‘But the English not so much?’
It was there again, that extraordinary perception. He shrugged. ‘They’re all right. I trained with the RAF at Cranwell and they were good – the best. The trouble is that to them we’re all dagos, we South Americans, so if the dago is a good flyer, it’s because they’ve done a good job on him.’
‘That’s shit,’ she said, coldly angry. ‘They don’t owe you a thing. You’re a great pilot. The best.’
‘Am I?’ he said curiously. ‘And how would you know that?’
The rain increased into a solid drenching downpour and he turned and whistled to the car. ‘I’d better get you home.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It would seem appropriate,’ and she took his hand and they ran together towards the car.
The Pissaro on the wall of the sitting room of the flat in Kensington Palace Gardens was beautiful. Montera, standing before it, a brandy in his hand, examined it closely.
Gabrielle came out of the bedroom, brushing her hair. She wore an old bathrobe, a man’s obviously, several sizes too big for her.
Montera said, ‘Do my eyes deceive me or is the Pissaro an original?’
‘My father, I’m afraid, is disgustingly wealthy,’ she said. ‘Electronics, armaments, things like that. His headquarters are in Marseilles and he tends to indulge me.’
He took in the robe and said gravely. ‘It was too much to expect that a girl like you could have reached the ripe old age of twenty-seven without complication. You are married, I think? I was wrong.’
‘Divorced,’ she said.
‘Ah, I see.’
‘And you?’
‘My wife died four years ago. Leukaemia. I was always rather difficult to please so my mother arranged things. She’s like that. She was the daughter of a family friend.’
‘A suitable match for a Montera?’
‘Exactly. I have a ten-year-old daughter named Linda who lives contentedly with her grandmother. I am not a good father. Too impatient.’
‘I can’t believe that.’
And then he was close and she was in his arms and his lips brushed her face. ‘I love you. Don’t ask me how, but it’s true. I’ve never known anyone like you.’
He kissed her and for a moment she responded; then she pushed him away and there was something strangely like fear in her eyes.
‘Please, Raul, no. Not now.’
He took her hands gently and nodded. ‘Of course. I understand. I do, believe me. May I call you in the morning?’
‘Yes, please do.’
He released her, picked up his greatcoat, went to the door and opened it. He turned and smiled, an inimitable, wry smile of such charm that she ran across the room and put her hands on his shoulders.
‘You’re so damned nice to me. I’m not used to that. Not from men. Give me time.’
‘All you need.’ He smiled again. ‘You made me feel so gentle. I amazed myself.’
The door closed softly behind him, she leaned against it, filled with a delight that she had never known in her life before.
Outside, Montera got into the back of the Embassy car, the driver drove away. A moment later Tony Villiers stepped out of a nearby doorway. He lit a cigarette and watched the car go, then turned to look up at the windows of the flat. As he did so, the lights were turned out. He stood there for a moment longer, then walked away.
Brigadier Charles Ferguson was sitting in bed, propped against pillows, working his way through a mass of papers, when the red phone rang, the line that connected him directly with his office at the Directorate-General of the Security Service in the large, anonymous white and red brick building in the West End of London not far from the Hilton Hotel.
‘Ferguson here.’
Harry Fox said, ‘Coded message from the CIA in Washington, sir. They seem to think that the Argentinians will hit the Falklands within the next few days.’
‘Do they indeed? What does the Foreign Office have to say?’
‘They think it’s a load of cobblers, sir.’
‘They would, wouldn’t they? Any word from Gabrielle?’
‘Not yet.’
‘An interesting point, Harry. Raul Montera is one of the few pilots in the Argentine Air Force with genuine combat experience. If they were going to start anything, you’d think they’d recall him.’
‘Even cleverer to leave him in London, sir.’
‘That’s true. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning. If we haven’t heard from Gabrielle by noon I’ll phone her.’
He put down the receiver, picked up a file and went back to work.
When she admitted Montera the following morning, she was fresh from the bath and wearing the same robe. He was wearing jeans and an old black leather flying jacket. He had rung her at eight o’clock, unable to bear the waiting.
‘You said to make it informal,’ he said.
She kissed him on the cheek and fingered the gold crucifix on the chain that hung around his neck. ‘You look gorgeous.’
She had spoken in English and he replied in the same language. ‘Gorgeous? Is this a word to apply to a man?’
‘Gorgeous,’ she insisted. ‘Stop role-playing. I thought we’d go for a walk. Across Kensington Gardens and down to Harrods. I’ve some shopping to do.’
‘Fine by me.’
He lit a cigarette and sat reading the morning paper while she went to dress. There was an account of yesterday’s proceedings in Parliament and questions to the Prime Minister on the Falklands. He read the report with interest, only looking up when Gabrielle stepped back into the room.
She was an astonishing sight in a yellow tee shirt which clearly outlined her breasts, a tight white skirt that ended above the knee and a pair of high heeled cowboy boots. A pair of sunglasses were perched on top of her blonde hair.
‘Shall we go?’ she said.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, stood up and opened the door for her. He smiled. ‘You are a woman of surprises. Did anyone ever tell you that?’
‘Often,’ she said, and moved past him.
The crowd in Kensington Gardens was
