Exocet. Jack Higgins

‘Just look at those two poor sods. What a way to earn your crust. Down a hole at this ungodly hour in the morning in the pouring rain.’

      A dark Ford Granada saloon passed them, one man at the wheel, another at the rear. It pulled in at the kerb and a bulky man in a dark raincoat and trilby hat came towards them, opened the rear door and got in.

      ‘Ah, Superintendent,’ Ferguson said. ‘Harry, this is Detective Chief Superintendent Carver of Special Branch, delegated by the powers-that-be at Scotland Yard to be official observer this morning. You should beware, Superintendent.’ Ferguson filled another plastic cup with tea and offered it to him. ‘In the old days, messengers who brought bad news were usually executed.’

      ‘Balls,’ Carver said amiably. ‘He doesn’t stand a chance, your man, and you know it. How did he intend to try and get in anyway?’

      ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I never query methods, Superintendent, only results.’

      ‘Just a minute, sir,’ Fox said. ‘I think we’ve got company.’

      The two telephone engineers who had been working in the manhole at the far side of the square had got out and were walking towards them, oilskins streaming with rain. Fox opened the glove compartment and took out a Walther PPK.

      Ferguson said, ‘How enterprising of them,’ and wound down the window. ‘Good morning, Tony. Morning, Sergeant Major.’

      ‘Sir,’ Jackson said, bringing his heels together automatically.

      Villiers leaned down and passed in the Polaroid photo of the Queen. ‘Anything else, sir?’ he asked.

      Ferguson examined the photo without a word, then passed it to the Superintendent. Carver sat up straight. ‘Good God!’

      Ferguson took the photo from him, produced a lighter and touched it to the edge. He passed it to Villiers. ‘Wouldn’t do to have that floating around. Better tell us the worst.’

      Villiers held the photo as it burned. ‘The alarm beam directly inside the grounds is positioned only two feet from the wall. No problem in jumping over that. At the Palace itself, the alarm system is in some cases old-fashioned or faulty. And to get in, you don’t need to be a cat burglar.’ He passed over the photo taken the previous day. ‘Workmen leave ladders, housemaids leave windows open – it’s a farce.’

      Carver studied the photo glumly. Villiers said, ‘We’ll take a walk. Leave you to it, sir.’

      He and Jackson walked to the nearest lamp and lit cigarettes. Carver said, ‘Who is he, for Christ’s sake? He talks like the Cavalry Club and looks like some East End hood.’

      ‘Actually he’s a major in the Grenadier Guards attached to the SAS,’ Ferguson said.

      ‘With that hair? I mean, look at it.’

      ‘Special dispensation in the SAS, going without haircuts. Personal camouflage is very important, Superintendent, if you’re trying to pass yourself off as some back street yobbo on the Belfast docks.’

      ‘And he’s reliable?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Decorated twice. Military Cross for action against Marxist guerrillas in the Oman and another for some nonsense or other in Ireland, details not for release.’

      Carver held up the photo. ‘This is bad. There will be hell to pay.’

      ‘We’ll send you a full report.’

      ‘I bet you will.’

      Carver got out of the car and Villiers turned and came towards him, his face pale in the street light.

      ‘One thing I didn’t mention, Superintendent. Your man on prowler guard at the Grosvenor Place end of the Palace Gardens. I had to belt him. You’ll find him under a tree by the pond in his own handcuffs. He’s okay, I checked him out on the way back. Tell him I’m sorry about the dog.’

      ‘You bastard!’ Carver said.

      He hurried along to the Granada, the door slammed, it drove away.

      Ferguson said, ‘Get in, Tony. I presume you can be relied upon to get rid of that truck, Sergeant Major? I won’t enquire where it came from.’

      ‘Sir.’ Jackson clicked his heels and moved off across the square.

      Villiers got into the Bentley beside Ferguson and Fox drove away. Ferguson said, ‘You’ve another week of your leave to go?’

      ‘Officially.’

      Ferguson wound down the window and peered out as they rounded the Queen Victoria Memorial at the front of the Palace and went down the Mall.

      ‘Have you seen Gabrielle lately?’

      Villiers said calmly, ‘No.’

      ‘Is she still at the flat in Kensington Palace Gardens?’

      ‘Some of the time. That one belongs to me. She uses it by arrangement. She has her place in Paris, of course.’

      ‘I was sorry to hear about the divorce.’

      ‘Don’t be,’ Villiers said flatly. ‘The best thing that ever happened to either of us.’

      ‘You really mean that?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’

      Ferguson shivered and pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck, and yet he lowered the window even more so that the cold morning air rushed in.

      ‘Sometimes I wonder what life’s all about.’

      ‘Well, don’t ask me,’ Villiers told him. ‘I’m only passing through.’

      He folded his arms, leaned back in the corner, closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

       2

      Brigadier Charles Ferguson preferred to work when possible from his Cavendish Square flat. It was his especial joy. The Adam fireplace was real and so was the fire which burned there. The rest was Georgian also. Everything matched to perfection, including the curtains. He was sitting by the fire at ten o’clock in the morning after Villiers’ exploit at the Palace, reading the Financial Times, when the door opened and his manservant, Kim, an ex-Gurkha naik, appeared.

      ‘Mademoiselle Legrand, sir.’

      Ferguson removed his half-moon reading glasses, put them down with the paper and stood up. ‘Show her in, Kim, and tea for three, please.’

      Kim departed and a moment later, Gabrielle Legrand entered the room.

      She was, as always, Ferguson told himself, the most strikingly beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. She was dressed for riding in boots, faded jodhpurs, white shirt and an old green jacket in Donegal tweed. The blonde hair was held back from the forehead by a scarlet band and rolled up into a bun at the nape of the neck. She regarded him gravely, the wide green eyes giving nothing away, the riding crop she carried in her left hand tapping her knee. She was not small, almost five foot eight in her boots. Ferguson went towards her with a smile of conscious pleasure, hands outstretched.

      ‘My lovely Gabrielle.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘No longer Mrs Villiers, I see?’

      ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m me again.’

      Her voice was English upper class, but with its own timbre that gave it a unique quality. She dropped her crop on the table, went to the window and peered down into the square.

      ‘Have you seen Tony lately?’

      ‘I should have thought you would have,’ Ferguson said. ‘He’s in town. Spot of leave, as I understand it. Hasn’t he called at the flat?’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t do that, not while I’m there.’