Exocet

The one with the beard ran forward, flinging up his arms, making the horse rear. As he grabbed for the reins, the other reached up and caught her right arm. She cried out in genuine fear as she was pulled from the saddle.

They both had her then, the bearded one holding her arms behind her and the boy with the yellow hair moving in close, reaching under her jacket for the breasts.

As the horse cantered away, the bearded one said, 'Get her into the trees.' She cried aloud again, not in fear now, but in rage at every man who had ever put a hand on her and kicked out savagely.

* * *

Montera, hearing the first cry, paused and looked up in time to see her come off the horse. He didn't recognise her then, saw only a woman in difficulty and ran very fast up the slope, his running shoes making no sound on the wet grass.

She was on the ground now, the bearded one trying to pull her up, the other one watching. Montera descended like a thunderbolt, delivering a terrible blow to the kidneys, knuckles extended. The boy screamed and fell on his knees. As the bearded man glanced up Montera kicked him in the face.

The soft running shoe didn't do much harm and the man rolled over and came to his feet, pulling a knife from his pocket.

In the same moment, Gabrielle turned, scrambling to her feet, and Montera saw her. He paused, total astonishment on his face and reached for her instinctively.

She cried a warning as the bearded man rushed in. Montera shoved her away and swayed to one side like a bullfighter, the man stepping past him.

Raul Montera knew a killing rage now, such as he had never known in his life before. He poised, balanced on both feet, waiting. The man rushed in again, knife extended. As it came up, Montera grabbed the wrist, twisting the arm up and to one side, taut as a steel bar. The bearded man screamed, Montera struck him a devastating blow across the side of the neck with the edge of his hand and he went down.

The boy with the yellow hair was being sick and Gabrielle leaned against a tree, her face pale, streaked with mud.

'Gabrielle. Oh, my God!' Her name burst out of him and suddenly he was laughing as he held her by the arms and looked at her.

She said shakily, 'You don't do things by halves, do you?'

'I could never see the point. In this sort of business, do it properly or run away. I'll get your horse.'

It was grazing peacefully nearby and he caught the reins and brought it over. 'Do you want to ride?'

'I don't think so.'

The bearded man groaned and tried to sit up. The boy was standing now, leaning against a tree.

'What do you want me to do about these animals? The police?'

'No, let it go,' she said. 'You've handed out sufficient punishment for one morning.'

They started up toward the gates. 'This is amazing, truly amazing. I arrived yesterday. I didn't have a Paris address for you, but I did ring the London flat. No answer.'

'Obviously not. I'm here.' And now it was necessary for her to say the right things. 'But what's going on, Raul? You're at war. Why aren't you in Buenos Aires?'

'It's a long story. I'm staying just across the road in Avenue de Neuilly. What about you?'

'My apartment is in Avenue Victor Hugo.'

'Also not too far away,' he smiled. 'My place or yours?'

The joy in her was so great, that for the moment she forgot everything. 'Oh, Raul, it's so good to see you.'

She reached up and kissed him. He held her for a moment. 'Isn't this what the English call serendipity? A spectacularly marvellous, but totally unexpected delight?'

'I believe they do.'

There was laughter in his eyes and the mouth was touched by that inimitable smile she knew so well. 'I'd say that more than anything else at this particular moment you could do with a nice hot bath.'

She smiled. 'My car is at the stables.'

'Then what are we waiting for?'

They went up the slope together, his arm around her, the horse trailing behind them.

* * *

After they'd gone, Tony Villiers and Harvey Jackson moved out of the trees and approached the two assailants. The bearded man was on his feet, clutching his arm, his face twisted with pain. The boy was being sick again.

'I told you to frighten her a little, that's all,' Villiers said, 'but you tried to be clever. Anything you got, you asked for.'

Jackson took several bank notes from his wallet and stuffed them into the bearded man's shirt pocket. 'Five thousand francs.'

'Not enough,' the man said. 'He's broken my arm.'

'That's your hard luck,' Jackson told him in his bad French.

Villiers was angry, face dark, remembering her struggling in their hands and part of that anger was directed at himself for being responsible.

'We could always break your other arm for you,' he said in a low, dangerous voice.

The bearded man swung up an arm defensively. 'No, that's it! Enough!'

He turned to the boy, grabbed him by the shoulder with his good hand and they staggered away.

'Sodding amateurs,' Jackson said. 'We should have known,' but Villiers had already turned away and was walking up the slope towards the road, very fast, head down.

* * *

The apartment on Avenue Victor Hugo was large and airy, high ceilings, tall windows. The furnishings were simple, but striking, the palest of green curtains, soft and restful, a couple of impressionist paintings a vivid splash of colour against white walls.

Montera sat at one end of an enormous green marble bath sunk into the floor and she came in from the kitchen, naked, with two china mugs of tea on a tray. She handed him one, stepped in the other end of the bath and sat down.

'To us,' he said, toasting her.

'To us.'

And for the moment, she was still able to forget the dreadful situation she was in, was able to think only of the present moment and of the fact that they were together.

He leaned back in the warm water and drank a little tea. 'Haven't we done this before somewhere?'

She frowned, running a finger down an ugly half-healed scar six or seven inches long below his right shoulder.

'What happened?'

'Cannon shell splinter. I was lucky that day.'

Once again, she had to simulate ignorance. 'You mean you've been flying? Flying down there in the Falklands?'

'Malvinas.' He grinned. 'Always remember that. But yes, I flew a Skyhawk fighter-bomber named Gabrielle. Featured prominently on television news several times a day.'

'You're joking.'

'Painted right across the nose of my plane beneath the cockpit, I assure you. You've been to San Carlos Water and back many times, my love.'

Suddenly she remembered the incident in the television department at Harrods, the sound of the commentator's voice, the planes coming in low over San Carlos Water, the missile exploding the Skyhawk and the people listening who had clapped.

'Yes,' he went on wryly. 'Who would have thought I'd become a television star at my time of life.'

She was genuinely angry. 'At your age, flying a jet plane in action. I never heard of anything so ridiculous.' She touched his face. 'Was it really that bad, Raul?'

'I have been to hell and back many times now,' he said. 'Seen young boys blown out of the sky around me and for what?' His eyes were haunted, full of pain. 'When I left Rio Gallegos, we'd lost approximately half our pilots. Down the drain, Gabrielle. All down the drain. Such waste.'

She responded to his pain instinctively. 'Tell me about it, Raul. Make me feel it. Get rid of it, my love. Get rid of it.'

She reached for his hands and he gripped them tightly as they sat facing each other. 'Remember that uncle of mine, the bullfighter?'