Confessional - Jack Higgins [56]
Beyond, on the outer edge of the marina, L'Alouette was moving out of the harbour. 'They're leaving,' Tanya said.
'Poor sods,' Martin told her. 'Their next posting will probably be the Gulag after this.' He handed her into the Peugeot and smiled cheerfully as he got behind the wheel. 'Now let's get you up to the airport, shall we?'
At Heathrow Airport's Terminal One, Harry Fox sat in the security office, drank a cup of tea and enjoyed a cigarette with the duty sergeant. The phone rang, the sergeant answered, then passed it across.
'Harry?' Ferguson said.
'Sir.'
'She made it. She's on the plane. Just left Jersey.'
'No problems, sir?'
'Not if you exclude a couple of GRU bogeymen snatching her and Martin off the Albert Quay.'
Fox said, 'What happened?'
'He managed, that's what happened. We'll have to use that young man again. You did say he was Guards?'
'Yes, sir. Welsh.'
'Thought so. One can always tell,' Ferguson said cheerfully and rang off.
'No, Madame, nothing to pay,' the steward said to Tanya as the one-eleven climbed into the sky away from Jersey. 'The bar is free. What would you like? Vodka and tonic, gin and orange? Or we have champagne.'
Free champagne. Tanya nodded and took the frosted glass he offered her. To a new life, she thought and then she said softly, 'To you, Alexander Martin,' and emptied the glass in a long swallow.
Luckily, the housekeeper had the day off. Alex Martin disposed of his shirt, pushing it to the bottom of the garbage in one of the bins, then went to the bathroom and cleaned his arm. It really needed stitching, but to go to the hospital would have meant questions and that would never do. He pulled the edges of the cut together with neat butterflies of tape, an old soldier's trick, and bandaged it. He put on a bathrobe, poured himself a large Scotch and went into the sitting room. As he sat down, the phone rang.
His wife said, 'Darling, I phoned the office and they said you were taking the day off. Is anything wrong? You haven't been overdoing it again, have you?'
She knew nothing of the work he'd done for Ferguson in the past. No need to alarm her now. He smiled ruefully, noting the slash in the sleeve of the Yves St Laurent jacket on the chair next to him.
'Certainly not,' he said. 'You know me? Anything for a quiet life. I'm working at home today, that's all. Now tell me - how are the children?'
9
AT CAVENDISH SQUARE, Ferguson was seated at the desk holding the telephone, face grave when Harry Fox came in from the study with a telex message. Ferguson made a quick gesture with one hand, then said, 'Thank you, Minister,' and replaced the receiver.
'Trouble, sir?' Fox asked.
'As far as I'm concerned it is. The Foreign Office have just informed me that the Pope's visit is definitely on. The Vatican will make an announcement within the next few hours. What have you got?'
'Telex, sir. Information on the Task Force's progress. The bad news is that HMS Antelope has finally sunk. She was bombed by Skyhawks yesterday. The good news is that seven Argentinian jets have been brought down.'
'I'd be happier about that if I saw the wreckage, Harry. Probably half that figure in actuality. Battle of Britain all over again.'
'Perhaps, sir. Everybody claims a hit in the heat of the moment. It can be confusing.'
Ferguson stood up and lit one of his cheroots. 'I don't know, sometimes the bloody roof just seems to fall in. I've got the Pope coming, which we could well have done without. Cuchulain still on the loose over there, and now this nonsense about the Argentinians trying to buy Exocet missiles on the black market in Paris. Orders have gone through to pull Tony Villiers from behind enemy lines in the Falklands?'
'No problem, sir. He's being off-loaded by submarine in Uruguay. Flying from Montevideo by Air France direct to Paris. Should be there tomorrow.'
'Good. You'll have to go over on the shuttle. Brief him thoroughly, then get straight back here.'
'Will that be enough, sir?'
'Good God, yes. You know what Tony's like when he gets moving. Hell on