Exocet

Donner tossed packet after packet across the table. 'Two hundred and forty thousand for them, one hundred for you. Let's make it three-fifty. I can't stand loose change.'

'In advance?' Roux said. 'All of it?'

'Why not. Let's just call it an act of faith on my part.'

Roux smiled, showing the glint of gold-capped teeth. 'Monsieur, I like you. I really do. In anticipation of a satisfactory conclusion to our business, I have already gathered in a number of suitable specimens. You may take your pick. If you'd like to accompany me, we can settle the matter now.'

* * *

The sign above the door in the building two streets away said Roux & Son, Undertakers.

Roux said as he opened the door and led the way in, 'A legitimate enterprise. I started it to give a veneer of respectability to certain of my ventures, but my only son, Paul, has really taken it seriously.'

'Well, there's no accounting for taste,' Donner said.

Roux led the way along a dark corridor lined with waiting chapels. There were actually coffins in some of them and the heavy, cloying scent of flowers lay on the air.

The murmur of voices came from behind a closed door at the end of the corridor. Roux opened it and led the way into a large garage containing three hearses and two trucks. There were at least a dozen men waiting, four of them playing cards on the ground, the others lounging around smoking and talking.

They were as rough looking a lot as Donner had seen in a long time, most of them old hands from the look of it, aged around the late thirties or forty mark.

Roux turned. 'If you would like to wait outside for a couple of minutes, I'll explain the situation to them.' He smiled bleakly. 'I always like to achieve a certain understanding with people I engage. Something special between me and them. You understand, Monsieur?'

'But of course,' Donner said cheerfully.

He and Stavrou slipped out through a small judas gate into a back yard. Donner took out a cigarette and Stavrou gave him a light.

'Think you can handle them? They look rough.'

'Not if you look twice,' Stavrou said.

'We'll see.'

Roux opened the door. 'Come in, gentlemen.'

The men now stood in a line and Donner looked them over. Roux said, 'I've explained the situation. Every man here would like to take part.' He pointed to one who was standing apart from the others. 'This is the Signals expert. As for the rest, the choice is yours.'

Donner simply picked the eight worst-looking ones in his own estimation. As he reached the end of the line, tapping each man of his choice on the chest, a large man with a broken nose and close-cropped red hair, one of those left out, said, 'Merde!' and spat on Donner's left shoe.

Donner slapped him in the face. The man reeled in shock, then roared with rage and reached out to destroy. Stavrou was somehow in the way. He grabbed for the man's right wrist, twisted it up and around. The man screamed as muscle tore, and still keeping that terrible hold in position, Stavrou ran him headfirst into a stack of packing cases in one corner. The man fell on his knees, face covered in blood.

'Would anyone care to change his mind?' Donner enquired, and nodded at Stavrou. 'I should warn you, my friend here will be in charge.'

No one moved. In fact no one said a word, except Roux, who sighed heavily and offered Donner a cigarette. 'A terrible thing, the corrupting power of money, wouldn't you agree, Monsieur?'

* * *

Ferguson had retired to bed early, not to sleep, but to work on more papers in the comfort of his bed. He was just deciding to call it a day when the phone rang. It was Harry Fox.

'Just heard from George Corwin in Paris, sir. Raul Montera turned up on schedule. He was met by Garcia who took him to an apartment in a block on the Avenue de Neuilly close to the Bois de Boulogne. He's given Gabrielle the address.'

'Good,' Ferguson said.

'I'm still worried about her, sir. We're asking a hell of a lot.'

'I know. I happen to think she's up to it.'

'But dammit all, sir, what you're really requiring her to do is serve your purposes and destroy herself in the process.'

'Perhaps. On the other hand, how many men have died already down there in the South Atlantic, Harry, on both sides? Look at the death toll when the Belgrano went down. What we've got to do is stop the bloody carnage, or don't you buy that?'

'Of course I do, sir.' Fox sounded weary.

'When does Tony get in?'

'About five o'clock tomorrow evening, French time.'

'You can take the shuttle over there tomorrow afternoon Harry. You and Corwin meet him. I want you to fill him in on the whole scene in finest detail.'

'He won't like it, sir. Gabrielle's involvement.'

'Are you trying to tell me he still loves her?'

'It isn't as simple as that,' Fox said. 'They were married for five years. All right, a hell of a lot of bad in there, but you can't just toss the relationship out of the window. She's important to him. Let's put it in an old-fashioned way. He still cares for her.'

'Excellent. Then he'll make damn sure she doesn't come to any harm. I want you back here tomorrow night, Harry.'

'Very well, sir.'

'Anything else before I turn out the light?'

'What about the French connection, sir? Isn't it time we brought them in on this?'

'Not really. Certainly not at the moment. We still don't know what Donner is up to. If the French arrested him now, a good lawyer would have him on the street in an hour.'

'At least speak to Pierre Guyon, sir.'

'I'll think about it, Harry. Go to bed.'

Ferguson put down the phone and sat back against the pillows, doing exactly what he had told Fox he would do-thinking about it.

The French Security Service, the Service de Documentation Exterieure et de Contre-Espionage, the SDECE, is divided into five sections and many departments. The most interesting one is Section Five, more commonly known as the Action Service, the department which had been responsible for destroying the OAS. Colonel Pierre Guyon was in charge of that department, and he was not only Ferguson's opposite number but one of his oldest friends.

Ferguson reached for the phone and dialled the area code for Paris, hesitated, then replaced the receiver. He was taking a chance, he knew that, his entire career on the line. But his instinct, the product of years of experience in intelligence work, told him that he should let things ride and he always trusted his instinct. He switched off the light, turned over and went to sleep.

* * *

Raul Montera slept surprisingly well that night, the strain and fatigue of the past few weeks catching up on him. The result was that he didn't rise until ten o'clock. For years he had been in the habit of running regularly, each morning. The only time he'd had to deviate from his usual practice was during his flying operations out of Rio Gallegos.

He said good morning to Gabrielle, a ritual now, and went to the window. When he drew the curtain and looked out, it was raining hard, the Bois de Boulogne shrouded in mist. He felt suddenly exhilarated. He'd been so tired on the previous evening that he hadn't unpacked his holdall. He did so now, pulled on his old black track suit and some running shoes, had a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator and let himself out.

He liked the rain; it gave him a safe, enclosed feeling, rather like being in a world of one's own. He ran through the park, thoroughly soaked and enjoying every minute of it. And he wasn't the only one. There were a number of fellow rain-lovers about, some like him, running, others walking the dog, even the odd horseback rider.

George Corwin, hidden in the back of a parked milk van on the Avenue de Neuilly, watched Montera running fast from the direction of the lake. He came to a halt only a few yards away and stood breathing heavily. Corwin took several pictures of him with a special camera through a tiny hole in the side of the van.