Exocet

* * *

Montera had brought only one reasonably formal suit with him and wore it now, single-breasted, dark blue mohair with a plain white shirt and black tie.

'You look extremely elegant,' she said as they sat together in the back of the cab.

'I pale into insignificance beside you.'

She was wearing that spectacular silver mini-dress that she'd worn at their first meeting at the Argentine Embassy in London, the sunburst hair brushed out in La Coupe Sauvage.

'The last time we were out together you introduced me to the romance of the Embankment at midnight. What have you in store for me tonight, I wonder?'

Gabrielle smiled and took his hand. 'Nothing very much,' she said. 'Just me.'

* * *

Donner was watching the latest news about the Falklands on television when Belov phoned again.

'They've gone out on the town,' the Russian said. 'A Brazilian restaurant in Montmartre called Paco's.'

'Sounds interesting,' Donner said. 'Is the food any good?'

'Fair, but the music is excellent. The young woman, by the way, is the daughter of an extremely wealthy industrialist named Maurice Legrand.'

'What's his line?'

'Just about everything. Operates out of Marseilles. If he went bust, so would the Bank of France.'

'Even more interesting,' Donner said. 'All right, leave it with me.' He put down the phone and turned to Wanda who was reading a magazine by the fire. 'Okay, put your glad rags on. We're going dancing.'

* * *

Belov sat beside the phone at his flat for some time after speaking to Donner, a frown on his face. Irana Vronsky brought coffee in from the kitchen on a tray and set it down.

'Something wrong?'

'I don't know. It's this Legrand girl. Something about it doesn't fit.'

'What exactly?' she asked as she poured coffee.

'I don't know,' he said in considerable irritation. 'That's the trouble.'

'Then ease your mind in the obvious way,' she said as she handed him the coffee. 'Run a scale one check on her.'

'An excellent idea. Get started on it first thing in the morning when you go into the office.' He sipped some coffee and made a face. 'Montera was right. Filthy stuff. Is there any chance of a cup of tea?'

12

Paco's was a great success, full of character and life, tables crowded together and the five piece band sensational. They had a booth to themselves from which they could watch the action. She had a whisky sour and he ordered Perrier Water with lime.

She said, 'You're still not drinking?'

'I have to stay fit; keep on top of things. Middle-aged man, younger woman. You know how it is?'

'Keep taking the pills,' she said. 'You're doing all right. Of course, I'm only after your money,'

'No,' he said. 'You've got it wrong. At the present rate of inflation in the Argentine, I'm after your money. Even the Monteras may feel the pinch when this war is over.'

But the mention of war brought reality back to her and that would not do at all. She took his hand. 'Come on, let's dance,' she said and pulled him to his feet.

The band was plaing a bossanova and Montera led her perfectly, dancing extremely well.

As the music finished, Gabrielle said, 'That was good. You should have been a gigolo.'

'Exactly what my mother used to say. A gentleman shouldn't dance too well.' He grinned. 'I always adored it. I haunted all the tango bars when I was a boy. The tango, of course, is the only real dance for an Argentinian. It mirrors everything. Political struggles, depressions, life, love, death. You do dance the tango?'

'I've been known to.'

He turned to the bandleader and said in Portuguese, 'Heh, compadre, what about a real tango? Something to move the heart like Cambalache.'

'Which means the senor is an Argentinian,' the bandleader said. 'I thought I recognised the accent. A long way from home, especially now, so this is for you and the lady.'

He went to the back of the stage and returned with an instrument slightly longer than a concertina. 'Ah,' Montera said in delight. 'We're going to get the real thing. That, my love, is what we call a bandoneon.'

'Sounds good,' Gabrielle commented.

'Wait and see.'

The bandleader started to play, accompanied only by piano and violin, and the music touched something deep inside her for it spoke of the infinite sadness, the longing of love, that knowledge that all that makes life worth living is in the hands of another, to give or withhold.

They danced as one person, together in a way she would never have thought possible. No domination from him, no leading. He danced superbly, but also with the most enormous tenderness. And when he smiled, his love was plain, an honest gift, making no demands on her.

It was a performance that fascinated many people, not least Felix Donner, who was sitting at the bar with Wanda.

'Dear God in heaven,' he said. 'What a creature. I've never seen anything like her.'

Wanda knew panic then, as she had never known it before, at the look on his face and in his eye.

'Anybody can look good in a dress like that.'

'Fuck the dress,' Donner said simply. 'She'd look good in anything — or nothing.'

As the music faded, several people applauded, but Montera and Gabrielle stayed together for a moment, oblivious.

'You really do love me very much,' she said softly, a wonder in her voice.

'I have no choice,' he said. 'You asked me why I fly. I told you it's what I am. Ask me why I love you. I can only give the same answer. It's what I am.'

The feeling of certainty, of serenity that flooded through her, was incredible. She took his hand. 'Let's sit down.'

At the table, he ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. 'Yes, tango is a way of life in Buenos Aires. I'll take you to San Telmo, the old quarter. The best tango bars in the world. We'll go to El Viejo Almacen. They'll turn you into an expert there in one night.'

'When?' he said. 'When does all this happen?'

'Well, I'll be damned,' Donner said. 'Senor Montera. What a pleasant surprise.'

He stood there looking down at them, Wanda at his side, and reluctantly Montera got to his feet.

* * *

It was raining when Paul Bernard alighted from the cab on the corner of the street beside the Seine and paid off the driver. It was an area of offices and tall warehouses, busy during the day, but deserted by night. He moved along the pavement, searching for the address Garcia had left for him in the phone message he'd received in his office at the Sorbonne earlier that evening.

He found what he was looking for, a sign over a warehouse that said Lebel & Company, Importers. He tried the small judas gate in the main entrance. It opened to his touch. He slipped through. The warehouse inside was in darkness but there was a light on in the glass-walled office high above.

'Garcia?' he called. 'Are you there?'

He saw a shadow behind the frosted glass of the office, the door opened, a voice said, 'Up here.'

He mounted the rickety wooden steps cheerfully. 'I haven't got much time. One of my post-graduate students, a girl of rather interesting proportions, has asked me round to have supper and check her thesis over with her. With any luck it should take me till morning.'

He went in through the door and found Tony Villiers sitting at the desk in front of him.

'Who are you?' Bernard demanded. 'Where's Garcia?'

'He couldn't make it.'

The door closed behind Bernard and he turned to find Harvey Jackson there. For the first time, he knew a certain fear.

'What's going on here?'

Jackson grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him into a chair. 'Sit down and speak when you're spoken to.'