her savagely, all his anger and frustration pouring out of him. ‘All I’ve got time for. Isn’t life hell?’
He turned and was gone. The lift doors clanged again. She stood there, frozen, then ran into the bedroom and started to dress.
At Heathrow, Montera was just about to go through into the international departure lounge when she called his name, high and clear. As he turned, she came running through the crowd in a yellow cotton jumpsuit, hair tousled, face pale.
She ran into his arms. He held for a moment, then pushed her away. ‘You look wonderful.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘My hair’s a mess, no make-up and wearing the first thing that came to hand.’
‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Did I find time to tell you that I’ve now discovered what joy is? Thank you for that.’
‘Raul, I love you. I love you so much.’
He smiled. ‘We have a saying. Love is a gift that must be returned fourfold. What a burden you place on me. What a wonderful burden.’
Above their heads the tannoy called his name.
‘Will you write?’ she demanded.
‘It may be difficult. Don’t worry, even if there is a gap for a while. There are good reasons. I’ll be back, I swear it. That’s all that matters.’
She moved with him to the gate, hanging on. He turned for the last time. ‘I’ll make a bargain with you. No more partings ever again. No more saying goodbye. This is the last time. The only time.’
And then he was gone and she turned her face into a pillar and wept. After a while, she crossed to the telephones and dialled Ferguson’s number, reversing the charge.
‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘Just left for Paris to make a connection with Buenos Aires.’
‘Rather sudden,’ Ferguson said. ‘Did he explain?’
‘No.’
‘You sound upset, Gabrielle.’
She told him what to do then, in French of the kind definitely not taught in any finishing school, sharp, succinct and to the point, slammed down the receiver and walked away.
When she opened the door of the flat and went in, Villiers appeared from the bedroom.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said. ‘My leave’s been cancelled and they want me back at Hereford. I needed a few things.’
He went back into the bedroom and returned to packing the bag which was open on the bed. She followed him through, her rage and frustration focusing on him.
‘A few more throats need cutting somewhere, is that it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘How was Belfast this time?’
‘Pretty awful.’
‘Good – you deserve each other.’
He closed the case and said calmly, ‘I used to think that had a special significance where we were concerned.’
‘No, Tony,’ she said. ‘Whatever else I may have deserved in this life, I didn’t deserve you.’
‘What did I do?’ he said. ‘What terrible thing did I do that you should hate me so, because you do, you know.’
‘I married a stranger,’ she said. ‘Oh, you looked wonderful in uniform, Tony, and then it started. Every rotten little war that came along, you had to volunteer. Borneo, the Oman, Ireland. Even Vietnam, for Christ’s sake. God, what I could say about that and you and your precious SAS if it wasn’t for the Official Secrets Act.’
His face was bleak. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘You’re good at one thing, Tony. One thing only are you truly good at. Killing people.’
He pointed at the bed, the pillows still crumpled from where she had lain with Raul Montera, and picked up the white skirt and yellow tee shirt which still lay on the floor where she had dropped them.
‘I’ve heard of the line of duty, Gabrielle, but this does really seem to be taking it too far.’
Her face crumpled like a little girl’s, she slumped down on the bed. ‘I love him so much, Tony. I never knew love could be like this. And he’s gone. He’s gone.’
He picked up his bag and stood there, feeling helpless, conscious of the desolation in her voice. He tried to speak, but there was nothing he could say. He turned and went out, leaving her to her grief.
Ferguson, still at his desk, stretched wearily. Paper and yet more paper. It never seemed to stop. He got up and went to the window and peered out into the square. Behind him, the door opened from the office and Harry Fox rushed in.
‘Signal just in, sir. Units of the Argentine fleet have detached themselves from manoeuvres and are proceeding towards the Falkland Islands.’ He handed the signal sheet to Ferguson. ‘What do you think it means, sir?’
‘Well, I never thought to have to say this again in my lifetime, Harry, but believe it or not, I think it means war.’
A cold wind lifted across the Seine and dashed rain against the windows of the all-night café by the bridge. It was a poor sort of place, usually much frequented by prostitutes, but not on such a night or rather, morning, for it was almost five a.m.
The barman leaned on the zinc-topped counter reading a newspaper and Nikolai Belov sat at a table in the corner drinking coffee, the only customer.
Belov was in his early fifties and for twelve of them had been Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Paris. His dark suit was of English cut, as was the dark blue overcoat which fitted him to perfection. He was a handsome, rather fleshy man with a mane of silver hair which made him look more like a distinguished actor than what he was, a colonel in the KGB.
The coffee was good and he said to the barman, ‘I’ll have another and a Cognac. Is that the early edition you have there?’
The barman nodded. ‘Hot off the press at four o’clock. Have a look if you like. The news is all bad for the British down there in the Falklands.’
Belov sipped his Cognac and read the front page. Argentine Skyhawks had continued to bomb the British task force at San Carlos and Falkland Sound.
‘Mind you, this Exocet missile is the thing,’ the barman said. ‘What a weapon, and all French. You fire it from forty miles away, it drops to the surface and skims the waves at ten feet, just under the speed of sound. There was an article about it in Paris Match yesterday. The damn thing can’t miss.’
Which wasn’t quite true, but Belov wasn’t prepared to argue. ‘A triumph for French technology!’ He raised his glass and the barman toasted him back.
The door opened in a flurry of wind and rain and a man entered. He was small, dark-haired with thin features and a moustache. His raincoat was wet and he carried an umbrella which he was experiencing difficulty in closing. His name was Juan Garcia and he was a First Secretary in the Commercial Department of the Argentine Embassy in Paris. In reality, he was a major in military intelligence.
‘Nikolai.’ He spoke in good French and held out his hand with genuine warmth. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘And you,’ Belov said. ‘Try the coffee. It’s excellent and the Cognac will clear your pipes.’
He nodded to the barman and lit a cigarette, waiting for Garcia to take off his wet coat. The barman brought the coffee and Cognac and departed to the back kitchen.
‘You said it was urgent,’ Belov said. ‘I certainly hope so. This is an appalling time in the morning