Exocet

'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.'