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He poured tea from a Thermos flask into plastic cups and handed Ferguson one. ‘I wonder how he’s getting on?’
‘Our Tony? Oh, with his usual appallingly ruthless efficiency. Never lets anything get in his way, you see. Comes of having been head of his house at Eton.’
‘Nevertheless, sir, if he’s caught, it will raise one hell of a stink and it won’t do the SAS image much good either.’
‘You worry too much, Harry,’ Ferguson said. ‘Comes of having picked up the wrong briefcase over there. Things could be worse.’ He nodded across the square to a yellow Telecom truck parked beside an open manhole, canvas screen around it. Two men in yellow oilskins worked in the rain. ‘Just look at those two poor sods. What a way to earn your crust. Down a hole at this ungodly hour in the morning in the pouring rain.’
A dark Ford Granada saloon passed them, one man at the wheel, another at the rear. It pulled in at the kerb and a bulky man in a dark raincoat and trilby hat came towards them, opened the rear door and got in.
‘Ah, Superintendent,’ Ferguson said. ‘Harry, this is Detective Chief Superintendent Carver of Special Branch, delegated by the powers-that-be at Scotland Yard to be official observer this morning. You should beware, Superintendent.’ Ferguson filled another plastic cup with tea and offered it to him. ‘In the old days, messengers who brought bad news were usually executed.’
‘Balls,’ Carver said amiably. ‘He doesn’t stand a chance, your man, and you know it. How did he intend to try and get in anyway?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I never query methods, Superintendent, only results.’
‘Just a minute, sir,’ Fox said. ‘I think we’ve got company.’
The two telephone engineers who had been working in the manhole at the far side of the square had got out and were walking towards them, oilskins streaming with rain. Fox opened the glove compartment and took out a Walther PPK.
Ferguson said, ‘How enterprising of them,’ and wound down the window. ‘Good morning, Tony. Morning, Sergeant Major.’
‘Sir,’ Jackson said, bringing his heels together automatically.
Villiers leaned down and passed in the Polaroid photo of the Queen. ‘Anything else, sir?’ he asked.
Ferguson examined the photo without a word, then passed it to the Superintendent. Carver sat up straight. ‘Good God!’
Ferguson took the photo from him, produced a lighter and touched it to the edge. He passed it to Villiers. ‘Wouldn’t do to have that floating around. Better tell us the worst.’
Villiers held the photo as it burned. ‘The alarm beam directly inside the grounds is positioned only two feet from the wall. No problem in jumping over that. At the Palace itself, the alarm system is in some cases old-fashioned or faulty. And to get in, you don’t need to be a cat burglar.’ He passed over the photo taken the previous day. ‘Workmen leave ladders, housemaids leave windows open – it’s a farce.’
Carver studied the photo glumly. Villiers said, ‘We’ll take a walk. Leave you to it, sir.’
He and Jackson walked to the nearest lamp and lit cigarettes. Carver said, ‘Who is he, for Christ’s sake? He talks like the Cavalry Club and looks like some East End hood.’
‘Actually he’s a major in the Grenadier Guards attached to the SAS,’ Ferguson said.
‘With that hair? I mean, look at it.’
‘Special dispensation in the SAS, going without haircuts. Personal camouflage is very important, Superintendent, if you’re trying to pass yourself off as some back street yobbo on the Belfast docks.’
‘And he’s reliable?’
‘Oh, yes. Decorated twice. Military Cross for action against Marxist guerrillas in the Oman and another for some nonsense or other in Ireland, details not for release.’
Carver held up the photo. ‘This is bad. There will be hell to pay.’
‘We’ll send you a full report.’
‘I bet you will.’
Carver got out of the car and Villiers turned and came towards him, his face pale in the street light.
‘One thing I didn’t mention, Superintendent. Your man on prowler guard at the Grosvenor Place end of the Palace Gardens. I had to belt him. You’ll find him under a tree by the pond in his own handcuffs. He’s okay, I checked him out on the way back. Tell him I’m sorry about the dog.’
‘You bastard!’ Carver said.
He hurried along to the Granada, the door slammed, it drove away.
Ferguson said, ‘Get in, Tony. I presume you can be relied upon to get rid of that truck, Sergeant Major? I won’t enquire where it came from.’
‘Sir.’ Jackson clicked his heels and moved off across the square.
Villiers got into the Bentley beside Ferguson and Fox drove away. Ferguson said, ‘You’ve another week of your leave to go?’
‘Officially.’
Ferguson wound down the window and peered out as they rounded the Queen Victoria Memorial at the front of the Palace and went down the Mall.
‘Have you seen Gabrielle lately?’
Villiers said calmly, ‘No.’
‘Is she still at the flat in Kensington Palace Gardens?’
‘Some of the time. That one belongs to me. She uses it by arrangement. She has her place in Paris, of course.’
‘I was sorry to hear about the divorce.’
‘Don’t be,’ Villiers said flatly. ‘The best thing that ever happened to either of us.’
‘You really mean that?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Ferguson shivered and pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck, and yet he lowered the window even more so that the cold morning air rushed in.
‘Sometimes I wonder what life’s all about.’
‘Well, don’t ask me,’ Villiers told him. ‘I’m only passing through.’
He folded his arms, leaned back in the corner, closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
2 (#u82387d45-973a-55a6-bf5a-a7dfa0edc890)
Brigadier Charles Ferguson preferred to work when possible from his Cavendish Square flat. It was his especial joy. The Adam fireplace was real and so was the fire which burned there. The rest was Georgian also. Everything matched to perfection, including the curtains. He was sitting by the fire at ten o’clock in the morning after Villiers’ exploit at the Palace, reading the Financial Times, when the door opened and his manservant, Kim, an ex-Gurkha naik, appeared.
‘Mademoiselle Legrand, sir.’
Ferguson removed his half-moon reading glasses, put them down with the paper and stood up. ‘Show her in, Kim, and tea for three, please.’
Kim departed and a moment later, Gabrielle Legrand entered the room.
She was, as always, Ferguson told himself, the most strikingly beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. She was dressed for riding in boots, faded jodhpurs, white shirt and an old green jacket in Donegal tweed. The blonde hair was held back from the forehead by a scarlet band and rolled up into a bun at the nape of the neck. She regarded him gravely, the wide green eyes giving nothing away, the riding crop she carried in her left hand tapping her knee. She was not small, almost five foot eight in her boots. Ferguson went towards her with a smile of conscious pleasure, hands outstretched.
‘My lovely Gabrielle.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘No longer Mrs Villiers, I see?’
‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m me again.’
Her voice was English upper class, but with its own timbre that gave it a unique quality. She dropped her crop on the table, went to the window and peered down into the square.
‘Have you seen Tony lately?’
‘I should have thought you would have,’ Ferguson said. ‘He’s in town. Spot of leave, as I understand it. Hasn’t he called at the flat?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t do that, not while I’m there.’
She stayed at the window and Ferguson said gently, ‘What went wrong between you two, my love?’
‘Everything,’ she said, ‘and nothing. We thought we were in love one long hot summer five years ago. I was beautiful, he was the best-looking thing in a uniform I ever saw.’
‘And then?’
‘We didn’t gel – it never did. The chemistry was all wrong.’ The voice was flat calm and yet he sensed distress there. ‘I cared for Tony, still do, but I got angry with him too easily and I never knew why.’ She shrugged again. ‘Too many spaces we could never fill.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ferguson said.
The door opened and Kim entered with a silver tray which he placed by the fire. ‘Ah, tea,’ Ferguson said. ‘Get Captain Fox from the office, Kim.’
The Gurkha went out and Gabrielle sat down by the fire. Ferguson sat opposite and poured tea into a china cup for her.
She drank a little and smiled. ‘Excellent. The English half of me approves.’
‘Filthy stuff, coffee,’ he told her.
He offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. ‘No thanks, I’d prefer to get down to business. I have a luncheon appointment. What do you want?’
At that moment the door opened and Harry Fox came in. He wore a Guards tie and light grey flannel suit, and carried a file which he placed on the desk.
‘Gabrielle, how nice.’ He was genuinely pleased and leaned down to kiss her cheek.
‘Harry.’ She patted his face affectionately. ‘What’s this boss of yours up to now?’
Fox took the cup of tea Ferguson offered and looked at him enquiringly. Ferguson nodded and the young Captain stood by the fire and carried on.
‘What do you know about the Falkland Islands, Gabrielle?’
‘In the South Atlantic,’ she said. ‘About four hundred miles off the Argentine coast. The Argentine government has been claiming them for years.’
‘That’s right. British Sovereign territory, of course, but a lousy place to defend eight thousand miles away.’
‘As a matter of interest,’ Ferguson said, ‘we have sixty-eight Royal Marines in the islands at the moment, backed up by the local defence force and one ship of the Royal Navy. HMS Endurance, an ice patrol vessel, armed with two 20 mm guns and a couple of Wasp helicopters. Our masters in Parliament have been making it clear in public debate that they intend to scrap her to save money.’
‘And just four hundred miles away is a superbly equipped airforce, a large army and navy,’ Fox said.
Gabrielle shrugged. ‘So what? You’re not seriously suggesting that the Argentine Government would invade?’
‘I’m afraid that’s exactly what we are suggesting,’ Ferguson said. ‘All the signs have pointed that way since January and the CIA certainly think it’s on the cards. It makes a lot of sense. The country is run by a three-man junta. The President, General Galtieri, who is also Commander-in-Chief of the Army, has a commitment to economic recovery. Unfortunately, the country is almost bankrupt.’
Fox said, ‘An invasion of the Falklands would prove a very welcome diversion. Take the people’s minds off other things.’
‘Just like the Romans,’ Ferguson said. ‘Bread and circuses. Keep the mob happy. Another cup?’
He poured Gabrielle more tea. She said, ‘I still don’t see where I come into this.’
‘Very simple really.’
Ferguson nodded to Fox, who opened the file on the desk and took out an ornate invitation card which he passed to her. In English and Spanish, His Excellency Carlos Ortiz de Rozas, Argentine Ambassador to the Court of St James, invited Mademoiselle Gabrielle Simone Legrand to a cocktail party and buffet, seven-thirty for eight at the Argentine Embassy in Wilton Crescent.
‘Just off Belgrave Square,’ Fox said helpfully.
‘This evening?’ she said. ‘Impossible. I’m going to the theatre.’
‘This one’s important, Gabrielle.’ Ferguson nodded and Fox got the file, opened it and took out a black and white photo which he put on the table in front of her.
Gabrielle picked it up. The man who stared out at her wore a military flying suit of the kind used by jet pilots. He carried a flying helmet in his right hand and there was a scarf at his throat. He was not young, at least forty, and like most pilots he was not particularly tall. He had dark wavy hair, greying a little at the temples, calm eyes and there was a scar on his right cheek, running up into the eye.
‘Colonel Raul Carlos Montera,’ Fox said. ‘Special Air Attaché at the Embassy at the present time.’
Gabrielle stared down at the photo. It was like looking at an old friend, someone she knew well, and yet she had never seen this manbefore in her life.
‘Tell me about him.’
‘Age forty-five,’ Fox said. ‘An aristocrat. His mother, Donna Elena, is very much a leader of society in Buenos Aires. His father died last year. Family owns God knows how much land and all the cows in the world. Very rich.’
‘And he’s a pilot?’
‘Oh, yes, of the obsessional kind. Soloed at sixteen. He did a languages degree at Harvard, then joined the Argentine airforce. Trained with the RAF at Cranwell. Has also trained with the South Africans and Israelis.’
‘Important point,’ Ferguson said, moving to the window. ‘Not your usual South American fascist. In 1967 he resigned his commission. Flew Dakotas for the Biafrans during the Nigerian civil war. Night flights from Fernando Po to Port Harcourt. Rather a bad scene.’
‘Then he joined up with a Swedish aristocrat, Count Carl Gustaf von Rosen. The Biafrans bought five Swedish training planes called Minicons. Had them fixed up with machine guns and so on. Montera was one of those crazy enough to fly them against Russian MIG fighters flown by Egyptian and East German pilots.’ Fox passed her another photo. ‘Taken in Port Harcourt, just before the end of the war.’
He wore an old World War Two leather flying jacket, his hair was tousled, the eyes shadowed, the face drawn with fatigue. The scar on the cheek looked raised and angry as if fresh. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, this man she didn’t even know. When she put the photo down, her hand shook slightly.
‘What exactly am I supposed to do?’
‘He’ll be there tonight,’ Ferguson said. ‘Let’s face it, Gabrielle, few men can resist you at the best of times, but when you take special pains …’
