Exocet

'There's always the Union Corse,' Belov said.

The Union Corse was the largest crime syndicate in France, a truly formidable organisation whose tentacles reached out everywhere from the judiciary to the government itself.

Donner shook his head. 'I don't think so. They may be gangsters, those boys, but they're inclined to be patriotic. The curse of the French, Nikolai, or hadn't you noticed? Even the communist variety look upon themselves as Frenchmen first.'

'Point taken,' Belov said. 'But we do have other contacts. You could really do with mercenaries rather than ordinary gangsters.'

'Or gangsters who've seen service in the army. God knows, there must still be plenty of those around in France after all those years in Algiers.'

'Leave it with me.'

Donner opened a drawer, took out a sheet of paper and passed it across. 'I'll also need the items on there.'

Belov examined the list and raised his eyebrows. 'You intend to go to war, to judge by this little lot?'

'You could put it that way.'

At that moment, the door opened and Juan Garcia entered. He was trembling with excitement, eyes shining. 'What is it, for God's sake?' Belov demanded.

'Today gentlemen, is the 25th of May, you know what that means in the Argentine?'

'I can't say I do.'

'It is our national day, a day which will go down in our history as one on which we dealt the British navy the most crushing blow of the war. It's on now, a newsflash on television. Come and see,' and he turned and hurried out.

* * *

In the office at Cavendish Place, Ferguson put down the red phone, his face grave.

Harry Fox said, 'Is it bad, sir?'

'You could say that. The destroyer, HMS Coventry, was attacked by Skyhawks while protecting vessels landing supplies at San Carlos. She may also have been hit by an Exocet, we aren't sure yet. At least twenty dead and many wounded. She capsized.'

'My God,' Fox said.

'There's worse, Harry. The fifteen thousand ton container ship, Atlantic Conveyor, has also been taken out. Two Exocet hits definitely confirmed.' He shook his head. 'Because of her size on the radar screen, they probably thought she was one of the aircraft carriers.'

There was silence for a while, only the muted sounds of traffic from outside in the square. Fox said, 'What do we do now, sir?'

'I think that's obvious,' Ferguson told him. 'Don't you?'

* * *

When he knocked at the door of the flat in Kensington Palace Gardens for the second time that day, there was a delay before slow steps approached and the door opened on the chain.

Gabrielle looked out. She stared at them for a long moment, then opened the door and led the way into the sitting room. She was wearing the old bathrobe and looked dreadful, her hair tousled, eyes swollen.

'You've heard the news,' Ferguson asked gently.

She nodded. 'Yes.'

'And?'

She took a deep breath and folded her arms as if holding herself together. 'When do you want me to go?'

'Tomorrow, I think. You still have the apartment on the Avenue Victor Hugo?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Get yourself settled in. You'll be informed what to do by our man in Paris, or if necessary Harry can go over on the shuttle to see you. And there is one more thing.'

She looked incredibly weary now. 'And what would that be?'

'You'll need a back-up man. Someone totally reliable, to be on hand in case you get into trouble.'

It was as if she knew what was coming. Her eyes widened in a kind of horror. 'You've sent for Tony?'

'That's right. He should be here in thirty-six hours at the outside.'

She shook her head helplessly. 'I'd like to kill you, Ferguson. I really would like to see you dead and I've never wished that on any human being in my life. See what you've done to me? You and people like you, corrupt everything you touch.'

'Harry will make your travel arrangements,' he said. 'He'll be in touch. Take a couple of pills, get some sleep. You'll feel better for it.'

When they went outside, it had started to rain. Ferguson paused to button up his coat and Fox said, 'Can she handle it, sir? It's expecting a hell of a lot. I mean, the impression I get is that she's head over heels in love with Raul Montera.'

'Yes, an interesting situation,' Ferguson said. 'But we don't really have any choice, do we?' He glanced up at the rain and raised his collar as he went down the steps. 'All of a sudden I feel old, Harry. What do you think about that? Very, very old.'

* * *

In Buenos Aires, the Plaza in front of the National Congress Building was crammed with thousands of excited people, hundreds of blue and white Argentinian flags waving everywhere.

The crowd roared, above the hooting of car horns: Argentina! Argentina! On a balcony in full uniform, silver hair swept back, arm raised in salute like a Roman emperor, Galtieri took the plaudits of the crowd.

And then the voices changed, became a chorus like the sea rushing in, carrying everything before it and the word that they repeated over and over again like a litany, was Exocet.

* * *

Ferguson was sitting by the fire in the flat toasting crumpets when Fox came in with a signal in his hand.

'Oh, I wanted to see you, Harry. Who have we got at the Paris Embassy who isn't a complete idiot?'

Fox thought about it. 'George Corwin is a possibility, sir. Was a captain in the Green Howards when we recruited him. Did quite well in Ireland. His mother is French, that's why we posted him to Paris.'

'Excellent. He can pick Montera up when he arrives from Buenos Aires. Find out where he's staying and liaise with Gabrielle till Tony gets in. Talking about Tony, what's happening there?'

'I was just bringing this signal to show you, sir. Text of a message from H.Q. at San Carlos via SAS headquarters at Hereford.'

'What's it say?'

'Confirm Major Villiers and Sergeant Major Jackson en route as ordered.'

'I wonder how Tony took it, being hauled out of the action like that.'

'I shouldn't imagine he'd be too pleased,' Fox said.

'Well that would make sense, knowing our Tony,' Ferguson said. 'After all, it's the only war he's got.'

9

On the day previously it had been quiet at first light in the mountains of north Falkland, the only sound a dog barking from one of the hillside farms far, far below in a valley.

The four-man SAS reconnaissance team had been operating behind the Argentine lines for ten days now, having been put ashore by submarine before the British landings at San Carlos on the twenty-first.

The team consisted of Villiers, Harvey Jackson, the radio operator, Corporal Elliot of the Royal Corps of Signals; and the fourth member of the group, a trooper named Jack Korda, a volunteer to the SAS from the Grenadier Guards like Villiers and Jackson.

It was bitterly cold. When Villiers had first awakened he had found his sleeping poncho covered in hoar frost. He stood now in the hollow beside a small cave, not much more than a fissure in the rocks, inside which Korda was heating tea on a small chemical stove.

Villiers, like the others, wore a black woollen balaclava, more against the cold than anything else. His camouflage uniform was soaking wet, his fingers numb with cold as he ate from a mess can with a spoon. Jackson sat cross-legged on the ground, a guardsman to the end, and scraped shaving foam from his chin with a plastic razor.

Villiers' spoon rattled against the bottom of the mess tin. He stowed it away in his pack and accepted the mug of tea Korda passed him.