Exocet (v5) (6 page)

'That's correct,' Garcia said.

'And the makers of the Exocet are the state-owned Aerospatiale Industries, the president of which is General Jacques Mitterand, brother of the President of France? An intriguing situation, in view of the fact that the French government has suspended all military aid to the Argentine.'

Garcia said, 'On the other hand, we were lucky enough to have a team of French technicians already in my country before the outbreak of hostilities. Based at Bahia Blanca they have given invaluable assistance as regards testing and fitting the missile launchers and control systems.'

'And you have also had other help, I see from the file. This man Bernard, Dr Paul Bernard, would seem to have supplied you with information crucial to the success of the operation.'

'A brilliant electronic engineer,' Garcia said. 'At one time head of one of the research sections at Aerospatiale. Now a professor at the Sorbonne.'

'His motives interest me,' Donner said. 'What are they exactly? Money?'

'No, it seems he has no love for the English. He phoned the Embassy at the start of things, when President Mitterand announced the embargo. He offered to help in any way he could.'

'Interesting,' Donner said.

'We have considerable sympathy here in many quarters,' Garcia added. 'Traditionally, France and Britain have never enjoyed what could be termed a warm relationship.'

Donner opened the file and looked at it again, frowning. Belov waited, admiring the performance.

Garcia said, 'Can you help us?'

'I think so. I can say no more than that at this stage. On a purely business footing, of course. Frankly, I'm not interested in the rights and wrongs of this affair. If I can work something out, find you a few Exocets, I should imagine it would cost you in the region of two to three million.'

'Dollars?' Garcia asked.

'My operations are based in the City of London, Senor Garcia,' Donner told him. 'I only deal in pounds sterling. And in gold. Do you have that much available?'

Garcia swallowed hard. 'No problem. The necessary funds are in Geneva now.'

'Good.' Donner stood up. 'I should like to speak to Professor Bernard.'

'When?' Garcia asked.

'As soon as possible.' Donner looked at his watch. 'Let's say at two o'clock this afternoon. Somewhere nice and open.'

'Two o'clock?' Garcia looked hunted. 'I don't know. It's very short notice. It may not be convenient.'

'Then I suggest you make it convenient,' Donner told him. 'After all, time is of the essence in this affair. If we are to do anything, it must be within a week or ten days at the outside. After that, I should have thought it would be too late. Wouldn't you agree?'

'Of course,' Garcia said hurriedly, and turned to Belov. 'May I use the phone?'

'In the study.'

Garcia went out. Belov said. 'You have an idea, I think?'

'Possibly,' Donner said. 'Something in that file that could suit our purposes admirably.'

'You'll be staying in your apartment in the Rue de Rivoli, I suppose?'

'That's right. Wanda has gone ahead to make sure everything's in apple-pie order.'

'How is she? As beautiful as ever?'

'Did I ever settle for anything less?'

Belov laughed. 'I wonder what you'd do if they decided to recall you home to Moscow after all these years?'

'Home?' Donner said. 'Where's that? And they wouldn't. I'm too valuable where I am. I'm the best there is, you know that.'

Belov shook his head. 'I don't understand you, Felix. Why do you do it? You're certainly no patriot and politics you find games for children, you've told me that often enough.'

'It's the only game in town,' Donner said. 'I enjoy every minute of it. I like beating them, Nikolai, whoever
they
are. It's as simple as that.'

Belov nodded. 'I believe you. I really do. Is Stavrou with you?'

'Downstairs in the car.'

The study door opened and Garcia entered. 'Fine,' he said. 'All organised.'

* * *

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 stern, 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.'

Donner refilled his glass. 'This Sancerre is really very fine.' He looked at Stavrou. 'I think we'll have another bottle.' He lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and said to Bernard, 'Okay, fill me in on the island. For example, tell me in detail about your last trip there.'

* * *

Wanda Brown was a graceful girl, the soft contours of whose body were accentuated by her white silk blouse and black velvet skirt, but she was still small in spite of the high-heeled shoes. Her hair was black, she had wide, almond-shaped eyes and a small, corrupt mouth. Her appearance was one of extreme elegance, for she had learned the hard way, Donner's cardinal rule, that less is always better.

She was one quarter negro, which showed in her skin, and, when she opened her mouth, her London East End origin was plain.

Donner had picked her off a Soho Street one night, where her current boyfriend had been attempting rather forcibly to introduce her into a life of prostitution. Stavrou had left him in a doorway with two ribs and his left arm broken and Wanda had found herself plunged headlong into a world of luxury and delight.

She had been all of sixteen, but then Donner had always liked his women young. Her one fear was that he might discard her now that she had reached the magic age of twenty, an appalling prospect in view of the fact that she genuinely loved him.

When she went into his study in the sumptuous apartment in the Rue de Rivoli, he had turned the swivel chair behind the desk. He sat, arms folded, looking up at a large scale map he'd had Stavrou procure that afternoon of Ile de Roc and the coastal area around St Martin. He had already discussed the problem with her in bed after making love to her that afternoon. He had never kept secrets from her and she clung to the belief that this was evidence of trust.

She set down the coffee and put an arm round his neck. He slipped a hand under her skirt in an absent-minded way and stroked her thigh.

'You think there's a way?' she asked.

'Oh, yes, there's always a way, if one looks close enough.'

'Nikolai and this man Garcia are here.'

'Good.' He turned and kissed her neck, pulling her on to his knee. 'I've told Stavrou to hire a private plane. I want you to fly down here,' he pointed at the map, 'to this St Martin place first thing in the morning. See if you can find us a house in the area. Something substantial that's immediately available. There's bound to be something. Always is in that kind of country area.'

'Anything else?'

'Maybe later. Now show Nikolai and Garcia in.'

She went out and a moment later the two men entered. Donner got up and walked to the window, stretching. The view of the city was panoramic and always delighted him.

'Thank God it's stopped raining.'

Garcia said impatiently. 'Please, Senor Donner. You said you would have news for me.'

Donner turned. 'But I do. It's all in hand, my friend. In fact I think I can guarantee you, let's say, ten of the latest mark of Exocet missile by next Monday.'

Garcia gazed at him in awe. 'Can this be so, senor?'

'Definitely. You can leave it all in my hands. Just one thing for you to do. I want an Argentine air force officer to liaise with me on this one. No desk type either. Preferably a first rate pilot. After all, it's only a fifteen hour flight from Buenos Aires to Paris. You get a message off tonight and he could be here tomorrow or the next day.'

'Of course, senor. I'll get a message off right away. And the financial arrangements?'

'We'll settle all that later.'

Garcia left and Donner went to the drinks cabinet and poured whisky into two glasses.

'What are you up to?' Belov demanded.

Donner handed him one of the glasses. 'How would it suit you if, in getting these Exocets, I dropped the Argentinians right in the manure, the French breaking off diplomatic relations, a real international scandal? How would you like that?'

'I think I'd like it immensely,' Belov said. 'Tell me more.'

So Donner did, in finest detail.

6

Ferguson worked late that evening at his office at the Directorate-General, for Group Four more than had its hands full these days. In addition to exercising its normal anti-terrorist role against the possibility of Argentine undercover units infiltrating London, Ferguson had been given responsibility by the Director-General himself for handling and co-ordinating all operations connected with Exocet.

Harry Fox came in, looking tired, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. 'I've just had the good word in from Peru. Our people there in co-operation with anti-government guerrillas destroyed a military convoy earlier today which was carrying five Exocets to a Peruvian air force base near Lima for onward transportation to the Argentine.'

'Thank God for that. What about the Libyans?'

'Qadhafi seems to be having second thoughts. Both King Hussein and the Egyptian government have asked him to keep out of it.'

'Which really only leaves the manufacturers, Harry. All right, we know there's been a certain amount of French technical assistance, but that, after all, has been mainly a product of circumstance. The men involved were already there.'

'An interesting question, sir. What would we do if we had trouble with our own Exocet missiles? Expect the French to render technical assistance?'

'We don't wish to know that, Harry. Get back to work.'

Rain dashed against the window pane. He went and peered out and shivered, thinking of the fleet down there in the South Atlantic and winter rolling in.

'God help sailors at sea on a night like this,' he said softly.

* * *

It was very quiet in the small study in the Residencia del Presidente at Olivos outside Buenos Aires. The President himself, General Leopoldo Fortunato Galtieri, was in uniform, but had taken off his tunic as he sat at the desk working his way through a mass of papers.

He was a bull of a man, plain spoken, a soldier's soldier, and had frequently been compared to that most colourful of all American generals of the Second World War, George S. Patton.

There was a knock at the door and a young army captain in dress uniform looked in.

The President glanced up. 'What is it, Martinez?'

'General Dozo is here, sir.'

'Good, show him in. See that we are not disturbed. No phone calls for half-an-hour.' He smiled, suddenly looking relaxed and charming. 'Of course, if news comes in that either the
Hermes
or
Invincible
has been sunk, disturb me all you like.'

'At your orders, my President.'

Martinez withdrew, and a moment later Brigadier General Basilio Lami Dozo, commander of the Argentine Air Force, entered. He was an elegant, handsome man, whose uniform fitted him to perfection, a natural aristocrat in total contrast to Galtieri who had been born into a working class family and had come up the hard way. Which was perhaps as well for they were compelled to work together, like it or not, together with the commander of the navy, Admiral Jorge Anaya as members of the three man junta that ruled the country.

Lami Dozo took off his hat and lit a cigarette. 'Isn't Anaya coming?'

Galtieri was pouring Cognac into two glasses at the drinks cabinet. 'What for? We might as well not have a navy for all the good it does. Thank God for the air force. True heroes, all those lads of yours.' He handed Lami Dozo a glass. 'Here's to them.'

'What's left of them,' Lami Dozo said bitterly and drank a little Cognac. 'Things are so bad down there at Gallegos that everyone who can fly is going up. Raul Montera, for God's sake! Forty-six next birthday and he's flying Skyhawks to San Carlos Water.' He shook his head. 'I sometimes think I should be back in a cockpit myself.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Galtieri said. 'Raul Montera is a romantic fool, always was.'

'And a true hero.'

'Oh, I'll give you that. Magnificent. I have every admiration for him.'

'That's what the boys call him.
El Magnifico.
He can't last, of course. He's flown eleven operations during the past week to my knowledge.' He shook his head. 'God knows what I'll find to say to his mother when he goes.'

'Donna Elena?' Galtieri shuddered. 'Keep her away from me, whatever you do. That woman always makes me feel I should be herding cows, bare-footed. How was it today?'

'We hit a frigate,
HMS Antelope.
When I last heard, there had been some sort of explosion and it was on fire. We think we also damaged a destroyer, the
Glasgow,
but we can't be sure. Six Mirages and two Skyhawks were shot down. Some made it back to base damaged.' He shook his head in wonder. 'And in spite of that, the spirit of those boys is fantastic. But it can't go on. We'll run out of pilots.'

'Exactly,' Galtieri said. 'Which is why we need more Exocets and according to this report just in from our Embassy in Paris, we could have exactly what we need in a matter of days. Read it.'

He went to the window and looked out at the gardens, bright in the sunshine as he finished his Cognac. Behind him, Lami Dozo said, 'You could be right. But Garcia doesn't seem to have any information as to how or where this man Donner intends to obtain Exocets.'

'True, but he is convinced that Donner can supply and it's worth a try. You notice, of course, that they ask for a top air force officer to liaise on this one, preferably a pilot.'

'Yes.'

'Does anyone spring to mind as being particularly suitable for the job?'

He turned enquiringly. Lami Dozo smiled. 'It would keep him alive, wouldn't it, and as a matter of coincidence, he does speak excellent French.'

'No time to lose. He should be on his way to Paris tomorrow.'

Lami Dozo picked up his cap. 'No problem. I'll fly down to Gallegos myself in the Lear Jet. Bring him back with me.'

'Good, I'd like a word with him before he goes.' As Lami Dozo moved towards the door, Galtieri called, 'You know what the day after tomorrow is?'

'Of course.' It was Tuesday, 25th May and Argentina's national day.

'You've something special planned, I trust?'

'We'll do our best.'

Lami Dozo went out, the President sighed, sat down at his desk and resumed work.

* * *

In London, Gabrielle Legrand, shopping in Harrods, found herself walking through the television department. A small crowd had gathered before a television set and the ITV news was on. The screen was showing a series of pictures of San Carlos Water, ships scattered at anchor in a cloud of smoke. Television film, as yet, was not available. An anonymous commentator was describing a raid as it took place, presumably that morning, Argentinian Skyhawks racing in to drop their bombs.

His voice lifted in excitement as he followed the track of a Rapier missile, there was the sound of a violent explosion as a Skyhawk was destroyed.

Several people in the crowd applauded and one man said, 'Got the bastard!' It was understandable. This was the enemy they were looking at. Planes dedicated to destroying their own boys. One of those boys was her half-brother, Richard. She knew he was on the aircraft carriers two hundred miles to the west of San Carlos Water but that was not safety. Helicopter pilots like Richard flew towards danger every day and their carriers were the constant targets of the Argentine missiles. Gabrielle prayed that God would protect twenty-two-year-olds.

She turned away, physically sick, Raul in her mind.

Thank God he's too old to fly those things,
she thought, and hurried out.

* * *

Raul Montera, at that moment, was fifty miles off the southern tip of Argentina, five hundred feet above the sea, trying to nurse home a Skyhawk to port that had most of its tail missing, a plume of smoke drifting gently behind it.

The boy in the cockpit was badly wounded; Montera knew that and had long since abandoned any attempt at proper procedure.

'Hang on, Jose, not long now.'

'No use, colonel.' The boy's voice was very tired. 'She's going down. I can't hold her any longer.'

As the Skyhawk's nose dipped, Montera said, 'Eject boy.'

'And freeze to death?' The boy laughed faintly. 'Why bother.'

'Lieutenant Ortega,' Montera cried. 'Eject now. That's an order.'

A second later the canopy flew into space, the boy was catapulted out. Montera followed him down, already giving base the position, watching the parachutes drift, hoping that the air sea rescue launch would be in time.

He made a quick pass as Ortega hit the water, saw him break free of the chute. The small yellow dinghy inflated and, as he watched, the boy tried to climb in.

There was a sudden warning buzz from the instrument panel that told him how low he was on fuel. He made one more pass, waggled his wings and curled away towards the coast.

* * *

When Montera got out of the cockpit of the Skyhawk at the Gallegos base, Sergeant Santerra, the technical crew chief, was already examining the plane and shaking his head.

'Look at the tail, for Christ's sake, colonel. Cannon shell, at least four. Holes all over the place.'

'I know. We had a couple of Harriers on our tails on the way out of San Carlos. They got Santini. Young Ortega almost made it and ditched about fifty miles out.'

'Your luck is good, colonel. Amazing. I can't understand it. You should have been dead days ago.'

'I put it all down to the love of a good woman myself.' Raul Montera reached up and touched the legend
Gabrielle
which was painted on the side of the cockpit. 'Thank you, my love.'

* * *

When he went into the Intelligence Room in the Operations building, it was empty except for Major Pedro Munro, an Argentinian of Scots extraction, the senior intelligence officer.

'Ah, there are you, Raul. One of these days you won't walk through that door,' he said cheerfuly.

'Thanks very much,' Montera answered. 'Any word on Ortega?'

'Not yet. What have you got to tell me?'

Montera helped himself to a cigarette from the pack on the desk. 'That it was hell out there, just like an old war movie on television, only this was real. Men died.'

Munro said, 'Very funny. Now, could I possibly have something concrete? Did you sink anything?'

'I don't think so,' Montera told him, 'for the excellent reason that my bombs didn't explode again. Could you possibly arrange for ordnance to get the blasted timing right on those fuses?'

Munro stopped trying to be amusing. 'I'm damn sorry, Raul. Truly.'

'So am I.' Montera told him, and went out.

He walked towards the officers' mess wearily, his flying boots drumming on the tarmac. He felt depressed, stale, at the end of things. He was too old to be doing this sort of thing, and that was a fact; then he remembered what Gabrielle had said to him about age being a state of mind and smiled.

He thought a lot about her these days. In fact, all the time. She filled his heart and head, flew with him, slept with him. He spoke aloud to her last thing each night.

He walked into the ante-room. The first person he saw was Lami Dozo, standing by the fire, a circle of young officers about him.

The General excused himself and came to meet Montera, genuine pleasure on his face. He gave him the
abrazo,
the formal hug.

'I saw your mother yesterday at a charity affair. Fundraising for the army. She looked splendid.'

'Was Linda with her?'

'No, she was at school. As I say, your mother looked splendid. You, on the other hand, look dreadful. It must stop, this foolishness, Raul. Eleven missions in a week.'

'Twelve,' Montera said. 'You forget today. And could you kindly get them to do something about the bombs? They will persist in not going off a lot of the time. Very annoying, when one has gone to such a great deal of trouble to deliver them.'

'Have a drink,' Lami Dozo said.

'An excellent idea.' Montera called a mess waiter over. 'Tea. My usual.' He turned to the General. 'Will you join me?'

'Tea?' Lami Dozo said. 'Good God, what's got into you?'

Montera nodded to the waiter who departed. 'Nothing. It's just that a friend of mine when I was in London persuaded me that coffee wasn't good for me.'

'Who is this Gabrielle whose name they tell me is painted on the nose of your Skyhawk?'

'The woman I love,' Raul Montera said simply.

'Have I had the pleasure of meeting her?'

'No. When she isn't living in London, she lives in Paris. Next question.'

'Paris? How interesting. If you had time, you could look her up.'

'I don't understand?'

'You're flying to Paris tomorrow. I'm taking you back to Buenos Aires with me now. Oh, and Galtieri would like a word before you leave.'

'I think perhaps you'd better explain,' Montera said.