Exocet

'So that's their means of transportation to the island,' Donner said.

Wanda nodded. 'Apparently.'

'According to Paul Bernard, the commanding officer out there also has a fine motor launch which is his pride and joy.'

'That's right. It was moored down there for a while yesterday.'

'Good. That's really excellent.'

They drove on, up out of the town, following a narrow coast road until finally Stavrou, under Wanda's direction, turned in through two stone pillars and bumped across a field track.

Donner and Wanda got out and she handed him a pair of Zeiss fieldglasses as they went forward to the edge of the cliffs. There was a bay far below and the path down was no place for the faint-hearted, zigzagging across the face of granite cliffs, splashed with lime, seabirds crying, wheeling in great clouds, razorbills, shags, gulls, shearwaters and gannets — gannets everywhere.

Ile de Roc was a smudge on the horizon that came to life only when he focussed the glasses. It was well named, massive cliffs rising steeply from the sea, only a hint of green on top. There were no installations to be seen, but he already knew they were on the western side of the island.

He lowered the glasses. 'Good, let's go.'

They returned to the Citroen, got in, and Stavrou reversed and drove away.

* * *

On the way back, they passed Maison Blanche again. A few hundred yards on, as they turned into the road leading to Lancy, Donner leaned forward and touched Stavrou on the shoulder.

'Stop a minute. What have we got here?'

In the meadow beside the trees, three wagons were parked around a fire. They were old and battered with patched canvas tilts, and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything from the clothes worn by the four women who squatted by the fire drinking coffee from old cans, to the rags on the children, who played by the stream where three bony horses grazed.

'Gypsies?' Donner said.

'Yes, the agent said there were some in the neighbourhood. Claimed they were no trouble.'

'He would, wouldn't he?' Donner nodded to Stavrou. 'Come on, Yanni, this may work out quite well.'

As they walked down into the hollow, the women looked up curiously, saying nothing. Donner stood there, hands in pockets, then said in French, 'Where's the head man?'

'Here he is, Monsieur.'

The man who had appeared from the trees was old, at least seventy. He had a shotgun crooked in his right arm. He wore a tweed suit which had been patched many times, and white hair showed beneath the blue beret. His face was the colour of oak, wrinkled and covered with stubble.

'And who might you be?' Donner enquired.

'I am Paul Gaubert, Monsieur? Is it permitted to ask you the same question?'

'My name is Donner. I'm the new tenant of Maison Blanche. I think I'm probably right in saying you're camped on my land.'

'But Monsieur, we stay here every year at this time. Never before have we had a problem.'

The young man with him was of medium height with a weak, sullen face. He badly needed a shave. His clothes were as shabby as Gaubert's and black hair poked from beneath a tweed cap. He not only carried a shotgun in his right hand, but a brace of hares in his left.

Donner looked him over and Gaubert said hastily, 'My son, Paul.'

'With my hares, I think? What would the local gendarmes in St Martin have to say about you lot, I wonder?'

Old Gaubert flung his arms wide. 'Please, Monsieur, everywhere we go it is the same. Filthy gypsies, they say. They spit on us while our children go hungry.'

'All right.' Donner took out his wallet. 'I don't need the sob story. You can stay.' He took out a couple of thousand franc notes and stuffed them into Gaubert's breast pocket. 'That's to be going on with. I don't like strangers, understand?'

The old man took out the notes, examined them and smiled broadly. 'I think so, Monsieur.'

'Just keep an eye on things till I'm back down again, or Monsieur Stavrou here.'

'You can rely on me, Monsieur.' Old Gaubert said, and kicked his son on the leg for gawping at Wanda.

They went back to the Citroen, and as they drove away she said, 'Now what?'

'Paris. I've got to make arrangements about this Argentine pilot, Montera. Garcia tells me he's flown twelve missions to the Falklands and survived.'

'An authentic hero,' she said. 'I thought they'd gone out of style.'

'So did I, but this guy is for real and he's going to suit my purpose admirably. By the time I'm finished with him, he'll be world-famous.'

He slipped an arm about her shoulders and leaned back in the seat.

8

At that time, because of the Falklands situation, unusually large crowds had started to congregate in Downing Street and the police had been compelled to take action, cordoning off most of the street.

When Ferguson showed his special pass, his car was allowed through and dropped him outside Number 10, five minutes early for his appointment with the Prime Minister. The policeman on duty saluted, the door was opened even before Ferguson reached it, and he passed inside.

The young aide who greeted him, said, 'This way, Brigadier, the Prime Minister is expecting you.'

Ferguson followed him up the main staircase, not for the first time in his career, past the portraits of previous Prime Ministers, Peel, Wellington, Disraeli, Gladstone. It always filled him with an acute sense of history and he wondered whether the woman who held the most august office in the land, was similarly affected. Probably so. If anyone had a sense of history and destiny, she did. He doubted whether the Falklands venture could have gone forward without her strength of purpose and courage behind it.

In the top corridor, the young man knocked on a door, opened it and ushered Ferguson inside. 'Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister,' he said and left, closing the door.

The study was just as elegant as when Ferguson had last seen it, with pale green walls and gold curtains and comfortable furniture in excellent taste. But as always, nothing could have been more elegant than the woman behind the desk in the neat blue suit and white blouse, the blonde hair perfectly groomed.

She looked at him calmly. 'The last time we had dealings, Brigadier, was in connection with a possible attempt on my life.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Your efforts on that occasion were not conspicuously successful. If the would-be assassin had not thought better of the matter here in this very room…'

She let her words hang for a while and then carried on. 'I see that the Director-General of Intelligence has seen fit, in his wisdom, to place you in charge of all matters relating to the Exocet question.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'I understand that the Libyans had intended to provide the Argentinians with additional supplies, but thanks to pressure from our friends in the Arab world, this is no longer likely?'

'That is correct, Prime Minister.'

'Is there any possibility that the Peruvians might try to help?'

'That contingency has already been taken care of ma'am. We…'

'Please, Brigadier, spare me the details. Which only leaves the French, and I have Monsieur Mitterand's personal assurance that the arms embargo will stay in force.'

'I'm pleased to hear it, ma'am.'

She stood up, walked to the window and looked out. 'Brigadier, if one Exocet hits either Hermes or Invincible, the entire course of this conflict is changed. We would almost certainly have to withdraw.' She turned. 'Can you assure me that there is no possibility of further Exocets reaching the Argentine from any source whatever?'