Exocet. Jack Higgins

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      In 1972, the problem of international terrorism having reached epidemic proportions, the Director General of DI5, the British Secret Intelligence Service, authorised the setting up within the organisation of a section known as Group Four which had powers held directly from the Prime Minister, to co-ordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism, subversion and the like.

      Brigadier Charles Ferguson had been placed in charge, still was, a large, kindly-looking man whose crumpled suits always seemed a size too large. The Guards tie was the only military aspect to him. The untidy grey hair, the double chin, combined to give him the appearance of some minor professor.

      Just now, he wore a greatcoat of the type favoured by officers of the Household Brigade, the collar turned up against the early morning cold. The Bentley was parked off Eaton Square, not too far from the Palace, and the only other occupant was the driver, Harry Fox, a slim, elegant man of twenty-nine who until three years previously had been an acting captain in the Blues and Royals. The neat leather glove he wore on the left hand concealed the fact that he had lost the original in a bomb explosion during a tour of duty in Belfast.

      He poured tea from a Thermos flask into plastic cups and handed Ferguson one. ‘I wonder how he’s getting on?’

      ‘Our Tony? Oh, with his usual appallingly ruthless efficiency. Never lets anything get in his way, you see. Comes of having been head of his house at Eton.’

      ‘Nevertheless, sir, if he’s caught, it will raise one hell of a stink and it won’t do the SAS image much good either.’

      ‘You worry too much, Harry,’ Ferguson said. ‘Comes of having picked up the wrong briefcase over there. Things could be worse.’ He nodded across the square to a yellow Telecom truck parked beside an open manhole, canvas screen around it. Two men in yellow oilskins worked in the rain. ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ