true. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning. If we haven’t heard from Gabrielle by noon I’ll phone her.’

He put down the receiver, picked up a file and went back to work.

4 (#u82387d45-973a-55a6-bf5a-a7dfa0edc890)

When she admitted Montera the following morning, she was fresh from the bath and wearing the same robe. He was wearing jeans and an old black leather flying jacket. He had rung her at eight o’clock, unable to bear the waiting.

‘You said to make it informal,’ he said.

She kissed him on the cheek and fingered the gold crucifix on the chain that hung around his neck. ‘You look gorgeous.’

She had spoken in English and he replied in the same language. ‘Gorgeous? Is this a word to apply to a man?’

‘Gorgeous,’ she insisted. ‘Stop role-playing. I thought we’d go for a walk. Across Kensington Gardens and down to Harrods. I’ve some shopping to do.’

‘Fine by me.’

He lit a cigarette and sat reading the morning paper while she went to dress. There was an account of yesterday’s proceedings in Parliament and questions to the Prime Minister on the Falklands. He read the report with interest, only looking up when Gabrielle stepped back into the room.

She was an astonishing sight in a yellow tee shirt which clearly outlined her breasts, a tight white skirt that ended above the knee and a pair of high heeled cowboy boots. A pair of sunglasses were perched on top of her blonde hair.

‘Shall we go?’ she said.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said, stood up and opened the door for her. He smiled. ‘You are a woman of surprises. Did anyone ever tell you that?’

‘Often,’ she said, and moved past him.

The crowd in Kensington Gardens was remarkably cosmopolitan; Arabs and Asians of every variety mingling freely with the native British. People lounged on the grass, boys played football in the bright sunshine, and Gabrielle drew admiringglances on every hand.

She took his arm. ‘Tell me something. Why do you fly?’

‘It’s what I do.’

‘You’re probably filthy rich. Everyone knows the Argentine Air Force is staffed by the aristocracy. You could do anything you want.’

‘Perhaps I can explain,’ he said. ‘When I was a boy, I had an uncle Juan, my mother’s brother, who lived in Mexico City. He was a fabulously wealthy man, a member of one of the oldest families in Mexico, and yet from boyhood, he had room for only one passion.’

‘Women?’

‘No, I’m being serious. Bulls. In fact, he became a torero, a professional bullfighter, and a great shame to the family because bullfighters are usually gypsies or poor boys, up from the gutter.’

‘So?’

‘I sat with him while they dressed him in his suit of lights for a special appearance in the Grand Plaza at Mexico City. I counted the scars of the horns on his body. Nine times he had been gored. I said, “Uncle, you have everything – title, money, power – yet you go to the bulls. You face, week by week, animals specifically trained to kill you. Why do you do this thing?”’

‘And what did he reply?’

‘He said, it’s what I am. There’s nothing else I want to do. Flying’s like that with me.’

She touched the scar. ‘Even when it almost gets you killed?’

‘Ah, but I was younger then. More foolish. I believed in causes, justice, freedom. Beautiful nonsense. Now I am older. All used up.’

‘We’ll have to see about that.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘Never mind. What happened to your uncle?’

‘Oh, he finally went to the horns one time too many.’

She shivered. ‘I don’t like it.’