Exocet (v5) (13 page)

'So are you. What was it like down there?'

'Rather like the Scottish Highlands on a bad day.' He laughed harshly. 'As far as I'm concerned, the Argentinians can have it. North Falkland has very little to commend it. I'd rather take Armagh or the Oman any day.'

'So what's it all about then?' she demanded. 'What are we all playing at, Tony?'

Suddenly, there was an intimacy again, a warmth. Not love, not in the strict sense of that word, but something between them that she knew always would be there. Would never go away till the day she died.

'Games, my love.' Villiers walked to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. 'That's what we're playing at every level from the Prime Minister, Galtieri and Reagan downwards.'

'And you, Tony, what kind of game have you been playing all these years? The Death-wish game?'

He smiled slightly. 'God help me, Gabrielle, but don't you think I haven't looked for an answer to that question a thousand times?'

She frowned, as if trying to get it straight in her own mind, and sat down. 'You see, Tony, in the end, do we control the game or does the game possess us? Can we stop it if we want or must it always be the same?'

He had never felt closer to her. He sat down opposite, that intimacy between them again.

'Montera - you love him, don't you?'

'He's the one thoroughly decent thing that ever happened to me,' she said simply.

'Do you think you can go through with this?'

'I hope so. I don't really have much choice, Ferguson made sure of that.'

'One of these days I intend to run him down with a rather large truck,' he told her. She smiled and he took her hands. 'That's better. Now, let's discuss how you and Montera are going to get together again.'

'And just how do you intend to arrange that?'

'Simple. Corwin tells me he saw Montera running in the Bois de Boulogne yesterday morning.'

'So?'

'He apparently runs extremely well, which would indicate that he's in regular practice and only fanatics turn out in the pouring rain, the kind who refuse to miss a day's training. My hunch is he'll be there tomorrow.'

'And what about me?'

'You can go riding again. Let me explain.'

When he was finished she smiled reluctantly. 'You always were inventive, Tony.'

'In some things.' He stood up. 'Anyway, I'll be keeping an eye on you. Don't bother to get up. I'll let myself out.'

He hesitated and then reached for her hand. She held on tight and when she looked up, her face was tragic.

'I love him, Tony, isn't that the strangest thing? Just like everything I ever read about in the story books and poetry. Love at first sight. Total possession, so that I can't get him out of my mind.'

'I understand.'

'And now,' she said. 'I'm destroying that love as surely as I possibly can by my actions and I've no choice.' There were tears in her eyes. 'Wouldn't you say that was rather ironic?'

He had no answer, of course, none at all, only a terrible rage deep inside, against himself and Ferguson and the world they inhabited. He kissed her gently on the forehead, turned and let himself out quietly.

11

It was raining again the following morning as Gabrielle took the horse forward to the edge of the trees and waited as Villiers had instructed her. It was very quiet, only the sound of rain hissing through the branches. There was an air of unreality to everything and she was conscious of that strange sensation again of being an observer watching herself as in a dream.

Then far below from the trees beside the lake, a figure in a black tracksuit emerged and started to run up the hill.
Raul.
She recognised him instantly, watched for a few moments as she had been told and then kneed the horse forward.

There was a movement somewhere on her right and two men came out of the trees. One of them was bearded and wore a reefer coat. The other was younger with long yellow hair in jeans and a patched denim jacket. And they were trouble, she knew that instantly.

The one with the beard ran forward, flinging up his arms, making the horse rear. As he grabbed for the reins, the other reached up and caught her right arm. She cried out in genuine fear as she was pulled from the saddle.

They both had her then, the bearded one holding her arms behind her and the boy with the yellow hair moving in close, reaching under her jacket for the breasts.

As the horse cantered away, the bearded one said, 'Get her into the trees.' She cried aloud again, not in fear now, but in rage at every man who had ever put a hand on her and kicked out savagely.

* * *

Montera, hearing the first cry, paused and looked up in time to see her come off the horse. He didn't recognise her then, saw only a woman in difficulty and ran very fast up the slope, his running shoes making no sound on the wet grass.

She was on the ground now, the bearded one trying to pull her up, the other one watching. Montera descended like a thunderbolt, delivering a terrible blow to the kidneys, knuckles extended. The boy screamed and fell on his knees. As the bearded man glanced up Montera kicked him in the face.

The soft running shoe didn't do much harm and the man rolled over and came to his feet, pulling a knife from his pocket.

In the same moment, Gabrielle turned, scrambling to her feet, and Montera saw her. He paused, total astonishment on his face and reached for her instinctively.

She cried a warning as the bearded man rushed in. Montera shoved her away and swayed to one side like a bullfighter, the man stepping past him.

Raul Montera knew a killing rage now, such as he had never known in his life before. He poised, balanced on both feet, waiting. The man rushed in again, knife extended. As it came up, Montera grabbed the wrist, twisting the arm up and to one side, taut as a steel bar. The bearded man screamed, Montera struck him a devastating blow across the side of the neck with the edge of his hand and he went down.

The boy with the yellow hair was being sick and Gabrielle leaned against a tree, her face pale, streaked with mud.

'Gabrielle. Oh, my God!' Her name burst out of him and suddenly he was laughing as he held her by the arms and looked at her.

She said shakily, 'You don't do things by halves, do you?'

'I could never see the point. In this sort of business, do it properly or run away. I'll get your horse.'

It was grazing peacefully nearby and he caught the reins and brought it over. 'Do you want to ride?'

'I don't think so.'

The bearded man groaned and tried to sit up. The boy was standing now, leaning against a tree.

'What do you want me to do about these animals? The police?'

'No, let it go,' she said. 'You've handed out sufficient punishment for one morning.'

They started up toward the gates. 'This is amazing, truly amazing. I arrived yesterday. I didn't have a Paris address for you, but I did ring the London flat. No answer.'

'Obviously not. I'm here.' And now it was necessary for her to say the right things. 'But what's going on, Raul? You're at war. Why aren't you in Buenos Aires?'

'It's a long story. I'm staying just across the road in Avenue de Neuilly. What about you?'

'My apartment is in Avenue Victor Hugo.'

'Also not too far away,' he smiled. 'My place or yours?'

The joy in her was so great, that for the moment she forgot everything. 'Oh, Raul, it's so good to see you.'

She reached up and kissed him. He held her for a moment. 'Isn't this what the English call serendipity? A spectacularly marvellous, but totally unexpected delight?'

'I believe they do.'

There was laughter in his eyes and the mouth was touched by that inimitable smile she knew so well. 'I'd say that more than anything else at this particular moment you could do with a nice hot bath.'

She smiled. 'My car is at the stables.'

'Then what are we waiting for?'

They went up the slope together, his arm around her, the horse trailing behind them.

* * *

After they'd gone, Tony Villiers and Harvey Jackson moved out of the trees and approached the two assailants. The bearded man was on his feet, clutching his arm, his face twisted with pain. The boy was being sick again.

'I told you to frighten her a little, that's all,' Villiers said, 'but you tried to be clever. Anything you got, you asked for.'

Jackson took several bank notes from his wallet and stuffed them into the bearded man's shirt pocket. 'Five thousand francs.'

'Not enough,' the man said. 'He's broken my arm.'

'That's your hard luck,' Jackson told him in his bad French.

Villiers was angry, face dark, remembering her struggling in their hands and part of that anger was directed at himself for being responsible.

'We could always break your other arm for you,' he said in a low, dangerous voice.

The bearded man swung up an arm defensively. 'No, that's it! Enough!'

He turned to the boy, grabbed him by the shoulder with his good hand and they staggered away.

'Sodding amateurs,' Jackson said. 'We should have known,' but Villiers had already turned away and was walking up the slope towards the road, very fast, head down.

* * *

The apartment on Avenue Victor Hugo was large and airy, high ceilings, tall windows. The furnishings were simple, but striking, the palest of green curtains, soft and restful, a couple of impressionist paintings a vivid splash of colour against white walls.

Montera sat at one end of an enormous green marble bath sunk into the floor and she came in from the kitchen, naked, with two china mugs of tea on a tray. She handed him one, stepped in the other end of the bath and sat down.

'To us,' he said, toasting her.

'To us.'

And for the moment, she was still able to forget the dreadful situation she was in, was able to think only of the present moment and of the fact that they were together.

He leaned back in the warm water and drank a little tea. 'Haven't we done this before somewhere?'

She frowned, running a finger down an ugly half-healed scar six or seven inches long below his right shoulder.

'What happened?'

'Cannon shell splinter. I was lucky that day.'

Once again, she had to simulate ignorance. 'You mean you've been flying? Flying down there in the Falklands?'

'Malvinas.' He grinned. 'Always remember that. But yes, I flew a Skyhawk fighter-bomber named Gabrielle. Featured prominently on television news several times a day.'

'You're joking.'

'Painted right across the nose of my plane beneath the cockpit, I assure you. You've been to San Carlos Water and back many times, my love.'

Suddenly she remembered the incident in the television department at Harrods, the sound of the commentator's voice, the planes coming in low over San Carlos Water, the missile exploding the Skyhawk and the people listening who had clapped.

'Yes,' he went on wryly. 'Who would have thought I'd become a television star at my time of life.'

She was genuinely angry. 'At your age, flying a jet plane in action. I never heard of anything so ridiculous.' She touched his face. 'Was it really that bad, Raul?'

'I have been to hell and back many times now,' he said. 'Seen young boys blown out of the sky around me and for what?' His eyes were haunted, full of pain. 'When I left Rio Gallegos, we'd lost approximately half our pilots. Down the drain, Gabrielle. All down the drain. Such waste.'

She responded to his pain instinctively. 'Tell me about it, Raul. Make me feel it. Get rid of it, my love. Get rid of it.'

She reached for his hands and he gripped them tightly as they sat facing each other. 'Remember that uncle of mine, the bullfighter?'

'Yes.'

'He used to pray to the Virgin on his knees, just before going into the bullring. Save me from the horns of the beasts, he used to say. I've gone to the horns many times during the past few weeks.'

'Why, Raul? Why?'

'Because it's what I do. I fly. It's also what I am, and down there, there was no choice. Could I sit at a desk while those boys went to hell on their own? You know what we called Falkland Sound? Death Valley.'

His eyes were fixed, the skin stretched tightly over the cheekbones. 'In the bullring, they have a red door - the door the bulls come through. It's called the Gate of Fear. Death comes through that gate, Gabrielle, a black beast who is dedicated to the idea of killing me. When I flew to San Carlos, the only thing which kept that door closed was you. Once at one of my worst moments, when she wouldn't respond to the controls, I was getting ready to eject when I swear I smelt that Opium perfume you use. Crazy, perhaps, but it was as if you were with me.'

'What happened?'

All strain went out of him. 'I'm here, aren't I?' He smiled. 'I should have had a photo in the cockpit and written underneath the words: "I'm Gabrielle - Fly me". You can give me one to take back.'

'Take back?' She was shocked. 'You're not going back down there to fly again?'

He shrugged evasively. 'I'll be here for a few days more. I don't know what happens when I return.'

'What are you doing here?'

'Business for my government.' In a way, he was telling her the truth. 'The arms embargo which the French imposed is giving us problems. But enough of that. What about you?'

'I'm doing a series for
Paris Match.'

'Supported by that estimable father of yours?'

'Of course.'

'Yes. A Degas on one wall, a Monet on the other.'

She slid on to her knees and kissed him on the mouth very, very softly, her tongue savouring him. 'I'd forgotten just how gorgeous you are.'

'That word again,' he mocked her. 'Can't you think of something else?'

'Not right now, but take me to bed and I'll try.'

* * *

Later, lying there in the half-light, the curtains partly drawn, she leaned on an elbow and watched him as he slept. His face tightened, there was pain there, he groaned and suddenly there was sweat on his forehead and he opened his eyes, wide, staring.

She smoothed back his hair from his forehead and kissed him, gently, like a child. 'It's all right. I'm here.'

He smiled weakly. 'I had the dream again. I've had it so often. Remember, I told you, that time at your flat in London.'

'An eagle descending,' she said.

'That's right, coming down hard, claws reaching.'

'Well just remember what I told you. Drop your flaps. Eagles overshoot too.'

He pulled her close, kissed her neck. 'God, you smell good. Warm, womanly - or am I being sexist in saying that? I'm never too sure of my position with you feminists.'

'Oh, I'll explain your position in considerable detail.' She smiled beautifully and ran a finger down his arm. 'I'm Gabrielle - fly me!'

* * *

She came awake again and found him gone. The sensation of panic was terrible. She sat up and glanced at the bedside clock. It was four o'clock. Then he came in, wearing the old black tracksuit and carrying a newspaper.

'I found it in your letter box.'

He sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. 'Anything interesting?' she asked.

'Yes, British forces have broken out of the San Carlos bridgehead. Sky hawks attacked the troops on land. Two shot down.' He threw down the paper and ran his hands over his face. 'Let's go for a walk.'

'All right. Give me five minutes.'

He waited in the sitting room, smoking a cigarette, and when she joined him, she was wearing the jeans and reefer coat he remembered from London.

They went downstairs and got her car and drove to the Bois de Boulogne. Then they simply walked, holding hands, quiet a great deal of the time.

'You're looking better and more relaxed,' she said.

'Well, that's you.' They were sitting on two deck chairs someone had left out in the rain. 'Some people like drugs, some people like booze, but I'm on Gabrielle, much more efficacious.'