Robert MacEwan got out of the staff car, walked heavily into the radio shack. He asked the NCO in charge of the watch, ‘Personal call for me?’
The orderly who’d been sent to find him, arriving by motorbike in the missile compound, had reported, ‘A call from your estancia, sir. A Señor Huyez, says it’s a matter of utmost urgency…’
‘You could take it in here, sir, in privacy.’ The petty officer pushed open the door of a small office. ‘Unless you’d prefer it to be connected to your own extension. We were trying to locate you, but—’
‘In here will do.’
He hadn’t the slightest idea what Juan Huyez might have to talk about. There was no problem connected with the running of the sheep-station that he’d need to refer to his patrón. It was partly the fact of such a call being quite unprecedented that had persuaded him to leave the missile collection and come straight to take it. His fingers depressed the ‘speak’ bar in the handset: ‘Roberto MacEwan. Is that you, Don Juan? What’s your problem?’
‘Not exactly a problem, patrón. I apologise most profoundly for such an intrusion, but I felt — well, that you would certainly wish to hear—’
‘Come to the point, please.’
‘You may find it hard to believe, Don Roberto. I myself could hardly—’
‘Believe what?’
‘The patrón’s brother. He is staying at the estancia El Lucero. Incredible, but—’
‘Don Andrés — at Strobie’s, now?’
‘It’s the truth, patrón. My son Paco has seen him with his own eyes. He was convinced it was none other, but when he told me I thought, Nonsense! However—’
‘It’s a fact?’
‘Si, patrón. This boy of mine has — a young female acquaintance, the daughter of a peón on that estancia. It is not at all a suitable — not a friendship I wish to encourage, but—’
‘Stick to the point, for God’s sake!‘
‘Through this person, further enquiries—’
‘She confirmed he’s there?‘
‘Si, patrón. He is disguised in clothing suitable for a peón, and he has grown a beard, but it is he, and he is residing in the small house that was formerly the home of the mayordomo. Eating enormous meals, it is said—’
‘How long has he been there?’
‘We cannot be sure, but several days, it seems.’
‘And that’s all you know about it?’
‘Why yes, unfortunately…’
‘Hold on a minute. I want to consider this.’
He lowered the receiver. Slapping it in the palm of the other hand while he put his mind to this extraordinary development. Scowling out of the bare window… Andy must have come into the country secretly; otherwise he wouldn’t be lying low at the old man’s place in some ridiculous disguise, he’d have come straight to their own home.
So what might he have come for?
Francisca saw Strobie sometimes. She wasn’t aware that her husband knew of it, that Juan Huyez kept him informed of her movements and contacts when she was down there. Knowing if the calls she’d made at Strobie’s place, Robert had wondered — without bothering about it much — whether through Strobie she’d have news of, or even contact with, her former playmate.
Francisca…
Even if what she swore was the truth, it was a truth that didn’t apply to Andy’s attitude towards her. In his juvenile fashion he’d always been demented about her. He might still be, might think — if she’d encouraged him, particularly — he still had some chance.
Francisca was the key to this. And could be used as such.
‘Don Juan?’
‘Si, patrón.’
‘I’ll arrange for Don Andrés to pay you a visit. He’ll ride over from the Strobie place, in the belief he’s visiting my wife. I can’t say exactly when, but possibly in just a few hours. I want you to be prepared to — to receive him. That’s to say, to keep him there, Don Juan. Lock him up. I can’t possibly get down there myself — not for quite a time, possibly several weeks, this couldn’t have come at a more awkward moment for me. So, I have to put it entirely on your shoulders. You’ll handle it — as efficiently as you handle everything down there?’
‘Patrón — of course, I am here to serve you… But — you said lock him up?’
‘Remember the one who went off his head? Until they could come for him we confined him in the carniceria?’
The meat house. It was a substantial building, and one of its rooms had no window and a good lock on the door. The peón who’d gone mad had been a powerfully built fellow and he’d flung himself around in there for more than a fortnight before the police were able to provide transport.
Huyez began cautiously, ‘If this is your order, patrón—’
‘Didn’t you hear it?’
‘Of course. Of course… The only doubt in my mind — well, it would be far from — from comfortable, patrón. Even in summer it’s very cold, Now we have snow coming—’
‘Give him a blanket. Two blankets, if you want. But I want you to understand, Don Juan — it seems likely he’s sneaked into the country without anyone knowing he’s here. Except the old man, of course — and that can be handled easily enough. But you see, in the circumstances, officially he does not exist. His disappearance would therefore pass unnoticed. You follow?’
‘Perhaps not entirely—’
‘I’ve said, you’re to keep him there. Because I’d like to talk to him, discover what he came for. I have an idea, but I want to hear it from him — if possible… But this is not of very great importance. What is of the utmost importance is that once you have him there he should not leave. In fact — listen, Don Juan. If keeping him alive should prove difficult, I would not — hold you responsible. For any — accident… Is this clear, now?’
‘Si, patrón, it is clear as you say it, but—’
‘I would hold you responsible, however, if you allowed him to escape. If that occurred, neither you nor any of your family would have a future in my service. I think you know I am a man of my word?’
‘Indeed, patrón—’
‘You would naturally exercise every discretion… The other way to look at this is that at present, you know, I’m only part owner of the estancia. And you would like some small share in it, a reward for years of hard work and loyalty, a future for your son. I have never forgotten that my grandmother discussed this with you. And it would be simple to make the arrangements, you see, if I owned the place entirely… Here again — remember — I am a man of my word.’
‘This is well known, patrón. And I am overwhelmed—’
‘You have your orders, and you understand them?’
‘Clearly—’
‘Good. Don’t call me about it. I shan’t be here much longer in any case. Final firework display tomorrow, then we move out — lock, stock and barrel, before we’re snowed in… Do what has to be done, Don Juan. I’ll be with you — I don’t know, some time…’
He hung up. Lighting a cheroot; smoking it for several minutes, deep in thought. Then he went to the door.
‘I want a number in Buenos Aires. You’ll have it there — private residence of Rear-Admiral Alejandro Diaz.’
She’d thrown an angry glance at the telephone: ‘Oh, go away!‘
‘Tell them to do that. Please.’
Ricardo spoke softly. He’d unhooked the strap, between her shoulder-blades. The bra still clung, its silk moulded to her breasts and pointed, swollen nipples. His fingers brushed it away now, gently cupped one breast as he stooped to kiss it. She was naked except for her pants; he, in contrast, was fully dressed, even had his riding boots on. The ringing telephone was on a white marble table with a French love-seat beside it, and his eyes followed her, resting hungrily on the motion of her hips as she walked over to it — telling him over her shoulder, scarlet-tipped fingers resting on the receiver, ‘Get undressed, Rick, for God’s sake… Hello?’
Her eyes went back to him, as she sat down. Pale-blue eyes, charcoal-black hair, creamy skin… Her left hand was raised in warning — a finger to her lips.
‘Roberto! What a surprise!‘
Ricardo’s brown eyes stayed on her. He leant back against the bed, to pull off the highly polished boots. Eyes devouring her. Those fantastic breasts… And her mouth, wide mouth with lips still wet from his kisses, lips parting now to ask her husband politely how he was, how his work was progressing…
‘All right, then.’ Her shoulders — Ricardo had told her only a minute ago that they were the most kissable shoulders in Buenos Aires – lifted in a small shrug. ‘Of course I’ll listen…’
He’d got rid of his uniform jacket, tie and shirt, and was loosening his breeches. Francisca watching with a light, anticipatory smile.
She’d frowned. ‘But surely, that’s not possible!’
Ricardo, pointing down at himself, eyebrows raised, whispered, ‘This isn’t?’
She hadn’t heard. Preoccupied… He stood up. A tall, slim, brown-skinned man, chest and belly furred with tight black curls. Padding towards her across the deep-pile carpet, hearing from yards away her husband’s voice rasping in the telephone. Whatever the slob was telling her, lecturing her about, it was having a powerful effect. The interruption had become real, in fact.
And was not, he decided, to be tolerated.
‘But how could he have come — at this time, with all—’
Ricardo knelt in front of her; hearing her try to get a few more words in edgeways: ‘But even if he does still have a passport, surely—’
Interrupted again. Comments from this end seemed not to be wanted. But Ricardo had silently conveyed a proposal to her, and she was complying now while the voice from somewhere in the wilds of Patagonia droned on. She’d switched the receiver to her other hand, and putting the free one down on the cushions she pushed herself up a little, lifting her bottom so as to make it easier for Ricardo to remove her pants. He slid them lovingly down her thighs, over the beautifully rounded knees and finally from her bright-painted toes.
‘But if he is here — what for? Unless to see you? On family business, since there’s no trade now? Why should he have gone to Tom’s place, though? I don’t understand this at all, Roberto!’
Roberto’s hectoring tone again… The naked man on his knees didn’t care what he was on about, for the time being. A touch of fingers on the insides of Francisca’s knees caused her legs to part immediately. He moved in closer, his arms sliding round her long, supple waist, drawing her to him. She was protesting, ‘You know perfectly well he means nothing to me! A childhood romance, a little summer flirtation before either of us was old enough to do more than hold hands! I married you Roberto… If he has any such ambitions I certainly did nothing to encourage them!’
She gasped. Thighs spread. Rick’s face burrowing, his arms tight round her hips and bottom, squeezing her towards him. Noisy, now, like a hungry man, Francisca tilting her pelvis, helping, fingers of her free hand combing his dark head… She said abruptly into the telephone, ‘Roberto — just one minute, please?’
Hand over the telephone, palm pressed across the mouth-piece. Moving her hips in a subtle, insistent rocking. Then faster: thrusting to meet him, belly hollow, hips writhing… huge intake of breath: her body arching in a long, convulsive shudder…
She’d pushed him away: a hand flat on his forehead, and drawing herself back on the cushions. Out of breath.
‘I’m so sorry, Roberto. A — domestic matter.’ She added — Ricardo stifling a laugh with his face against her thigh — Rosaura’s getting old, you know, she insists on consulting me over every little detail.’
Rosaura was her father’s housekeeper. Francisca beckoned, and Ricardo sat beside her on the love-seat. Her hand went to him, fondling… She said into the phone, ‘I’d only just come in when your call came. Yes — lunch at the Herreras… Oh, a very good lunch. As usual, yes. I envy her that cook of hers… Oh, yes, Ricardo was there for a short while, but he had to run off — he’s on some Staff or other, I don’t know what, but they keep him busy anyway.’ She was examining him, at a range of a few inches: his eyes, his lips, jawline… ‘Quite a pleasant young man, I agree… A little’ — she glanced down, opening her hand — ‘a little full of himself, perhaps…’ She giggled. Squeezing… ‘Anyway, Roberto — I suppose I must believe what you’ve been telling me, but what exactly is it you want me to do?’
The harsh voice began to grind again. Francisca covered the mouthpiece; Rick was stooping, kissing her breasts, but now he was coming up again and their mouths were wide open to reach other, the telephone two inches away… The voice stopped; Francisca pulled away, using the end of the receiver to push Rick off. ‘Suppose I did this, Roberto: what would you — or they—’
A question, answering her question.
‘Why shouldn’t I be breathless? I’m shocked! You’re asking me to — trap him? So you can’ — she shook her head at Ricardo — ‘tell me what for, what you intend to do?’
Listening intently now. And real shock in her expression. Ricardo mustering the patience and sense to wait…
‘As I’ve told you a hundred times, he’s nothing to me. I am not in the least upset, not in the way you’re implying. But he’s a human being, and an old, once close friend — and as a matter of fact an innocent if there ever was one — and for God’s sake, Roberto, your own brother!’
Quite a long answer was coming through now, to that high-pitched protest. She was listening; her eyes re-focusing gradually on Ricardo… ‘No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’ll do what you ask, simply to prove—’
‘All right. Yes. Yes, as soon as I can get a call through. Which as you know is not easy… All right, the naval link — I’ll give your name… Yes, I just told you, I’ll do it, but—’
‘No. Of course I wouldn’t. I told you, I’m only agreeing to this unpleasant suggestion so as to prove to you there’s nothing, nothing—’
‘Very well… But now listen, Roberto — will I be seeing you, one of these days?’
Her blue eyes on Ricardo’s brown ones. Seeking information of interest to them both…
‘I see. You’re going — to the war? You’ll be—’
Listening to the drone, her smile deepened: directed entirely at Ricardo.
‘Then my heart and hopes go with you, Roberto. And my pride…’
‘Yes, I’ll be waiting… Yes, for heaven’s sake, I said I would, I’ll do it as soon as—’
‘All right. Come back in one piece. Not too many heroics, please. Come home to me when we’ve won. Vaya con Dios, Roberto…’
She kept the receiver at her ear until she’d heard him sign off. Then she leant sideways, dropped the receiver in its cradle.
‘I could have shrieked… Then how would he have believed I was talking to Rosaura? You’re a swine, Rick.’
‘I know.’
He looked flattered. She laughed, kissing him. ‘Want the same now?’
‘On the bed.’
‘Anywhere… On the roof, my darling!’
‘What was it all about?‘
‘Oh, hell, I have to make a call — at least book one—’
‘Not now. Leave it till I go.‘
‘I only promised him for our sake. So we can be left alone…’ He was looking down, watching the blood-red fingernails, the slim hands’ subtlety. She whispered, ‘I don’t think I’ll let you go, Rick. Tell your damn Staff you’re held up. Tell them I’m keeping you here for ever.’
‘You’d get bored with me.’ He picked her up. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Well.’ Closing her eyes. ‘Put it this way. At the moment I can’t envisage it.’ She asked him, on the bed, ‘Want it with my mouth?’
‘I could — live in your mouth…’
‘Be my guest—’
‘Next time.’ He’d stopped her, as she began to slide down. ‘Now, I want to hear what’s this thing you have to prove to your boorish husband.’
‘Oh, I should’ve said, he’s off to the war!’
‘May he stay there for ever… Why d’you have to do something you don’t want?’ He was on his back, pulling her over. Francisca straddled him, lifting herself… Watching his face then, enjoying his eyes on her body. His hands held her slowly rotating hips; he murmured, ‘Only one way this might be better. If you fetched the telephone, called him up to say goodbye again… I really loved that, you know?’
‘Me too.’ Faster. Leaning to kiss him… ‘Why didn’t we think of this before, Rick?’
‘I’ve thought of nothing else every time I’ve set eyes on you.’
‘I thought you were in love with your plump little wife.’
‘Oh, I am… Want me to call her?’
‘Not’ — she’d paused — ‘right now…’
‘Tell me what it was about?’
‘Later, Rick—’
‘No — now.’ His hands tightened: holding her almost still. ‘Please?’
‘All right. All right…’ His grasp relaxed. She began, phrases falling into the rhythm of new movement, ‘Once upon a time — crazy little girl — loved this little boy… Mind if I fall in love with you, Rick?’
‘Might as well… Tell me the rest now?’
Hair swirled as she shook her head: ‘Lousy story, Rick.’
‘Come on…’
‘What d’you call this?’
‘Come on with the lousy story.’
‘Thought she was in love. But she was not…’ Francisca’s voice was singsong now, matched to movement… ‘Sort of a spin-off, married the other one. For some dumb reason… Because he’s a pig, she can’t stand him, only just for now she needs to hang on… Rick, you’re stupendous, I’m going to be ahead of you again… The puppy-love was nothing, you see? But to satisfy the pig she has to prove it, has to — oh, thing my Yank mother’s people say’ — shouting it, a shudder in her voice — ‘sell him down the river—’
Getting towards sunset, the back end of a day that had moved along as sluggishly as treacle.
Andy opened Tom Strobie’s liquor cupboard, took a bottle out and studied the label, put it back again. Sunset came early in this wilderness, and anyway drinking on one’s own had never paid good dividends. Drinking another man’s whisky — old man who probably couldn’t afford it anyway — would be even less rewarding. Afternoon boozing would be different if you were in your eighties and semi-crippled, reclusive…
He’d be back before long anyway. Then they’d have a few snorts together and it would have been worth waiting for. Also, there’d be something to take as an excuse for celebration: the BBC World News bulletin — at 10.00 a.m. GMT, 1.00 p.m. here — had reported Mrs Thatcher informing the House of Commons that ‘British forces have begun to move forward from their San Carlos bridgehead’.
Advancing towards Goose Green, he imagined. Numerous ‘experts’ in recent radio commentaries had predicted a move that way. The Argies, one might guess, would have been tipped-off accordingly. He went to the bookshelves again and ran his eye along the titles; but he’d spent a lot of the day reading and there wasn’t much here that grabbed him. The other obvious way to pass time was sleeping, but he’d had a couple of hours of that after lunch… What he wanted was exercise and fresh air, preferably on horseback, but he’d promised them all he’d keep his head down so in daylight that was another temptation — like whisky — to be resisted.
Maybe after dark. Except by then Tom would be home, wanting company and conversation; to which, heaven knew, the old guy was entitled…
He was looking at the Scotch bottle again, when someone tapped on the door.
‘Don Andrés?’
Señora Torres, for God’s sake…
He let her in — or rather, offered her entrance. She stayed on the threshold where a few seconds ago he’d had a flashing daydream of Francisca standing; just at the first tap on the door…
‘It’s Señora MacEwan, Don Andrés—’
Impossible to believe this was what she’d said!
‘— on the radio — asking to speak with you — very urgent, she told me… I say, “But surely Don Andrés is in England?” She replies, “I do not question your veracity, it is plain to me you are not aware of the fact that Don Andrés is with Don Tomás in his residence. Please, bring him to speak with me…” Don Andrés, what could I do?’
By the time she’d paused for breath he was less dazed. Her hatchet face back in focus; a hand on the door-jamb was a contact with reality, as distinct from what had seemed like illusion. He slung his poncho over his shoulders, and followed her, her voice continuing, ‘No one is outside here at this time, Don Andrés. Don Tomás said he did not wish it to be known that you are here, but—’
‘I know. I know…’
He couldn’t see it mattered much, if the news had got that far. Following her into the ‘big house’: it stank of mutton, damp, wool, unwashed bodies. But then — he remembered, following her through the house — even when Tom Strobie had lived in it it hadn’t been exactly immaculate. Francisca had laughed at the old man when he’d asked her if there were cobwebs upstairs; she’d told him that upstairs wasn’t so bad at all, it was down here the house was like a stable. He’d growled at her, ‘It’s the way I like it — Miss…’
The radio room was at the back, a lean-to extension. Señora Torres pointed at a hard chair near the bench on which lay earphones and an old-fashioned upright telephone fitted up as a microphone with a switch on its base for transmit-receive.
‘Gracias…’
He’d expected her to leave, but she hung around, pretending to adjust the ancient equipment. And it didn’t matter: with Francisca he’d be speaking English anyway. He sat down, put on the tinny headset. His hands were shaking; he felt as nervous as he had before the jump from the Hercules.
‘Francisca?’
He pushed the switch over, heard a squawk of ‘Andy, my dear!’ and pushed it back again. Despite the bad reception, that had clearly been her voice; his heart was racing as he pushed the switch back: ‘Francisca, how did you know I was here? Why didn’t you let Tom know you were here? God, I’ve been so hoping… Francisca, darling, are you all right?’
‘I’ll tell you everything when I see you, Andy. That’s why I’m calling — to beg you, please, come over?’
‘To the estancia?’
‘Oh, please… I have to talk to you — must see you… Andy, it’s like a miracle that you’re here!’
Now she’d added — as if on an afterthought: ‘Over…’ She’d ignored the radio-telephone routine until this moment. And she sounded desperate; even with such rotten reception he could hear that edge to her voice. But he was thinking about Cloudsley and company too, the vital need for invisibility; and also of putting old Tom at risk — at worse risk than he’d brought to him already. But then — since she already knew he was here, and if he could get there and back in the dark — there’d be no worse harm done?
Put the clock back five years?
‘Andy, are you there?’
Again she hadn’t said ‘over’. He waited for the click you heard when the other end switched over, and there wasn’t one.
‘Francisca — if you’re hearing this — of course I’ll come… But tell me this much, are you in trouble?’
Switching quickly to ‘receive’. Her voice came through thinly, ‘—tell you everything, my dear, when—’
Another break. Then she came on again — ‘—now, d’you mean, tonight?’
It could be this switch that was defective. Distinctly possible, by the look of the equipment generally. He glanced around, but the Torres woman had gone.
‘I can’t think of anything I want more than to see you, Francisca. I’ll be there in a few hours. All right? Over…’ He switched back to her, and her voice came in a surge, suddenly much louder but as if she hadn’t heard him at all: ‘—if you could make it tonight, Andy?’
Hopeless.
But thrilling, too. Really, intensely thrilling… Walking back to Strobie’s shack, he decided not to wait for darkness. Better to be away from here before the peóns rode in at sunset. It would also avoid a meeting with Tom himself, inevitably an argument.
She hadn’t asked him how or why he’d come, what he was doing here, why he was hiding-out at Strobie’s…
He stopped — halfway over to the shack — asked himself, Am I crazy? Out of my bloody mind?
Well — maybe… But the possibility didn’t change anything, or suggest alternatives. He walked on again — hurrying, with an inclination even to be running. Thinking that there were several horses in the corral, and that the tack room would be open. Build Tom’s fire up for him first; scribble a note to say back soon, not to worry.
They were all in the OP hide. Cloudsley, on edge and uncommunicative, at the periscope. Sunset had passed and the land was darkening but in the foreground the missile compound, service road and control tower were lit up. Compound gates still standing open, fuel-tanker still parked inside, and there’d been no movement towards closing the hangar doors. Further deployment of AM39s was clearly imminent.
Should have got here a day sooner, he thought. Then we’d have had the job done just in time…
Geoff Hosegood broke the silence. ‘Might do it in eight hours, once we’re in there. Did reckon four hours a pair, didn’t they.’
Cloudsley grunted. The reality of the situation, as he was seeing it now all too clearly, was that the four missiles they’d doctored were the only four that would get the treatment. He made himself agree with Geoff: ‘Maybe. If we push it.’
If we get in at all…
No reason, though, to assume they’d pack up at all, tonight. If a helo came in the next few minutes there could just as easily be another two hours later. If they were using scant resources — like that Alouette — to cope with a sudden demand for missiles on the operational bases — at Rio Gallegos, most likely — they’d work right through. On the other hand, if it turned out better than he was now expecting, if you did get in — well, Geoff could have something, it might be possible to cut the time right down. Taking a risk or two, pressure on the drill, literally ‘pushing it’… You could slow up near the end of the second stage of drilling on each missile — the last twenty minutes, say.
Beale had been thinking about it too. ‘If we could do ’em in eight hours, we could start as late as midnight.’
‘Not really.’ Cloudsley pointed out — his tone so calm that to himself it sounded false — ‘These buggers are up and doing at least half an hour before sunrise. Playing safe, call that an hour. Means being out of it by 0730, you see. Very latest we could start would be 2300. Right?’
‘Sure, to get four done. Starting later — if we had to — we could still fix one pair. Four or five hours’ work — better than fuck-all.’
Cloudsley grunted agreement. Beale was obviously quite right; and they might not deploy the whole outfit tonight and tomorrow. But since you couldn’t be anything like sure of it, the aim had to be to finish the job completely — if the chance arose.
Beale concluded, ‘So right up to 0300, we got a chance.’
He kept his mouth shut. It was all conjecture, hypothesis; and to him, the feel of the situation was all wrong.
The evening meal of meat, maté, and maté-soaked galletas had been consumed at sunset. They were ready — Ingrams cleaned, checked over and lubricated, stun grenades on their belts, equipment like drilling bits in pockets, and the pack containing the drill and the liner-upper lay near the exit. Once the Argies did decide to go to their beds, there’d be nothing to hang about for.
‘Wonder how Andy Mac’s getting on.’ Hosegood, talking to pass the time. ‘Soaking up the old guy’s Scotch, eh?’
‘Wouldn’t blame him.’ Beale‘s voice, from the end of the hide. ‘Sitting there all day, can’t show his face out… Mind you, he’s got a fire to sit by.’
‘Think of that.’
‘Not to mention chicken and pasta?’
‘Tony — shut up.’
Beale added after a minute’s silence, ‘If we got it done tonight, mind — the lot — so we’d move out tomorrow sundown — big yomp south, not much gear on us — do it in one night, Harry?’
‘Should do.’
The nights were long: the proportion, ignoring twilight periods, was about sixteen hours of dark to eight of daylight. Beale reached his conclusion: ‘Day after tomorrow then, we could be shoving down fucking chicken and pasta.’
‘And Scotch.’ Hosegood recalled, ‘Harry promised him, didn’t he?’
The chatter was largely for his benefit, Cloudsley guessed. They sensed the pressure in him. It mattered just as much to each of them as it did to him but he happened to be the one who carried most of the responsibility. He glanced round: ‘Anyone want to take a turn at this bloody tube?’
At eight, Hosegood crawled back to the other hide to brew up some warmth. When it was ready he signalled on the string and Cloudsley joined him. Then Hosegood relieved Beale in the OP and they were all back there, waiting and watching, by eight-thirty. The compound was still open, fuel still waiting, and there was occasional movement between the guardhouse and the hangar, no sign at all of anyone going to bed.
A few minutes before nine, Roberto MacEwan’s telephone jangled, in the office adjoining his sleeping quarters.
‘Your call to the residence of Admiral Diaz, sir. Señora MacEwan on the line.’
‘Thank you. Francisca?’
‘Again, Roberto?’
‘To check whether you’ve done what I asked you.’
‘I told you I would, and I have. I hate it, but—’
‘He’s — obliging you?’
‘You’re so amusing… Yes.’
‘Well done. But one other thing: tell me, please, what he’s here for?’
‘I have not the least idea.’
‘Are you telling me you didn’t ask?’
‘I did what you wanted, and no more.‘
‘No feminine curiosity? Or — no need to ask?’
‘Roberto, I told you, I have had no correspondence what-so-ever—’
‘Yes. You did tell me… Anyway, you’ve done it. Thank you.’ He checked the time. ‘Let’s not bother now with more farewells. I’ll be back soon enough, don’t worry.’
‘I will — try not to.’
He put the receiver down. Looking at it as if he hated it. It rang again, under his hand, and he put it to his ear. ‘Yes?’
‘Signal just received sir. I’ll send it round, but I thought you’d want to know immediately. From XI Brigada Aerea: Weather deterioration in south necessitates cancellation of tonight’s collections. All remaining AM39s are to be ready for loading in Chinook which will reach you approx 0700. The PO added, ‘Time of origin, and message ends. Blizzards extending northwards, they say, sir. A light helo like the Alouette couldn‘t—’
‘Quite.’ Roberto cut him short. ‘Connect me with Lieutenant Rodriguez. After that I’ll be in a mess for an hour.’ He waited, drumming his fingers on the desk. ‘Lieutenant. Stand them down, in the Exocet compound. That helo won’t be returning. We’ll have a Chinook here instead about 0700 to clear the whole lot in one lift, so it makes no odds really. Stand-to had better be at’ — he paused for a moment, working it out — well, make it 0630.’
Those lights up ahead were on the top floor of the house in which he’d spent his childhood, years from which only the most tenuous memories of his mother remained as anything to treasure. He’d been four when she died, and his image of her was of no more than a source of physical warmth, and fiercely reciprocated affection, and now — as remotely as if it was a piece of some old, old dream — a vision of dark eyes and a red mouth smiling.
As if the sight of the house had triggered a long-buried memory…
Reining-in, easing the mare down from a canter to a walk, turning her off the track that had been hardened by nearly a century of MacEwan horses’ hooves and rutted, since, by decades of MacEwan truck tyres… At a walk now, soft thudding of the mare’s plates along the softer, rough-grassed edge. That window with the light in it was the one in the end wall of the main bedroom. It had been Robert’s and Fiona’s room, then Fiona’s alone — the old woman had refused to move out, make way for her son and his little ‘mongrel’ wife. As Bruce should have insisted she did, of course… Now, Francisca would be in that room; and waiting for his knock. Incredible: he was conscious of this sense of unreality, of a need to convince himself that he was actually this close to her, that within minutes she’d be in his arms… Passing through the last gate — turning the mare while he hooked it shut again he saw, fifty yards up the avenue of poplar and eucalyptus, that there were lights burning on the ground floor too.
Not much secrecy, he thought. But then, that would be in character, for Francisca. Would have been; evidently still was.
Riding slowly up the drive, he felt the first flurry of snow. He guessed that by the time he started back the blizzard would have taken over, would have obliterated tracks and roads… Presenting no problems at all when you could find your way around with your eyes shut anyway, but maybe a complication for the SBS team.
But they’d steer by compass, then follow the line of fence-posts.
Kicking his feet out of the irons, he swung his leg over and slid down. A dark figure appeared from nowhere at the mare’s head: a man in a cap and a poncho with a hand on the bridle. His impression was of a peón who’d have been waiting — on her orders — to take care of his horse, and the strangeness was only the way he’d so suddenly appeared and hadn’t spoken. Then he heard a cough behind him: felt a rifle-barrel jabbing him in the back: ‘Not into the big house, señor.’ Juan Huyez poked him again with the gun: ‘This way — if you would be so kind…’
Hosegood asked Beale, ‘Any special reason they’d use Pucarás for napalm?’
‘Yeah.’ Beale was at the periscope. ‘If they want to base ’em on the islands. And I mean, where else…? Only airstrip that’s anything but grass is the one at Stanley — and that’s too short for your Mirages or your Skyhawks. Any case, they’d want to use the grass strips, wouldn’t they — on West Falkland, maybe? Pucará only need — well, less than a thousand feet, for take-off. Even your Aermacchi’d want three times as much.’
Hosegood said, ‘Like having a mobile computer along, this one.’
‘Did some homework, that’s all. But they’re highly manoeuvrable too — designed for counter-insurgency, knocking the shit out of blokes on the ground. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t find better, would you?’
Cloudsley checked the luminous face of his watch. ‘You should be in the BAS, Tony.’
‘Did consider it, one time.‘ BAS stood for Brigade Air Squadron, Royal Marines who flew Scout and Gazelle helos. But flying’s only a hobby, I don’t know about helos, never touched one.‘ Beale moved suddenly: ‘Harry. Don’t like to peak too soon, but — it’s happening…’
Cloudsley took over at the scope. Beale told Hosegood, ‘They’re packing up, shutting the main gates! Panic over!’
‘What panic…’
They were leaving the fuel-truck inside the compound, although they were shutting and locking the gates. A possible interpretation, Cloudsley thought, was they might have been waiting for a helo which now wasn’t coming but would be coming later. In the morning, maybe. Otherwise they’d hardly be leaving the big tanker there.
Almost 2130 now. It would be a mistake to move in too soon: people forgot things, came back for them. On the other hand you couldn’t wait too long either, having already lost several hours of drilling time. Give it, say, half an hour. Ten o’clock, for the start of eight hours’ work; or more realistically allow for nine. Nine hours, or less; at any rate be finished and clear out by seven.
Having done it!
The surge of confidence was a reaction to several hours of depression… Watching a group of men in overalls come into sight from the front of the hangar, and guessing they’d have shut the sliding doors. Might even have remembered to lock the little doors, tonight; he felt for the key, checking he had it strung to his wrist. Its secret was that it was pliable, adapted itself to any ordinary kind of lock. Those guys were walking towards the guardhouse — that small gate. He saw a van — same one — coming along the road, passing the front of the compound then stopping at this near corner to reverse into the slip road. Those three were outside now, talking to the sentry at lighting cigarettes. Could be Frenchmen, at that… The van was returning, its lights sweeping along the wire; and stopping now to pick them up. Cloudsley told Beale and Hosegood, ‘Fifteen minutes. After that, when the sentry moves — on your marks…’