Exocet - Jack Higgins [43]
* * *
Raul Montera slept surprisingly well that night, the strain and fatigue of the past few weeks catching up on him. The result was that he didn't rise until ten o'clock. For years he had been in the habit of running regularly, each morning. The only time he'd had to deviate from his usual practice was during his flying operations out of Rio Gallegos.
He said good morning to Gabrielle, a ritual now, and went to the window. When he drew the curtain and looked out, it was raining hard, the Bois de Boulogne shrouded in mist. He felt suddenly exhilarated. He'd been so tired on the previous evening that he hadn't unpacked his holdall. He did so now, pulled on his old black track suit and some running shoes, had a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator and let himself out.
He liked the rain; it gave him a safe, enclosed feeling, rather like being in a world of one's own. He ran through the park, thoroughly soaked and enjoying every minute of it. And he wasn't the only one. There were a number of fellow rain-lovers about, some like him, running, others walking the dog, even the odd horseback rider.
George Corwin, hidden in the back of a parked milk van on the Avenue de Neuilly, watched Montera running fast from the direction of the lake. He came to a halt only a few yards away and stood breathing heavily. Corwin took several pictures of him with a special camera through a tiny hole in the side of the van.
As Montera crossed the road, a black Mercedes pulled in at the kerb outside the apartment block. Garcia got out, followed by Donner, then Belov.
'Would you look at that now?' Corwin said softly. 'Dear old Nikolai himself,' and the camera whirred again several times before the three men turned and went into the building.
Stavrou got out of the car to make some sort of adjustment to the windscreen wipers and Corwin snapped him too, for good measure.
'Nasty looking bit of work,' he murmured.
Stavrou got back in the car and Corwin made himself comfortable, lit a cigarette and waited.
* * *
Raul Montera didn't care for Donner one little bit. There was something about the man, something inimical, that offended him. Belov, he quite liked. A reasonable enough man, working for his own side, which was fair enough although Montera had never had any great liking for the communist cause.
He brought a tray in from the kitchen and set it down. 'Coffee, gentlemen?'
'Aren't you going to join us, colonel?' Donner asked.
'I never touch the stuff. Bad for the nerves.' Montera went into the kitchen again and returned with a china mug in one hand. 'Tea.'
Dormer laughed and there was an edge to it that indicated the dislike was mutual. 'Rather unusual for a South American, I would have thought.'
'Oh, it's surprising what we dagoes get up to on occasions,' Montera told him. 'The British navy would have a useful opinion on that.'
Belov said smoothly. 'I agree with you, colonel. A very civilized habit, tea drinking. We Russians have existed on the stuff for years.'
Garcia said, 'Perhaps we can get down to business. Maybe Senor Dormer is now prepared to give us more detail about the operation.'
'Of course,' Donner said. 'I was only waiting for Colonel Montera's arrival. The whole thing, with any kind of luck, should be wrapped up within the next couple of days, which is good, because according to the newspapers this morning, the British troops at San Carlos are getting ready to move out.'
Montera lit a cigarette. 'All right, so what exactly have you arranged?'
Donner had always found that a basis of fact made a phoney story sound better.
'As you know, the Libyans have a plentiful supply of Exocets, but due to pressure from the rest of the Arab world, Colonel Qadhafi has not been able to release them to the Argentine as he first intended - or perhaps I should say, not officially. There's