went into the Intelligence Room in the Operations building, it was empty except for Major Pedro Munro, an Argentinian of Scots extraction, the senior intelligence officer.
'Ah, there are you, Raul. One of these days you won't walk through that door,' he said cheerfuly.
'Thanks very much,' Montera answered. 'Any word on Ortega?'
'Not yet. What have you got to tell me?'
Montera helped himself to a cigarette from the pack on the desk. 'That it was hell out there, just like an old war movie on television, only this was real. Men died.'
Munro said, 'Very funny. Now, could I possibly have something concrete? Did you sink anything?'
'I don't think so,' Montera told him, 'for the excellent reason that my bombs didn't explode again. Could you possibly arrange for ordnance to get the blasted timing right on those fuses?'
Munro stopped trying to be amusing. 'I'm damn sorry, Raul. Truly.'
'So am I.' Montera told him, and went out.
He walked towards the officers' mess wearily, his flying boots drumming on the tarmac. He felt depressed, stale, at the end of things. He was too old to be doing this sort of thing, and that was a fact; then he remembered what Gabrielle had said to him about age being a state of mind and smiled.
He thought a lot about her these days. In fact, all the time. She filled his heart and head, flew with him, slept with him. He spoke aloud to her last thing each night.
He walked into the ante-room. The first person he saw was Lami Dozo, standing by the fire, a circle of young officers about him.
The General excused himself and came to meet Montera, genuine pleasure on his face. He gave him the abrazo, the formal hug.
'I saw your mother yesterday at a charity affair. Fundraising for the army. She looked splendid.'
'Was Linda with her?'
'No, she was at school. As I say, your mother looked splendid. You, on the other hand, look dreadful. It must stop, this foolishness, Raul. Eleven missions in a week.'
'Twelve,' Montera said. 'You forget today. And could you kindly get them to do something about the bombs? They will persist in not going off a lot of the time. Very annoying, when one has gone to such a great deal of trouble to deliver them.'
'Have a drink,' Lami Dozo said.
'An excellent idea.' Montera called a mess waiter over. 'Tea. My usual.' He turned to the General. 'Will you join me?'
'Tea?' Lami Dozo said. 'Good God, what's got into you?'
Montera nodded to the waiter who departed. 'Nothing. It's just that a friend of mine when I was in London persuaded me that coffee wasn't good for me.'
'Who is this Gabrielle whose name they tell me is painted on the nose of your Skyhawk?'
'The woman I love,' Raul Montera said simply.
'Have I had the pleasure of meeting her?'
'No. When she isn't living in London, she lives in Paris. Next question.'
'Paris? How interesting. If you had time, you could look her up.'
'I don't understand?'
'You're flying to Paris tomorrow. I'm taking you back to Buenos Aires with me now. Oh, and Galtieri would like a word before you leave.'
'I think perhaps you'd better explain,' Montera said.
Which Lami Dozo did as briefly as possible. When he was finished he said, 'Well, what do you think?'
'I think the world has gone mad,' Raul Montera told him. 'But who am I to argue.'
'It could win us the war, Raul.'
'Win us the war?' Montera laughed harshly. 'We're back with old movies on television, General. We've lost this war already. It should never have started. But by all means send me off to Paris to play games while these boys here continue to die.'
The waiter returned with the tray at that moment and Montera poured himself a cup of tea with hands that shook slightly.
He raised the cup to his lips and drank. 'Much better for you than coffee,' he said and smiled, remembering that morning in Kensington, a thousand years ago, in the bath with Gabrielle.
Lami Dozo looked concerned. 'You've done too much, old friend. You need a rest. Come on, let's go.'
'You think I'm going
'Ah, there are you, Raul. One of these days you won't walk through that door,' he said cheerfuly.
'Thanks very much,' Montera answered. 'Any word on Ortega?'
'Not yet. What have you got to tell me?'
Montera helped himself to a cigarette from the pack on the desk. 'That it was hell out there, just like an old war movie on television, only this was real. Men died.'
Munro said, 'Very funny. Now, could I possibly have something concrete? Did you sink anything?'
'I don't think so,' Montera told him, 'for the excellent reason that my bombs didn't explode again. Could you possibly arrange for ordnance to get the blasted timing right on those fuses?'
Munro stopped trying to be amusing. 'I'm damn sorry, Raul. Truly.'
'So am I.' Montera told him, and went out.
He walked towards the officers' mess wearily, his flying boots drumming on the tarmac. He felt depressed, stale, at the end of things. He was too old to be doing this sort of thing, and that was a fact; then he remembered what Gabrielle had said to him about age being a state of mind and smiled.
He thought a lot about her these days. In fact, all the time. She filled his heart and head, flew with him, slept with him. He spoke aloud to her last thing each night.
He walked into the ante-room. The first person he saw was Lami Dozo, standing by the fire, a circle of young officers about him.
The General excused himself and came to meet Montera, genuine pleasure on his face. He gave him the abrazo, the formal hug.
'I saw your mother yesterday at a charity affair. Fundraising for the army. She looked splendid.'
'Was Linda with her?'
'No, she was at school. As I say, your mother looked splendid. You, on the other hand, look dreadful. It must stop, this foolishness, Raul. Eleven missions in a week.'
'Twelve,' Montera said. 'You forget today. And could you kindly get them to do something about the bombs? They will persist in not going off a lot of the time. Very annoying, when one has gone to such a great deal of trouble to deliver them.'
'Have a drink,' Lami Dozo said.
'An excellent idea.' Montera called a mess waiter over. 'Tea. My usual.' He turned to the General. 'Will you join me?'
'Tea?' Lami Dozo said. 'Good God, what's got into you?'
Montera nodded to the waiter who departed. 'Nothing. It's just that a friend of mine when I was in London persuaded me that coffee wasn't good for me.'
'Who is this Gabrielle whose name they tell me is painted on the nose of your Skyhawk?'
'The woman I love,' Raul Montera said simply.
'Have I had the pleasure of meeting her?'
'No. When she isn't living in London, she lives in Paris. Next question.'
'Paris? How interesting. If you had time, you could look her up.'
'I don't understand?'
'You're flying to Paris tomorrow. I'm taking you back to Buenos Aires with me now. Oh, and Galtieri would like a word before you leave.'
'I think perhaps you'd better explain,' Montera said.
Which Lami Dozo did as briefly as possible. When he was finished he said, 'Well, what do you think?'
'I think the world has gone mad,' Raul Montera told him. 'But who am I to argue.'
'It could win us the war, Raul.'
'Win us the war?' Montera laughed harshly. 'We're back with old movies on television, General. We've lost this war already. It should never have started. But by all means send me off to Paris to play games while these boys here continue to die.'
The waiter returned with the tray at that moment and Montera poured himself a cup of tea with hands that shook slightly.
He raised the cup to his lips and drank. 'Much better for you than coffee,' he said and smiled, remembering that morning in Kensington, a thousand years ago, in the bath with Gabrielle.
Lami Dozo looked concerned. 'You've done too much, old friend. You need a rest. Come on, let's go.'
'You think I'm going
Similar Books
