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 to be about.’
‘It is urgent,’ Garcia said. ‘Of the utmost importance to my country. You’ve seen the morning paper?’
‘Indeed I have. You seem to be giving our British friends a hard time. Another frigate blown up, a destroyer damaged. The toll is mounting.’
‘Unfortunately there is another side to all this,’ Garcia said. ‘So far, around half our Skyhawk fighter bombers are not making it back to base. A quite unacceptable loss rate.’
‘To put it frankly, you’ll be running out of pilots before you know where you are. On the other hand, the British fleet does have to sit it out as best it can in Falkland Sound and San Carlos Water and you still have the Exocet. The attack on the Sheffield speaks for itself.’
‘But we don’t have enough,’ Garcia said. ‘Two were launched against Sheffield, one missed altogether. There have been other attacks where they’ve been launched unsuccessfully. It takes time to get used to such a weapon. We think we’ve got it together now. We’ve had the right kind of assistance.’
‘From French experts?’
‘President Mitterand would deny it, but yes, we have had French help with the missile launchers and control systems. And we have, of course, a squadron of Super Etendard bombers which are essential to the whole task. I’m no technician but apparently their radar system is compatible with the Exocet, which can’t be used with a Mirage, for example.’
There was something he was holding back. Belov said gently, ‘Better tell me, Juan.’
Garcia stirred his coffee, obviously under considerable stress. ‘A few days ago a unit of the British Special Air Service made a commando attack on our base at Rio Gallegos. They managed to destroy six Super Etendards.’
Belov, who had known of the incident to the smallest detail for some days, nodded sympathetically. ‘That must really reduce your capability.’
‘Of course, we have dispersed the other Etendards to secret locations. And we still have enough to do the job.’
‘Which is?’
‘The British have two aircraft carriers, Hermes and Invincible. Sink either one and the effect on their air cover would be dramatic. They would be forced to withdraw the fleet.’
‘And you think this can be done?’
‘Our experts say, only a question of time, but we need more Exocets.’ He hammered his fist on the table.
‘Which the French, under pressure from the European Community, won’t give you.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I heard the Libyans were going to help.’
‘You know what Qadhafi is like. A hell of a lot of talk. Oh, he might do something eventually, but by then it will be too late.’
There was silence. Belov lit an American cigarette. ‘So what do you want from me, my friend?’ he asked gently.
‘Your government has helped us already. Discreetly, it is true. Satellite information and so on; all very useful. We know you’re on our side in this.’
‘No, Juan,’ Belov said. ‘On this one, we don’t take sides.’
Garcia was exasperated and showed it. ‘For God’s sake, you want to see the British defeated, don’t pretend. It will suit your purposes very well; the psychological effect of such a defeat on the Atlantic Alliance would be disastrous.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘Exocets. I have the money to pay. Ample funds in Geneva in gold or any currency you like. All I want from you is the name, a contact. Don’t tell me you can’t do something.’
Nikolai Belov sat looking at him for a moment, then glanced at his watch. ‘All right, leave it with me. I’ll be in touch later this morning. Not at the Embassy. Be at your flat.’
‘You mean you’ve got somebody?’
‘Perhaps. Go now. I’ll follow later.’
Garcia departed. The door closed behind him. A small wind drifted round the room, lifting a paper on the floor in the corner. Belov shivered, looking around him at the squalor with distaste and stood up.
The barman came in from the kitchen. ‘Anything else, Monsieur?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Belov dropped a note on the counter and buttoned his coat. ‘I wonder if God really knew what he was doing when he made mornings like these?’
He opened the door and departed.
Belov lived in an apartment on the top floor of a luxury building of some distinction on the Boulevard St Germain. He went straight there from his assignation with Garcia. He was tired and cold and the prospect of Irana Vronsky waiting for him filled him with conscious pleasure. She was a handsome, full-bodied woman of thirty-five and undeniably attractive. She had been Belov’s secretary for ten years or more and he had seduced her within a month of her taking up the appointment. She was totally devoted to him.
When she opened the door to him, she was wearing a superb black silk dressing gown which gaped as she moved forward, revealing black stockings and the hint of a garter belt.
Belov took her in his arms. ‘You smell wonderful.’
There was concern on her face. ‘Nikolai, you’re frozen. Let me get you some coffee. What was it all about?’
‘First the coffee,’ he said. ‘We go to bed and you warm me up. Then, I tell you what Garcia wanted and you can put that fine commonsense of yours to work.’
Later, lying sideways in bed, watching him smoke a cigarette, she said, ‘Why bother, Nikolai? They’re a bunch of fascists down there in the Argentine.
