Exocet (v5) (21 page)

Raul Montera's voice sounded over the radio loudspeaker, totally washed out. 'I'm bringing her straight in. No time for procedure.'

As Dozo watched, the Skyhawk brushed across the buildings at the north end of the runway. Montera was aware of the vehicles roaring out to meet him from the control buildings. The Skyhawk almost stalled. He gave it a final burst of power and then made the worst landing of his career, bouncing back up again twice before coming to a halt, turning full circle, water from the rainsoaked runway spraying up in a great cloud.

He stayed there, head bowed, was aware of voices and then careful hands lifting him from the cockpit. He opened his eyes, saw the faces, so many faces, Lami Dozo's amongst them.

He smiled. 'Two ears and a tail, eh, General?' and then he fainted.

* * *

And so it was over. In Port Stanley the Argentines laid down their arms and in Buenos Aires, an outraged mob made it plain that Galtieri had to go. In London, at Westminster, on the same day, the British Prime Minister rose from her seat to tell the members of Parliament assembled before her of the triumphant conclusion to one of the most astonishing feats of arms since the Second World War.

* * *

At the Sisters of Mercy Hospital in Buenos Aires, Gabrielle and Donna Elena waited outside Montera's room. Finally, the door opened and the Chief Surgeon emerged. They stood up.

'Well?' Donna Elena demanded.

'Not good, but he'll survive. No more of this nonsense, of course. He'll certainly never be fit to fly a jet aircraft again. You may go in.'

Gabrielle turned enquiringly and Donna Elena smiled. 'I've got my son back. All the time in the world. You go in now. I'll wait.'

When Gabrielle opened the door, she found him propped up against pillows, the cuts on his face stained purple with some preparation or other. His left arm was in a plaster cast and there was a cowl beneath the sheets to protect his injured leg.

She stood by the side of the bed without saying anything and as if sensing her presence, he opened his eyes and smiled.

'You look awful,' she said.

'I'll be all right. Don't worry. The surgeon told me I'll still be able to play the violin and you know, that's really very amusing. You see, I can't play the violin.'

And then she was laughing and crying at the same time, on her knees at the side of the bed, her face against his.

17

It was the finest of London mornings, the early winter sun shining on the hoar frost on the trees in St James's Park as the taxi drove up Pall Mall towards Buckingham Palace.

Tony Villiers was wearing the uniform of his own regiment, razor sharp, the scarlet and blue dress cap with gold-rimmed peak, Sam Browne belt gleaming, medal ribbons in a neat row on the left breast.

The taxi driver said, 'Big day, eh, gov'nor? Was you down there in the Falklands?'

'Yes,' Villiers said.

'That's funny, guv. I didn't know the Grenadier Guards was there as well.'

'One or two,' Villiers told him.

The driver grinned in the mirror. 'We showed 'em, didn't we?'

'Yes,' Villiers said. 'I suppose we did.'

They rounded the Victoria monument and were cleared at the main gate where the taxi was allowed through into the courtyard. Villiers alighted and took out his wallet.

'Nothing doing, guv, have this one on me,' the cabby said and drove away.

Villiers followed the people who were streaming in through the main doors of the palace. There were members of all three services, most of them accompanied by their nearest and dearest, the women wearing hats specially bought for the occasion.

There was a general air of gaiety and excitement, a sense of occasion as they mounted the red-carpeted stairs and entered the picture gallery, where rows of chairs waited, facing the raised platform in the centre where the Queen would sit.

A military band played light music, there was a buzz of conversation as people took their seats and talked together in low voices. Each recipient of an award was allowed two guests to the ceremony, usually family. Villiers had no one. Had preferred to leave it that way.

He sat in the chair assigned to him by an usher and looked around him at the marble statues, the paintings on the wall and the crowd waiting so expectantly, children amongst them, keyed up for the big moment.

The talking died away as the band started to play God Save the Queen and everyone stood as she walked in.

* * *

People had been formed up in ascending order of decoration, the Navy first as the senior service, then the Army, followed by the RAF. As each man's name was called, he went forward to receive his award at the Queen's hands and a few moments of conversation.

There were several other awards of the Distinguished Service Order that morning. When Villiers' turn came he moved forward and stood there, waiting for the Queen to pin the medal to him.

She said, 'Not much we can say about this one, Colonel Villiers.'

'Major, ma'am.'

She smiled again as she pinned the DSO in place. 'You obviously haven't seen the Army List this morning.'

And then Villiers was moving away, still unable to take it in, as the next recipient moved forward.

* * *

He stood in the courtyard outside the palace at the bottom of the steps, and opened the box and looked at the medal again, then he slipped it into his pocket and crossed to the main gates. The constables on duty saluted him as he passed out and moved through the usual crowd of tourists. Here and there a camera clicked, but he took no notice, hesitated, then crossed from the monument, towards St James's Park.

He didn't know where to go next, that was the trouble. He paused to light a cigarette and a black Bentley slid into the kerb beside him, Harry Fox at the wheel.

The rear door opened and Ferguson looked out. 'You're looking well, Tony. Big day.'

'I suppose so,' Villiers said.

'I hear Gabrielle married her colonel in Beunos Aires last month.'

'I know,' Villiers said. 'She wrote to me.'

Ferguson nodded. 'You've heard about your promotion to half-colonel? Makes you the youngest in the Army.'

'Yes.'

'Good. Get in.' Ferguson leaned back.

'What for?' Villiers asked him.

'My dear Tony, who do you think arranged your promotion? I did and not as a birthday treat, but because it suits my purposes. I'd like to point out the rank is only acting. Your regiment weren't at all pleased.'

'You mean you've got a job for me?'

'Of course. Come on, boy, get in. I haven't got much time. I've a meeting at the Ministry of Defence at two o'clock.'

For a moment, Villiers almost did it and then he remembered Gabrielle at Maison Blanche and the look on her face.
You're worth so much more than Ferguson and his dark games. You're worth a little joy,
that was what she'd said.

He closed the door. As he turned away, Ferguson leaned out of the window. 'What are you playing at, Tony? Where are you going?'

'For a walk in the park,' Villiers said and turned across the grass through the trees.

The expression on Harry Fox's face was one of pure delight. 'Looks like you've lost him, sir.'

'Nonsense,' Ferguson said. 'He'll be back. Drive on, Harry.'

He leaned back in the seat, took a file from his briefcase and started to leaf through it as the Bentley moved out into the traffic.

A Biography of Jack Higgins

Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the
New York Times
bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including
The Eagle Has Landed
and
The Wolf at the Door
. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.

Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.

Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster
The Eagle Has Landed
, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures--such as John Dillinger--and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Patterson lives in Jersey, in the Channel Islands.