Exocet. Jack Higgins
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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 remarkably cosmopolitan; Arabs and Asians of every variety mingling freely with the native British. People lounged on the grass, boys played football in the bright sunshine, and Gabrielle drew admiring glances on every hand.
She took his arm. ‘Tell me something. Why do you fly?’
‘It’s what I do.’
‘You’re probably filthy rich. Everyone knows the Argentine Air Force is staffed by the aristocracy. You could do anything you want.’
‘Perhaps I can explain,’ he said. ‘When I was a boy, I had an uncle Juan, my mother’s brother, who lived in Mexico City. He was a fabulously wealthy man, a member of one of the oldest families in Mexico, and yet from boyhood, he had room for only one passion.’
‘Women?’
‘No, I’m being serious. Bulls. In fact, he became a torero, a professional bullfighter, and a great shame to the family because bullfighters are usually gypsies or poor boys, up from the gutter.’
‘So?’
‘I sat with him while they dressed him in his suit of lights for a special appearance in the Grand Plaza at Mexico City. I counted the scars of the horns on his body. Nine times he had been gored. I said, “Uncle, you have everything – title, money, power – yet you go to the bulls. You face, week by week, animals specifically trained to kill you. Why do you do this thing?”’
‘And what did he reply?’
‘He said, it’s what I am. There’s nothing else I want to do. Flying’s like that with me.’
She touched the scar. ‘Even when it almost gets you killed?’
‘Ah, but I was younger then. More foolish. I believed in causes, justice, freedom. Beautiful nonsense. Now I am older. All used up.’
‘We’ll have to see about that.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Never mind. What happened to your uncle?’
‘Oh, he finally went to the horns one time too many.’
She shivered. ‘I don’t like it.’
She had tightened her grip on his arm as if to reassure herself. They crossed from the gardens and started down Kensington Road.
He said, ‘I think I’ve done rather well to hold myself in this far, but I feel I ought to point out that you look spectacularly tarty in that outfit. By intention, I presume?’
‘You swine,’ she said amiably, and held his arm even tighter.
‘Is one permitted to enquire the purpose?’
She shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I don’t really know. It’s nice to play games occasionally, don’t you think?’
He stopped and half-turned towards her as she still clung to his arm. ‘You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,’ he said, ‘in spite of that appalling outfit.’
‘So kind.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
He kissed her gently on the mouth. ‘Oh, my beautiful, glorious tart. Can’t you see how much I’m loving you? I don’t have any choice in the business. It’s like a moral imperative.’
There were tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, God,’ she said angrily. ‘I hate men and yet you’re so damn nice. I’ve never ever known a man like you.’
He waved to a passing taxi. As it swung in to the kerb she said, ‘What is this? Where are we going?’
‘Back to the flat,’ he said. ‘Kensington Palace Gardens. Such a good address. Close to the Russian Embassy.’
Lying in bed, an arm about her, watching the white curtains rise and fall in the slight breeze from the partly open window, he felt more content, more at peace with himself than he had done for years.
There was a radio cassette player on the small table beside the bed. She reached to switch it on and Ella Fitzgerald’s unique and wonderful voice moved into Our Love is Here to Stay.
‘Just for you,’ she said.
‘Very civil of you.’
He kissed her lazily on the forehead. She gave a small grunt of infinite content, turned her stomach into his thigh and sighed. ‘That was lovely. Can we do it again some time?’
‘Could you possibly give me time to catch my breath?’
She smiled and ran a hand across his belly. ‘The poor old man. Just listen to him. Move away a little. I want to look at you.’
They lay a couple of feet apart, heads on the same pillow, the green eyes wide and starry as if she was committing him to memory.
‘The scar,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it.’
He shrugged. ‘I was flying from Fernando Po to Port Harcourt in Biafra during the Nigerian civil war. We usually flew by night. Dakotas mostly, but they needed medical supplies in a hurry.’ His eyes stared back into the past. ‘It was raining like hell. A real thunderstorm. I got a Russian MIG fighter on my tail. Egyptian pilot, I found out later. He started to shoot me out of the sky, it was as simple as that. Within seconds the other three crew members were dead or dying. That’s when I got this.’ He fingered the scar.
‘What did you do?’
‘Took her down to five hundred feet. Next time he came in on my tail, I dropped the Dakota’s flaps. It was like stopping dead in mid-air. I almost stalled.’
‘And the MIG?’
‘No space left to work in. Overshot me and ploughed straight into the jungle.’
‘Clever boy.’
She ran a finger along his lips. He said drowsily, ‘I want to be totally honest with you, can you understand that? I’ve never felt so with any human being before. I want to give all of myself that there is to give.’
There was pain in her then because of her own deceit. She managed to smile. ‘Don’t worry about it. Go to sleep. We’ve got all day.’
‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘We have the rest of our lives.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always loved cities by night. The feeling of the potential things. When I was a young man, walking by night in Paris, London or Buenos Aires, there was always a magic, something bracing about the night air. A feeling that at the end of the street,