Exocet

She had tightened her grip on his arm as if to reassure herself. They crossed from the gardens and started down Kensington Road.

He said, ‘I think I’ve done rather well to hold myself in this far, but I feel I ought to point out that you look spectacularly tarty in that outfit. By intention, I presume?’

‘You swine,’ she said amiably, and held his arm even tighter.

‘Is one permitted to enquire the purpose?’

She shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I don’t really know. It’s nice to play games occasionally, don’t you think?’

He stopped and half-turned towards her as she still clung to his arm. ‘You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,’ he said, ‘in spite of that appalling outfit.’

‘So kind.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

He kissed her gently on the mouth. ‘Oh, my beautiful, glorious tart. Can’t you see how much I’m loving you? I don’t have any choice in the business. It’s like a moral imperative.’

There were tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, God,’ she said angrily. ‘I hate men and yet you’re so damn nice. I’ve never ever known aman like you.’

He waved to a passing taxi. As it swung in to the kerb she said, ‘What is this? Where are we going?’

‘Back to the flat,’ he said. ‘Kensington Palace Gardens. Such a good address. Close to the Russian Embassy.’

Lying in bed, an arm about her, watching the white curtains rise and fall in the slight breeze from the partly open window, he felt more content, more at peace with himself than he had done for years.

There was a radio cassette player on the small table beside the bed. She reached to switch it on and Ella Fitzgerald’s unique and wonderful voice moved into Our Love is Here to Stay.

‘Just for you,’ she said.

‘Very civil of you.’

He kissed her lazily on the forehead. She gave a small grunt of infinite content, turned her stomach into his thigh and sighed. ‘That was lovely. Can we do it again some time?’

‘Could you possibly give me time to catch my breath?’

She smiled and ran a hand across his belly. ‘The poor old man. Just listen to him. Move away a little. I want to look at you.’

They lay a couple of feet apart, heads on the same pillow, the green eyes wide and starry as if she was committing him to memory.

‘The scar,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it.’

He shrugged. ‘I was flying from Fernando Po to Port Harcourt in Biafra during the Nigerian civil war. We usually flew by night. Dakotas mostly, but they needed medical supplies in a hurry.’ His eyes stared back into the past. ‘It was raining like hell. A real thunderstorm. I got a Russian MIG fighter on my tail. Egyptian pilot, I found out later. He started to shoot me out of the sky, it was as simple as that. Within seconds the other three crew members were dead or dying. That’s when I got this.’ He fingered the scar.

‘What did you do?’

‘Took her down to five hundred feet. Next time he came in on my tail, I dropped the Dakota’s flaps. It was like stopping dead in mid-air. I almost stalled.’

‘And the MIG?’

‘No space left to work in. Overshot me and ploughed straight into the jungle.’

‘Clever boy.’

She ran a finger along his lips. He said drowsily, ‘I want to be totally honest with you, can you understand that? I’ve never felt so with any human being before. I want to give all of myself that there is to give.’

There was pain in her then because of her own deceit. She managed to smile. ‘Don’t worry about it. Go to sleep. We’ve got all day.’

‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘We have the rest of our lives.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always loved cities by night. The feeling of the potential things. When I was a young man, walking by night in Paris, London or Buenos Aires, there was always a magic, something bracing about the night air. A feeling that at the end of the street, something marvellous was waiting just around the corner.’

‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she asked.

‘Forty-five,’ he said. ‘Six in July. You’ve been a long time coming. Thank God you made it. I didn’t ask you your sign.’

‘Capricorn.’ Her arms were about him now, her lips on his forehead.

‘Dreadful combination, Leo and Capricorn,’ he muttered. ‘No hope at all.’

‘Is that a fact?’ She kissed him and a moment later he was asleep.

She was standing by the window, looking out across the gardens, thinking about him, when the phone sounded in the sitting room. She went through quickly and picked it up.

Ferguson said, ‘Ah, there you are. Anything to report?’

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Is he with you now?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Asleep in the other room.’

‘Things are hotting up,’ he said. ‘All the signs point to an invasion down there. You’re sure he’s staying in London?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Very sure.’

‘Fine. I’ll be in touch.’

She put down the phone, at that moment hating Ferguson more than she had ever hated anyone in her life. There was a sudden sharp cry as Raul Montera called out and she turned and ran into the bedroom.

The dream was more real than anything he had ever known. The plane was in a hell of a state, he knew that, great holes ripped in the body, pieces of fuselage rattling in the turbulence. He could smell smoke and burning oil. Panic gave him strength as he fought to release the plastic canopy that enveloped him.

‘Dear God, don’t let me burn,’ he thought and then the canopy swung away from him.

His fingers, warm with his own blood, groped for the quick release handle that would eject him and then a shadow passed overhead. There was a beating of wings and he looked up to find a great eagle, claws distended, dropping down on him. He screamed aloud in fear. He came awake then, and found himself in Gabrielle’s arms.

They sat in the large bath, facing each other, totally at ease, drinking tea from china mugs, Montera smoking a cigarette.

‘The tea is excellent,’ he said.

‘Much better for you than coffee.’