Exocet - Jack Higgins [51]
Gabrielle smiled and took his hand. 'Nothing very much,' she said. 'Just me.'
* * *
Donner was watching the latest news about the Falklands on television when Belov phoned again.
'They've gone out on the town,' the Russian said. 'A Brazilian restaurant in Montmartre called Paco's.'
'Sounds interesting,' Donner said. 'Is the food any good?'
'Fair, but the music is excellent. The young woman, by the way, is the daughter of an extremely wealthy industrialist named Maurice Legrand.'
'What's his line?'
'Just about everything. Operates out of Marseilles. If he went bust, so would the Bank of France.'
'Even more interesting,' Donner said. 'All right, leave it with me.' He put down the phone and turned to Wanda who was reading a magazine by the fire. 'Okay, put your glad rags on. We're going dancing.'
* * *
Belov sat beside the phone at his flat for some time after speaking to Donner, a frown on his face. Irana Vronsky brought coffee in from the kitchen on a tray and set it down.
'Something wrong?'
'I don't know. It's this Legrand girl. Something about it doesn't fit.'
'What exactly?' she asked as she poured coffee.
'I don't know,' he said in considerable irritation. 'That's the trouble.'
'Then ease your mind in the obvious way,' she said as she handed him the coffee. 'Run a scale one check on her.'
'An excellent idea. Get started on it first thing in the morning when you go into the office.' He sipped some coffee and made a face. 'Montera was right. Filthy stuff. Is there any chance of a cup of tea?'
12
Paco's was a great success, full of character and life, tables crowded together and the five piece band sensational. They had a booth to themselves from which they could watch the action. She had a whisky sour and he ordered Perrier Water with lime.
She said, 'You're still not drinking?'
'I have to stay fit; keep on top of things. Middle-aged man, younger woman. You know how it is?'
'Keep taking the pills,' she said. 'You're doing all right. Of course, I'm only after your money,'
'No,' he said. 'You've got it wrong. At the present rate of inflation in the Argentine, I'm after your money. Even the Monteras may feel the pinch when this war is over.'
But the mention of war brought reality back to her and that would not do at all. She took his hand. 'Come on, let's dance,' she said and pulled him to his feet.
The band was plaing a bossanova and Montera led her perfectly, dancing extremely well.
As the music finished, Gabrielle said, 'That was good. You should have been a gigolo.'
'Exactly what my mother used to say. A gentleman shouldn't dance too well.' He grinned. 'I always adored it. I haunted all the tango bars when I was a boy. The tango, of course, is the only real dance for an Argentinian. It mirrors everything. Political struggles, depressions, life, love, death. You do dance the tango?'
'I've been known to.'
He turned to the bandleader and said in Portuguese, 'Heh, compadre, what about a real tango? Something to move the heart like Cambalache.'
'Which means the senor is an Argentinian,' the bandleader said. 'I thought I recognised the accent. A long way from home, especially now, so this is for you and the lady.'
He went to the back of the stage and returned with an instrument slightly longer than a concertina. 'Ah,' Montera said in delight. 'We're going to get the real thing. That, my love, is what we call a bandoneon.'
'Sounds good,' Gabrielle commented.
'Wait and see.'
The bandleader started to play, accompanied only by piano and violin, and the music touched something deep inside her for it spoke of the infinite sadness, the longing of love, that knowledge that all that makes life worth living is in the hands of another, to give or withhold.
They danced as one person, together in a way she would never have thought possible. No domination from him, no leading. He danced superbly, but also with the most enormous tenderness. And when he smiled, his love was plain, an honest gift, making no demands on her.
It was a performance that fascinated