Exocet

The other smiled and held out his hand. 'Jimmy Nelson. Everything went all right then?'

'Soaked to the bloody skin is all,' Jackson said.

'Never mind. Get in and I'll take you back to my place.'

As they drove away, Villiers asked: 'Is there any chance of finding out what all this is about?'

'Search me, old boy. I just do as I'm told. Orders from on high and so on. I've got clothes waiting for you, all you need. Full details were supplied as to sizes. Someone was very efficient. Also passports made out in your own names as there seemed no reason why not. Occupation, sales engineer, that holds true for both of you.'

'And where do we go?'

'Paris. One snag about that. There's only one direct flight to that fair city and it's on Fridays. However, I've pulled a few strings and got you on an Air France cargo-carrying jumbo that leaves in,' he glanced at his watch, 'around three hours from now, so it's all worked out rather well. You'll be in Paris tomorrow evening, their time. I always get confused about time changes.'

'And then what?'

'Search me. I presume Brigadier Ferguson will explain when he sees you.'

'Ferguson?' Villiers groaned. 'You mean he's behind this?'

'That's right. Anything wrong, old man?'

'Not really, except I'd rather be back behind the lines in the Falklands,' Villiers told him.

10

At Charles de Gaulle Airport, Captain George Corwin was leaning against a pillar, reading a newspaper. It was dark outside, for it was just after nine o'clock. Garcia was standing over by the news stand, trying to look casual and not doing too well at it, when Raul Montera appeared at the exit from Immigration and Customs. He carried a canvas holdall in one hand and wore jeans and his old black leather flying jacket, a scarf at his throat. Corwin recognised him instantly from the photo supplied by Group Four.

Garcia hurried forward. 'A great pleasure to see you colonel and a personal honour for me. Juan Garcia, at your orders.'

'At yours,' Montera replied politely. 'On the other hand, don't you think it might be an excellent idea not to call me colonel?'

'Of course,' Garcia said. 'So foolish of me.' He tried to take the bag from him.

'I can manage,' Montera told him, beginning to feel mildly irritated.

'Of course,' Garcia said. 'This way, then. My car is just outside. I have secured you a fine apartment in the Avenue de Neuilly.'

Behind them, as they pulled away from the front entrance, George Corwin was already in the back of a black Rover saloon. He tapped the driver on the shoulder.

'Right, Arthur, that green Peugeot estate car. Where it goes, so do we.'

* * *

The apartment was pleasant enough, modern and luxurious, but with no great character. The sort of place which is the same the world over. Its one advantage was the magnificent view of the Bois de Boulogne, just across the road.

'I hope you will find this to your satisfaction, colonel.'

'It's fine,' Montera said. 'Just fine. After all, I presume I won't be here very long.'

'Senor Donner and Belov, who represents the Russian interest in the affair, would like to see you in the morning at eleven a.m., if that is convenient.'

'All right. But then what happens?'

'I've no idea. Senor Donner insists on total secrecy. Perhaps he will be more forthcoming tomorrow.'

'Let's hope so.' Montera escorted him to the door and opened it. 'I'll see you tomorrow then.'

He closed the door behind Garcia, turned back to the sitting room, opened the French window and moved out on the terrace. Paris, one of his favourite cities and it now very possibly meant Gabrielle.

His stomach hollow with excitement, he went to the phone books, found the one he needed, and leafed through quickly. It was hopeless. There were a large number of Legrands but no hint of a Mademoiselle Gabrielle.

There was London, of course, where she might very well be. The number of the flat in Kensington was burned into his brain. And why not? Even if he didn't speak, he could at least listen to her voice. He checked the area code for London, picked up the phone and dialled the number. He let it ring for a long time at the other end before putting it down.

There was wine in the refrigerator in the ultra-modern kitchen and sherry. He poured himself a glass of ice-cold Manzanilla and went and stood on the terrace, sipping it slowly, thinking of her, more alone than he had ever felt in his life before.

'Where are you, Gabrielle?' he whispered aloud. 'Come to me. Just a hint.'

Sometimes it worked. On the San Carlos run it had saved him more than once, the thought of her, her tangible presence, but not now. Now, there was nothing. He finished his sherry, suddenly tired, went back inside and went to bed.

* * *

No more than a mile away on the Avenue Victor Hugo, Gabrielle leaned on the rail of the balcony of her own apartment.

There was an unreality to the whole thing. It was like a dream where things happen in slow motion and one is somehow an observer and not a participant. Somewhere out there was Raul, for Corwin had phoned to warn her that he was expected that night.

The telephone rang in the room behind her and she hurried in and picked it up. Corwin said, 'He's here. I followed him and Garcia to an apartment block on the Avenue de Neuilly. Just did a bit of judicious bribery and got the number of the apartment. Here's the address.'

She wrote it down. 'What am I supposed to do? Go round and knock on the door?'

'Not really a good idea,' Corwin said. 'Let's leave it to Major Villiers, shall we? He'll be arriving tomorrow.'

He put down the phone. Gabrielle stood, looking at the address for a moment, committing it to memory, then she tore the paper into pieces, went into the kitchen and put it down the waste disposal.

'And now the lies begin,' she whispered, 'and the deceit and the betrayal,' and she turned slowly and went back into the sitting room.

* * *

The address Belov had given Donner turned out to be a small, back-street nightclub in Montmartre not far from the Madeleine, run by a man named Gaston Roux.

He was small with horn-rimmed glasses and his pinstripe suit, while of excellent cut, was most conservative. He could have been a lawyer or accountant or even a prosperous business man, which in a way he was, except that crime was his business. Anything from drugs to prostitution and his ruthlessness was a byword in the Paris underworld.

'Muscle is what I need,' Donner told him as he sipped Roux's excellent Cognac. 'My contact told me you were just the man to provide it.'

'I have a certain reputation, Monsieur,' Roux said. 'That is true. How many men would you need?'

'Eight.'

'And our mutual friend tells me you would prefer ex-soldiers and that one of them must be ex-Army Signals.'

'That's correct.'

'So the task would be a formidable one. Can you give me any further information?'

'Not really.'

Roux tried again. 'Would there be the possibility of a little shooting?'

'Yes, which is why I'm offering twenty-five thousand francs per man.'

Roux nodded. 'How long would you require them?'

'To sit on their hands in the country for two to three days and receive a certain amount of instruction in what's expected of them. The actual task will take no more than three to four hours in all.'

Roux took a deep breath. 'Very well. My terms are as follows. One hundred thousand francs for my services as agent for which I will guarantee you, for thirty thousand francs apiece, eight men who would shoot their grandmothers if you told them to.'

'I felt sure I'd come to the right place.'

Donner snapped his fingers at Stavrou who was standing by the door and he came forward, put a dark blue briefcase on the table and opened it. It was filled with packages of banknotes.