LITMIR.BIZ

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ask you your sign.’

      ‘Capricorn.’ Her arms were about him now, her lips on his forehead.

      ‘Dreadful combination, Leo and Capricorn,’ he muttered. ‘No hope at all.’

      ‘Is that a fact?’ She kissed him and a moment later he was asleep.

      She was standing by the window, looking out across the gardens, thinking about him, when the phone sounded in the sitting room. She went through quickly and picked it up.

      Ferguson said, ‘Ah, there you are. Anything to report?’

      ‘Nothing,’ she said.

      ‘Is he with you now?’

      She took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Asleep in the other room.’

      ‘Things are hotting up,’ he said. ‘All the signs point to an invasion down there. You’re sure he’s staying in London?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Very sure.’

      ‘Fine. I’ll be in touch.’

      She put down the phone, at that moment hating Ferguson more than she had ever hated anyone in her life. There was a sudden sharp cry as Raul Montera called out and she turned and ran into the bedroom.

      The dream was more real than anything he had ever known. The plane was in a hell of a state, he knew that, great holes ripped in the body, pieces of fuselage rattling in the turbulence. He could smell smoke and burning oil. Panic gave him strength as he fought to release the plastic canopy that enveloped him.

      ‘Dear God, don’t let me burn,’ he thought and then the canopy swung away from him.

      His fingers, warm with his own blood, groped for the quick release handle that would eject him and then a shadow passed overhead. There was a beating of wings and he looked up to find a great eagle, claws distended, dropping down on him. He screamed aloud in fear. He came awake then, and found himself in Gabrielle’s arms.

      They sat in the large bath, facing each other, totally at ease, drinking tea from china mugs, Montera smoking a cigarette.

      ‘The tea is excellent,’ he said.

      ‘Much better for you than coffee.’

      ‘From now on, coffee no longer exists.’

      ‘An eagle descending,’ she said. ‘Obviously only one thing to do.’

      ‘And what would that be?’

      ‘You told me yourself. Drop your flaps. Even eagles will overshoot.’

      ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘What a pilot you would have made.’ He stood up and reached a towel. ‘What next?’

      ‘I’d like to see Cats again.’

      ‘But tickets are unobtainable,’ he said as he started to dress.

      ‘A challenge for you.’

      ‘Taken. And dinner afterwards?’

      ‘Daphne’s, I think. I feel very Frenchy today. And make sure they give you a booth.’

      ‘At your orders, señorita,’ he said formally in Spanish.

      As he pulled on his flying jacket, his wallet fell to the floor. Amongst the items which cascaded out was a small photo. She picked it up and examined it. The woman in the cane chair was beautifully gowned, the hair groomed to perfection, all the arrogance of the true aristocrat in her face. The child who stood beside her wore a formal white dress and was tall with wide dark eyes.

      ‘She’s beautiful,’ Gabrielle said. ‘A lot like you. But your mother looks as if she could be difficult.’

      ‘Donna Elena Llorca de Montera difficult?’ He laughed. ‘Only most of the time.’

      ‘Off you go,’ she said. ‘I’ve things to do.’

      He smiled, moved to the door and paused. When he turned, he was no longer smiling, but stood there looking extraordinarily vulnerable in the black opened-necked shirt and the old flying jacket.

      ‘You really do look gorgeous,’ she said.

      ‘I’ve been in the trenches a long time.’

      ‘You’ve got me now,’ she said in a kind of reflex, without thinking.

      ‘Good.’ He kissed her gently, then picked up the photo which had fallen on the floor and put it on the side. ‘You can have that.’

      The door closed behind him. She stared up at the ceiling, thinking of Ferguson, wishing he were dead.

      Ferguson was seated at his desk at Cavendish Place with Fox, going through various papers, when the door opened and Villiers pushed past Kim before the Gurkha could announce him.

      ‘My dear Tony, you look quite agitated,’ Ferguson said as Kim withdrew.

      ‘What’s going on between Gabrielle and this Argentinian, Montera?’ Villiers asked. ‘I followed him home last night, so don’t attempt to deny it. She’s on a job for you, isn’t she?’

      ‘None of your business, Tony,’ Ferguson said. ‘And neither is she any longer.’

      Villiers lit a cigarette and paced to the window. ‘All right, point taken. I can still show concern, can’t I? That last job she did for you in Berlin, she nearly ended up in the canal.’

      ‘But she didn’t,’ Ferguson said patiently, ‘because you, dear Tony, turned up in the nick of time as usual. This Montera business is very small beer. She’s simply out to extract what useful information she can about the Falklands situation.’

      ‘How, by taking him to bed?’

      ‘Not your affair, Tony. And you have, if I may say so, more important things to worry about.’

      Harry Fox passed a note across. ‘They’ve cancelled your leave, Tony. They want you back in Hereford as soon as possible.’

      Bradbury Lines, Hereford, was the headquarters of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.

      ‘But why, for God’s sake?’ Villiers demanded.

      Ferguson sighed and removed his reading glasses. ‘Quite simple really, Tony. I think you may be going to war sooner than you think.’

      And at his flat off Belgrave Square, Raul Montera gripped the telephone tightly, listening with horror to what the Military Attaché at the Embassy was saying to him.

      ‘There is a plane for Paris leaving in two hours, Raul. It is essential that you do not miss it. The Air France flight for Buenos Aires leaves at ten-thirty this evening. They need you back there, my friend. You mustn’t fail. I’m sending a car round.’

      The Malvinas. That’s all it could be. So many things fell into place now. Yet there was Gabrielle. What was he going to do about her? My one real chance of happiness in this accursed life, he thought, and the gods decide to screw it up for me.

      He packed hurriedly, just one bag with essentials, and the doorbell rang as he was finishing. The chauffeur was waiting on the step as Montera emerged, still wearing his jeans and the old flying jacket.

      ‘Heathrow, my colonel,’ the chauffeur said as Montera got into the front seat beside him.

      ‘By way of Kensington Palace Gardens,’ Raul Montera said. ‘And step on it! We don’t have much time.’

      Gabrielle had not changed, was sitting at the mirror in the old robe and about to make herself up, when the doorbell buzzed. She went and lifted the answerphone.

      ‘It’s me, Raul. Please hurry.’

      She half-opened the door and waited, conscious of a dreadful foreboding, heard the lift door clang outside. He appeared, eyes wild, real pain on his face.

      ‘Two minutes, that’s all

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