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, senorita,' 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.'
* *
'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, senorita,' 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.'
* *
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