JACK HIGGINS

WRATH OF THE LION

Contents

Title Page Publisher’s Note Dedication Foreword Chapter One: Storm Warning Chapter Two: To Sup With The Devil Chapter Three: London Confidential Chapter Four: G3 Chapter Five: Passage By Night Chapter Six: Iron Grant Chapter Seven: On The Reef Chapter Eight: The Man From Tangiers Chapter Nine: The Butcher Of Perak Chapter Ten: An Affair Of Honour Chapter Eleven: In A Lonely Place Chapter Twelve: To The Dark Tower Chapter Thirteen: Council Of War Chapter Fourteen: Force Of Arms Chapter Fifteen: The Fleur De Lys Chapter Sixteen: Sea Fury Chapter Seventeen: The Run To The Island Chapter Eighteen: Last Round About the Author Also By Jack Higgins Copyright About the Publisher

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

WRATH OF THE LION was first published in the UK by John Lang in 1964 and later by Signet in 1996, but has been out of print for some years.

In 2008, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back WRATH OF THE LION for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.

For Joe Cooper – good friend

FOREWORD

This was the first book I wrote that expressed my enduring love for the Channel Islands. St Pierre is a fictional island – at the time of writing it was not fashionable to use real locations – but is heavily based on Alderney. The themes introduced here – boats at sea in bad weather, action at night and diving – have appeared in many of my books since then, and reflect my own abiding passion for scuba-diving.

The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.

William Blake

1

Storm Warning

The graticules misted over, momentarily obscured by a curtain of green water, but as the tip of the periscope broke through to the surface the small untidy freighter jumped into focus with astonishing clarity. Lieutenant Fenelon gripped the handles of the eyepiece and his breath escaped in a long sigh.

Beside him, Jacaud said, ‘The Kontoro?’

Fenelon nodded. ‘Not more than five hundred yards away.’

Jacaud dropped his cigarette and ground it into the deck with his heel. ‘Let me see.’

Fenelon stood back, conscious of the hollowness at the base of his stomach. He was twenty-six years of age and had never seen action, never known what war was like except through the eyes of other men. But this – this was a new sensation. He felt strangely dizzy and passed a hand across his eyes as he waited.

Jacaud grunted and turned. He was a big, dangerous-looking man badly in need of a shave, a jagged scar bisecting his right cheek.

‘Nice of them to be on time.’

Fenelon took another look. The Kontoro moved slowly to the right across the little black lines etched on the glass of the periscope and his throat went dry. He was already beginning to taste a little of that special excitement that takes possession of the hunter when his quarry is in plain sight.

‘One torpedo,’ he said softly. ‘That’s all it would take.’

Jacaud was watching him, a strange, sardonic smile on his face. ‘What would be the point? No one would ever know.’

‘I suppose not.’ Fenelon called the control room from his voice-pipe. ‘Steer one-oh-five and prepare to surface.’

He whipped the periscope down, the hiss it made as it slid into its well mingling with the clamour of the alarm klaxon. As he turned, brushing sweat from his eyes, Jacaud took a Lüger from his pocket. He removed the clip, checked it with the rapidity of the expert and slammed it back into the butt with a click that somehow carried with it a harsh finality.

He lit another cigarette. When he looked up he was no longer smiling.

In the wheelhouse of the Kontoro Janvier, the first officer, yawned as he bent over the chart. He made a quick calculation and threw down his pencil. By dead reckoning they were forty miles west of Ushant and the weather forecast wasn’t good. Winds of gale force reported imminent in sea areas Rockall, Shannon, Sole and Finisterre.

For the moment there was only an unnatural calm, the sea lifting in a great oily swell. Janvier was tired, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep. A native of Provence, he had never managed to get used to the cold of these northern seas and he shivered with distaste as he gazed out into the grey dawn.

Behind him the door to the companionway clicked open and the steward entered holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. He gave one to Janvier and the other to the helmsman, taking his place at the wheel for a few moments while the man drank.

Janvier opened the door and walked out on to the bridge. He stood at the rail drinking his coffee and breathing deeply of the cold morning air, feeling considerably more cheerful. Once across Biscay there was the long run south to look forward to – Maderia, then the Cape and sun all the way. He finished his coffee, emptied the dregs over the side and started to turn.

A hundred yards to starboard there was a sudden surge in the oily water. It boiled in a white froth and a submarine broke through to the surface, strange and alien like some primeval creature in the dawn of time.

Janvier stood at the rail, trapped by surprise. As he watched, the conning-tower hatch opened and a young officer in peaked cap appeared, followed by a sailor who immediately hoisted a small ensign. A sudden gust of wind lifted it stiffly, the red, white and blue of the tricolour standing out vividly against the grey clouds.

The steward emerged from the wheelhouse and stood at the rail. ‘What do you make of her, sir?’

Janvier shrugged. ‘God knows. Better get the captain.’

A third sailor appeared in the conning tower, a signalling lamp in his hands. The submarine moved in closer, narrowing the gap, and the lamp started to wink rapidly.

A reserve naval officer, Janvier had no difficulty in reading the signal for himself. When he had deciphered it he stood at the rail frowning for a moment, then went into the wheelhouse and unhooked the signal-lamp.

As he moved back to the rail, the light flickered again from the conning tower, repeating her request. As Janvier replied with the ‘Message received’ signal, the captain came up the ladder from the well-deck, the quartermaster close behind.

Henri Duclos was nearly fifty, and after thirty years at sea, five of them as a corvette captain with the Free French Navy, he found it difficult to be surprised by anything.

‘What’s all this?’ he demanded.

‘They’ve made the same signal twice,’ Janvier told him.

‘“Heave to. I wish to come aboard.”’

‘What have you replied?’

‘Message received.’

Duclos went into the wheelhouse and came back with a pair of binoculars. He examined the submarine for a moment and grunted. ‘She’s French all right. I can see the uniforms. Small for a sub, though.’ He handed the binoculars to the quartermaster. ‘What do you make of her?’

The old man took his time and then nodded. ‘L’Alouette. I saw her in Oran last year when the fleet was exercising. An ex-U-boat. Experimental job the Germans were working on at the end of the war. One of those the navy took over.’

‘So now we know who she is,’ Duclos said. ‘The point is what in the hell does she want with us?’ He turned to Janvier. ‘Ask her to be more explicit.’

There was a pause while the lamps flickered again and Janvier turned blankly. ‘She says: “Imperative I board you. Matter of national importance. Please observe radio silence.”

The lamp on the conning tower of the submarine was still. ‘What shall I reply, sir?’ Janvier said.

Duclos raised the binoculars to his eyes for a moment then took them down. ‘What can you reply? If it’s important enough for them to send a blasted sub after us, then it’s important. Signal: “Come aboard.”’ He grimaced at the quartermaster. ‘I was looking forward to all that sun. My rheumatism’s been killing me lately. Let’s hope we don’t have to go into Brest.’

The quartermaster shrugged. ‘Stranger things are happening in the Republic these days.’

‘Which republic?’ Duclos demanded sardonically. ‘Stand to all hands and get a ladder over the side.’

The quartermaster moved away and Janvier lowered the lamp. ‘They thank us for our cooperation.’

‘Do they, now?’ Duclos observed. ‘Let’s hope they aren’t wasting our time. Stop all engines.’

Janvier moved into the wheelhouse and Duclos took out his pipe and filled it from a worn leather pouch, watching the submarine as he did so. The forward hatch was opened and a large yellow dinghy hauled out and inflated. As the freighter started to slow, the two vessels drifted together until finally the gap had narrowed to no more than twenty or thirty yards.

The submarine commander climbed down the ladder from the conning tower and paused at the bottom, watching the half-dozen sailors working on the dinghy. He was slim and rather boyish in his reefer jacket and rubber boots, and the peaked cap was tilted rakishly to one side. He glanced up at Duclos, smiled and waved, then walked along the hull and stepped down into the dinghy.

He was followed by half a dozen sailors, most of whom carried sub-machine-guns slung across their backs. Four of them paddled the boat across the narrow strip of water towards the ladder that had been dropped over the side of the Kontoro. Two sailors, still standing by the forward hatch of the submarine, carefully paid out a connecting line.

‘Carrying a lot of hardware, aren’t they?’ Janvier said.

Duclos nodded. ‘I don’t like the look of this at all. It could be messy enough to rub off on all of us. Perhaps they’re after someone in the crew. An O.A.S. man trying to get out of the country or something like that.’

The sailors came over the side quickly. Three of them unslung their sub-machine-guns and stayed in the well-deck and the young officer mounted the ladder to the upper deck, briskly followed by the other three.

He held out his hand and smiled. ‘Captain Duclos? My name is Fenelon. Sorry about all this, but I’m only obeying orders, you understand.’

The man who came up the ladder next had a scarred and brutal face and cropped hair. Like Fenelon, he wore a naval reefer jacket and rubber boots, but no cap. He leaned casually against the rail and lit a cigarette. The other two sailors spaced themselves behind Fenelon, machine-guns ready.

Duclos began to feel distinctly uneasy. ‘Look, what’s going on? What’s this all about?’

‘All in good time,’ Fenelon said. ‘You complied with my request to maintain radio silence?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Fenelon turned and nodded briefly to one of the sailors, who crossed the deck to the wireless room which stood at the rear of the wheelhouse, opened the door and went inside.

A cry of alarm was followed by a burst of fire. A moment later the radio operator staggered through the door, blood on his face. He dropped to his knees and Janvier moved quickly to pick him up.

‘The radio,’ the man moaned. ‘He put a burst through it.’

There was a sudden, ugly murmur from the crew in the well-deck that was answered by a volley of firing, bullets hissing through the steel rigging lines. Duclos glanced over the rail and saw that a heavy machine-gun had been mounted on a swivel on the rim of the conning tower. Even allowing for the difference in height between the two vessels, it was still capable of reducing most of the deck area of the Kontoro to a bloody shambles.

He turned slowly, his face pale. ‘Who are you?’

Fenelon smiled. ‘Exactly what we seem, Captain. The commanding officer and crew of the submarine L’Alouette. Under special orders, but serving France, I assure you.’

‘What do you want?’ Duclos said.

‘One of your passengers, Pierre Bouvier. I understand he is travelling with you as far as Madeira?’

Duclos’s rage, hardly contained, flooded out in a roar of anger. ‘By God, I’ll see you in hell first! I’m still captain of this ship.’

Still leaning comfortably against the rail, Jacaud pulled the Lüger from his pocket and shot him neatly through the left leg. Duclos screamed as the heavy slug splintered his knee-cap and rolled over on the deck, face twisted in agony.

‘To encourage the rest of you,’ Jacaud said calmly. ‘Now get Bouvier up here.’

As Janvier turned, a quiet voice said: ‘No need, monsieur. He is here.’

The man who stepped out of the saloon companionway was well past middle age. Tall and thin with stooping shoulders, he had the angular bony face of the ascetic and thinning grey hair. He wore a raincoat over pyjamas and a small grey-haired woman clutched his arm fearfully. Behind them, two other passengers, clothes hastily pulled on, hesitated in the doorway.

‘You are Pierre Bouvier?’ Fenelon demanded.

‘That is correct.’

Jacaud nodded to one of the sailors. ‘Bring him over here.’

The woman’s voice lifted at once, but Bouvier quietened her and allowed himself to be led forward. The sailor placed him with his back to the rail and went and stood beside Jacaud.

‘What do you want with me?’ Bouvier said.

‘A month ago at Fort-Neuf you were public prosecutor at a trial,’ Fenelon said. ‘A trial at which six good friends of ours received the death sentence.’

‘So, the O.A.S. is in this?’ Bouvier shrugged. ‘I did my duty as I saw it. No man can do more.’

‘You will, I am sure, allow us the same privilege, monsieur.’ Fenelon produced a document from his pocket, unfolded it and read rapidly. ‘“Pierre Bouvier, I must inform you that you have been tried in your absence and found guilty of the crime of treason against the Republic by a military tribunal of the Council of National Resistance.”’

He paused and Bouvier cut in gently, ‘And the sentence of the court is death?’

‘Naturally,’ Fenelon said. ‘Have you anything to say?’

Bouvier shrugged and an expression of contempt crossed his face. ‘Say? Say what? There is no charge to answer. I know it and you know it. Frenchmen everywhere will –’

Jacaud plucked the sub-machine-gun from the hands of the sailor standing next to him, aimed quickly and fired a long burst that drove Bouvier back against the rail. He spun round, the material of his raincoat bursting into flame as bullets hammered across his back, and fell to the deck.

His wife cried his name once, took a single step forward and fainted, one of the passengers catching her as she fell backwards.

From the well-deck there was a strange, muted sigh from the crew and then there was only silence. Jacaud tossed the machine-gun to the sailor he had taken it from and went down the ladder without a backward glance. Fenelon looked as if he might be sick at any moment. He nodded to his men and hurriedly followed the big man, missing a step halfway down and almost falling to the deck.

They went over the side one by one and from the conning tower of the submarine the heavy machine-gun covered them menacingly. When they were all in the dinghy the sailors standing by the forward hatch hauled on the line quickly.

They left the dinghy to drift and everyone scrambled down through the hatch except Fenelon, who walked along the hull and climbed the ladder to the conning tower. He stood looking up at the freighter for a moment as the two vessels drifted apart, and on the Kontoro there was a strange, uncanny silence.

The two sailors dismounted the machine-gun and disappeared. Fenelon remained only a moment or two longer before following. The conning-tower hatch clanged shut, the sound echoing flatly across the water.

On the Kontoro it was as if a spell had been broken and everyone surged forward to the rail. Janvier had never felt quite so helpless in his life before and for some unaccountable reason was strangely close to tears.

In the distance the wind was already beginning to lift the waves into whitecaps and he remembered the gale warning. L’Alouette sank beneath the waves like a grey ghost, the tricolour waved bravely, then that too disappeared and there was only the sea.

2

To Sup with the Devil

A thin sea fog rolled in from Southampton Water as the taxi turned the corner and pulled into the kerb. Anne Grant peered out through the window at the dim bulk of the building rearing into the night.

The original structure had been Georgian, so much was obvious, but the years had left their mark. A line of uneven steps lifted to the door, the paint cracked and peeling in the diffused yellow light of a street-lamp. Above it a small glass sign said Regent Hotel.

She tapped on the partition and the driver opened it. ‘Are you sure this is the place?’

‘Regent Hotel, Farthing Lane. That’s what you said and that’s where I’ve brought you,’ the man replied. ‘It’s only a doss-house, lady. The sort of place sailors come to for a kip on their first night ashore. What did you expect – the Ritz?’

She opened the door and got out, hesitating for a moment as she gazed up at the damp, crumbling façade of the hotel. Except for the lapping of water against the wharf pilings on the other side of the street, it was completely quiet. When a café door was opened somewhere in the middle distance the music and laughter might have been coming from another planet. She gave the driver ten shillings, told him to wait and went up the steps.

The corridor was dimly lit, a flight of stairs rising into the shadows at the far end. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the stale smell compounded of cooking odours and urine and moved forward.

There was a door to the left, the legend Bar etched in acid on its frosted-glass panel. When she opened it she found herself in a long, narrow room, the far end shrouded in darkness. An old marble-topped bar fronted one wall, a cracked mirror behind it, and a man leaned beside the beer pumps reading a newspaper.

In one corner a drunk sprawled across a table face-down, his breath whistling uneasily through the stillness. Two men sat beside a small coal fire talking softly as they played cards. They turned to look at her and she closed the door and walked past them.

The barman was old and balding, with the sagging, disillusioned face of a man who had got past being surprised at anything. He folded his paper neatly and pushed it under the bar.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m looking for a Mr Van Sondergard,’ she said. ‘I understand he’s staying here.’

Beyond the barman the two men by the fire were watching her in the mirror. One of them was small and squat with an untidy black beard. His companion was at least six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face and hands that never stopped moving, shuffling the cards ceaselessly. He grinned and she returned his gaze calmly for a moment and looked away.

‘Sondergard?’ the barman said.

‘She’ll be meaning the Norwegian,’ the tall man said in a soft Irish voice.

‘Oh, that fella?’ The barman nodded. ‘Left yesterday.’

He ran a cloth over the surface of the bar and Anne Grant said blankly: ‘But that isn’t possible. I only hired him last week through the seamen’s pool. I’ve a new motor-cruiser waiting at Lulworth now. He’s supposed to run her over to the Channel Islands tomorrow.’

‘You’ll have a job catching him,’ the Irishman cut in. ‘He shipped out as quartermaster on the Ben Alpin this morning. Suez and all points east.’ He got to his feet and crossed the room slowly. ‘Anything I can do?’

Before she could reply a voice cut in harshly: ‘How about some service this end for a change?’

She turned in surprise, realising for the first time that a man stood in the shadows at the far end of the bar. The collar of his reefer jacket was turned up and a peaked cap shaded a face that was strangely white, the eyes like dark holes.

The barman moved towards him and the Irishman leaned against the bar and grinned at Anne. ‘How about a drink?’

She shook her head gently, turned and walked to the door. She went out into the corridor and paused at the top of the steps. The taxi had gone and the fog was much thicker now, rolling in across the harbour, swirling round the street-lamps like some living thing.

She went down the steps and started along the pavement. When she reached the first lamp she paused and looked back. The Irishman and his friend were standing in the doorway. As she turned to move on, they came down the steps and moved after her.

Neil Mallory lit another cigarette, raised his whisky up to the light, then set it down. ‘This glass is dirty.’

The barman walked forward, a truculent frown on his face. ‘And what do you expect me to do about it?’

‘Get me another one,’ Mallory said calmly.

It was some indefinable quality in the voice, a look in the dark eyes, that made the barman swallow his angry retort and force a smile. He filled a fresh glass and pushed it across.

‘We aim to please.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Mallory said, his eyes following the Irishman and his friend as they went through the door after the woman. He took the whisky down in one easy swallow and went after them.

He stood at the top of the steps listening, but the fog smothered everything, even sound. A ship moved across the water, its fog-horn muted, alien and strange, touching something deep inside him. He shivered involuntarily. It was at that moment that Anne Grant cried out.

He went down the steps and stood listening, head slightly forward. The cry sounded again from the left, curiously flat and muffled by the fog, and he started to run.

He turned the corner on to a wharf at the far end of the street, running silently on rubber-soled feet, and took them by surprise. The two men were holding the struggling woman on the ground in the yellow light of a street-lamp.

As the Irishman turned in alarm, Mallory lifted a foot into his face. The man staggered back with a cry, rolled over the edge of the wharf and fell ten feet into the soft sludge of the mudbank.

The bearded man pulled a knife from his pocket and Mallory backed away. The man grinned and rushed him. As the knife came up, Mallory grabbed for the wrist, twisting the arm up and out to one side, taut as a steel bar. The man screamed like a woman and dropped the knife. Mallory struck him a savage blow across the side of the neck with his forearm and he crumpled to the ground.

Anne Grant leaned against the wall, her face pale in the sickly yellow light, blood streaking one cheek from a deep scratch. She laughed shakily and brushed a tendril of dark hair from her forehead.

‘You don’t do things by halves, do you?’

‘What’s the point?’ he said.

Her Jersey suit was soiled and bedraggled, the blouse ripped to the waist. When she moved forward, she limped heavily on her right foot. She stopped to pick up her handbag and the bearded man groaned and rolled on his back.

She looked down at him for a moment, then turned to Mallory. ‘Are you going to call the police?’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘Not particularly.’ She started to shake slightly. ‘Suddenly it seems colder.’

He slipped off his reefer jacket and hung it around her shoulders. ‘What you need is a drink. We’ll go back to the hotel. You can use my room while I get you a taxi.’

She nodded down at the bearded man. ‘Will he be all right?’

‘His kind always are.’

He took her arm. They walked to the corner and turned into the street. It started to rain, a thin drizzle that beaded the iron railings like silver. There was a dull, aching pain in her ankle and the old houses floated in the fog, unreal and insubstantial, part of the dark dream from which she had yet to awaken, and the pavement seemed to move beneath her feet.

His arm was instantly around her, strong and reassuring, and she turned and smiled into the strange, pale face, the dark eyes. ‘I’ll be all right. A little dizzy, that’s all.’

The hotel sign swam out of the fog to meet them and they went through the entrance and mounted the rickety stairs. His room was at the end of the corridor and he opened the door, switched on the light and motioned her inside.

‘Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.’

The room had that strange, rather dead, atmosphere typical of cheap hotels the world over. There was a strip of worn carpet on the floor, an iron bed, a cheap wardrobe and locker. The one touch of luxury was the washbasin in the corner by the window and she hobbled across to it.

Surprisingly, there was plenty of hot water and she washed her face and hands, then examined herself in the mirror that was screwed to the wall above the basin. The scratch on her cheek was only superficial, but her suit was ruined. Otherwise she seemed to have sustained no real damage. She was sitting on the edge of the bed examining her ankle when he returned.

He placed a half-bottle of brandy and two glasses on top of the bedside locker and dropped to one knee beside her. ‘Any damage?’

She shook her head. ‘A nasty graze, that’s all.’

He pulled a battered fibre suitcase from under the bed and took out a heavy fisherman’s sweater which he dropped into her lap. ‘You’d better put that on. You’re wet through.’

When she had pulled it over her head and rolled up the long sleeves, he rested her right foot on his knee and bandaged the damaged ankle expertly with a folded handkerchief. She watched quietly.

He was of medium height, with broad shoulders, and wore the sort of clothes common to sailors. A cheap blue-flannel shirt and heavy working trousers in some dark material, held up by a broad leather belt with a brass buckle. But this was no ordinary man. He had a strange, hard enigmatic face, the face of a man few would care to trifle with. The skin was clear and bloodless; black, crisp hair in a point to the forehead. The eyes were the strangest feature, so dark that all light died in them.

On the wharf he had been terrible in his anger, competent and deadly, and when he looked up suddenly his dark eyes stared through her like glass. For the first time that night genuine fear moved inside her and then his whole face creased into a smile of quite devastating charm, so great, that he seemed to undergo a complete personality change.

‘You look about ten years old in that sweater.’

She smiled warmly and held out her hand. ‘My name is Anne Grant and I’m very grateful to you.’

‘Mallory,’ he said. ‘Neil Mallory.’

He touched her hand briefly, opened the brandy, poured a generous measure into one of the glasses and passed it to her. ‘I got the barman to phone for a taxi. It might be some time before it gets here.’

‘I’d like to know why the driver who brought me didn’t wait,’ she said. ‘I asked him to.’

‘They’re not too keen on hanging around the dock area at night. It’s a rough place and taxi-drivers are obvious targets.’ He grinned. ‘That goes double for good-looking young women, by the way.’

She smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t rub it in. I’d no idea what I was letting myself in for, but I was getting desperate. I’d been waiting in Lulworth for someone for most of the day. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to show up I decided to come looking for him.’

‘Van Sondergard?’ Mallory said. ‘I heard you ask the barman about him.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘He had a room along the corridor from here. I had a drink with him once when he came in the bar. Nothing more than that. Where did you meet him?’

‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘The whole thing was arranged through the seamen’s pool. I told them I need someone to take a motor-cruiser across to the Channel Islands for me and captain her for a month or so until my sister-in-law and I were capable of looking after her ourselves. I also told them we’d prefer someone who’d done a little skin-diving. They put me in touch with Sondergard.’ She sighed. ‘He seemed rather keen on the idea. I’d love to know what changed his mind.’

‘It was very simple really. He was sitting in the bar half drunk, feeling rather sorry for himself, when one of his old captains walked in, due out on the morning tide for Suez and short of a quartermaster. Three drinks was all it took for Sondergard to pack his duffel and go off with him. Sailors have a habit of doing things like that.’

He swallowed his brandy, took out an old leather cigarette case and offered her one. ‘Are you a sailor, Mr Mallory,’ she asked as he struck a match and held it forward in cupped hands.

He shrugged. ‘Amongst other things. Why?’

‘I wasn’t sure. If I’d been asked I’d have said you were a soldier.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I think you could say I know the breed. My father was one and so was my husband. He was killed in Korea.’

There didn’t seem anything to say and Mallory lit a cigarette and walked to the window. He peered outside, then turned.

‘The motor-cruiser you mentioned, what kind is it?’

‘A thirty-footer by Akerboon. Twin screw, steel hull.’

‘Only the best?’ He looked suitably impressed. ‘How’s she powered?’

‘Penta petrol engine. She’ll do about twenty-two knots at full stretch.’

‘Depth-sounder, automatic steering, every latest refinement?’ He grinned. ‘I’d say she must have cost you all of seven thousand pounds.’

‘Not me,’ she said. ‘My father-in-law. All I did was obey orders. He told me exactly what he wanted.’

‘Sounds like a man who’s used to getting his own way.’

She smiled. ‘A habit he finds hard to break. He’s a major-general.’

‘Grant?’ Mallory frowned. ‘Are you talking about Iron Grant? The Western Desert man?’

She nodded. ‘That’s right. He’s been living in the Channel Islands since he left the army. I keep house for him.’

‘What does the old boy do with himself these days?’

‘He’s almost blind now,’ she said, ‘but he’s still amazingly active and he’s made quite a reputation for himself as a war historian. He uses a tape-recorder and his daughter Fiona and I type up his notes for him.’

‘You said you wanted Sondergard to have had some experience as a skin-diver? Why was that?’

‘It wasn’t essential, but he could have been useful. In the fifteenth century a small fishing village and fortress on Ile de Roc were inundated. The ruins are now about eight fathoms down a few hundred yards off-shore. We’re making a survey. Fiona and I have been doing most of the diving so far.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t find any difficulty in getting another man from the pool to take on a job like that.’

As he looked out of the window and down into the yellow fog she said quietly, ‘I was wondering whether you might be interested?’

He turned slowly, a slight frown on his face. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘What is there to know? You told me yourself you were a sailor.’

‘From necessity,’ he said. ‘Not choice.’

‘You couldn’t handle Foxhunter, you mean?’

‘Is that her name? Oh, yes, I’ve handled boats like that before. I’ve even done a little skin-diving.’

‘Eighty pounds a month and all found,’ she said. ‘Does that tempt you?’

He grinned reluctantly. ‘It does indeed, Mrs Grant.’

She held out her hand in a strangely boyish gesture. ‘I’m glad.’

He held it for a moment, looking into her eyes gravely. Her smile faded, and again she was conscious of that vague irrational fear. Something must have shown on her face. Mallory’s hand tightened on hers and he smiled gently. In that single moment her fear disappeared and an inexplicable tenderness flooded through her. A horn sounded outside in the street and he helped her to her feet.

‘Time to go. Where are you staying?’

‘An hotel in the town centre.’

‘You should cause quite a sensation going through the foyer,’ he told her as he took her arm and helped her across to the door.

The fog was clearing a little as he handed her into the taxi. She wound down the window and leaned out to him. ‘I’ve several things to attend to tomorrow, so I can’t get down to Lulworth again until the evening. I’ll see you down there.’

He nodded. ‘You could do with a morning in bed.’

She smiled wanly in the pale light, but before she could reply the taxi moved away. Mallory stood looking into the fog, listening to the sound of the engine die into the distance, then turned and went up the steps.

When he entered the bar the barman was still reading his newspaper. ‘Where are they?’ Mallory asked.

The man lifted the flap and jerked his thumb at the rear door. ‘In there.’

When Mallory opened the door he found the Irishman sitting at a wooden table beside a coal fire, a basin of hot water in front of him. His clothes were plastered with mud and he was wiping blood from a gash that ran from his ear to the point of his chin. The man with the black beard lay on an old horse-hair sofa, clutching his right arm and moaning softly.

The Irishman lurched to his feet, his eyes wild. ‘You bastard. What were you trying to do, kill us?’

‘I told you to frighten the girl a little, that’s all, but you tried to be clever. Anything you got, you asked for.’ Mallory took several banknotes from his wallet and tossed them on to the table. ‘That should settle the account.’

‘Ten quid!’ the Irishman cried. ‘Ten lousy quid!’ What about Freddy? You’ve broken his arm.’

‘No skin off my nose,’ Mallory said calmly. ‘Tell him to try the Health Service.’

He walked out and the Irishman slumped into his chair again, head swimming. The barman came in and stood looking at him. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Bloody awful. Who is that bastard?’

‘Mallory?’ The barman shrugged. ‘I know one thing. He’s the coldest fish I’ve ever met and I’ve known a few.’ He looked down at the bearded man and shook his head. ‘Freddy doesn’t look too good. Maybe I should phone for an ambulance?’

‘You can do what the hell you like,’ the Irishman said violently.

The barman moved to the door, shaking his head. ‘You know what they say. When you sup with the devil you need a long spoon. I reckon you and Freddy got a little too close.’

He sighed heavily and disappeared into the bar.

3

London Confidential

The room was half in shadow, the only light the shaded lamp on the desk. The man who sat sideways in the swivel chair, gazing out through the broad window at the glittering lights of London, was small, the parchment face strangely ageless. It was the face of an extraordinary human being, a man who had known pain and who had succeeded in moving beyond it.

The green intercom on his desk buzzed once and he swung round in the chair and flicked a switch. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Ashford is here, Sir Charles.’

‘Send him in.’

The door opened soundlessly and Ashford advanced across the thick carpet, a tall, greying man in his forties with the worried face of the professional civil servant who had spent too much of his life close to the seats of power.

He sat down in the chair opposite, opened his briefcase and produced a file which he placed carefully on the desk. Sir Charles pushed a silver cigarette box across to him.

‘What’s the verdict?’

‘Oh, the P.M. agrees with you entirely. The whole thing must be investigated. But we don’t want the newspapers getting on to it. You’ll have to be damn’ careful.’

‘We usually are,’ Sir Charles said frostily.

‘There’s just one thing the P.M. isn’t too happy about.’ Ashford opened the file on the desk. This fellow Mallory. Is he really the best man for the job?’

‘More than that,’ Sir Charles said. ‘He’s the best man I’ve got and he’s worked with the Deuxième Bureau before with some success. In fact, they’ve asked for him twice. His mother was French, of course. They like that.’

‘It’s this shocking affair in Perak in 1954 that the P.M. isn’t happy about. Dammit all, the man was lucky to escape prison.’

Sir Charles pulled the file across the desk and turned it round. ‘This is the record of a quite exceptional officer.’ He put on a pair of rimless spectacles and started to read aloud, selecting items at random. ‘“Special Air Service during the war … dropped into France three times … betrayed to the Gestapo … survived six months at Sachsenhausen … paratroop captain in Palestine … major in Korea … two years in a Chinese prison camp in Manchuria … released 1953 … posted to Malaya, January 1954, on special service.”’ He closed the file and looked up. ‘A lieutenant-colonel at thirty. Probably the youngest in the army at that time.’

‘And kicked-out at thirty-one,’ Ashford countered.

Sir Charles shrugged. ‘He was told to clear the last Communist guerrilla out of Perak and he did it. A little ruthlessly perhaps, but he did it. His superiors then heaved a sigh of relief and threw him to the wolves.’

‘And you were waiting to catch him, I suppose?’

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘I let him drift for a year. Bombay, Alexandria, Algiers. I knew where he was. When I was satisfied that the iron was finally in his soul I pulled him in. He’s worked for me ever since.’

Ashford sighed and got to his feet. ‘Have it your own way, but if anything goes wrong …’

Sir Charles smiled softly. ‘I know, I end up like Neil Mallory. Out on my ear.’

Ashford flushed, turned and crossed the room quickly. The door closed behind him and Sir Charles sat there thinking about it all. After a while he flicked a switch on the intercom.

‘Send in Mallory.’

He lit a cigarette and stood by the window, gazing out over the city, still the greatest in the world, whatever anyone tried to say. When he opened the window he could smell the river and the sound from a ship’s hooter drifted faintly on the quiet air as it moved down from the Pool.

He was tired and there was a slight ache somewhere behind his right eye. Something he should really see his doctor about. On the other hand, perhaps it was better not to know? He wondered whether Mallory would survive long enough to ever take his place behind the desk in this quiet room. It would have been a comforting thought, but he knew it was rather unlikely.

The door clicked open behind him and closed again. When he turned Mallory was standing beside the desk. An easy-fitting suit of dark worsted outlined his broad shoulders and in the diffused white light his aquiline face gave an impression of strength and breeding, not out of place anywhere.

Sir Charles moved back to his chair and sat down. ‘How are you, Neil?’

‘Pretty fit, sir. I’ve just had six weeks on the island.’

‘I know. How’s your shoulder?’

‘No more trouble. They’ve done a good job.’

Sir Charles nodded. ‘You’ll have to be a little more careful next time, won’t you?’ He opened a file, took out a typewritten document and pushed it across. ‘Have a look at that.’

He occupied himself with some other papers and Mallory skimmed through the three closely typed sheets of foolscap. When he had finished he handed them back, face expressionless.

‘Where’s the Kontoro now?’

‘The destroyer which found her took her straight into Brest. For the time being the French are holding the lid down tight. Complete security and so on. They can’t keep it quiet for more than three or four days. These things always leak out sooner or later.’

‘What are they trying to do about it?’

‘The usual round-up of anyone who’s even remotely suspected of being connected with the O.A.S. or C.N R. On top of that, the Deuxième Bureau and the Brigade Criminelle, backed by every available military security agent, have been given one order. Find that submarine.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought that would be too difficult.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Sir Charles said. ‘For one thing this is no ordinary submarine. She’s quite small. A thing the Germans were working on at the end of the war.’

‘What’s her radius?’

‘Not much over a thousand.’

‘Which means she could be based in Spain or even Portugal?’

‘The French are working along those lines right now, but they’ve got to be careful. On top of that, they’re combing the entire Biscay coast, every creek, every island.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I’ve a horrible feeling that they’re completely wasting their time.’

‘I wondered when you were coming to that,’ Mallory said.

Sir Charles grinned impishly like a schoolboy, opened a drawer and took out a map which he unfolded across the desk. It was a large-scale Admiralty chart of the Channel Islands and the Golfe de St Malo.

‘Ever hear of Philippe de Beaumont?’

‘The paratroop colonel? The one who helped bring de Gaulle back to power?’

‘That’s right. He was one of the leaders of the military coup of May 1958 and a member of the original Committee of Public Safety. Philippe, Comte de Beaumont. Last survivor of one of the greatest of the French military families.’

‘And he’s living in the Channel Islands?’

‘He was the great advocate of a French Algeria. When de Gaulle came down on the side of independence he resigned his commission and left France.’ Sir Charles drew a circle on the chart about thirty miles south-west of Guernsey. ‘There’s an island called Ile de Roc owned by old Hamish Grant.’

‘You mean Iron Grant, the Western Desert general?’

‘That’s right. Been living there for five years with his daughter Fiona, writing up the war. His daughter-in-law Mrs Anne Grant seems to run things. Her husband was killed in Korea. About a mile west of Ile de Roc there’s a smaller island called St Pierre.’

‘And de Beaumont’s living there?’

‘He bought it from Grant two years ago. There’s a sort of castle up on top of the rock, one of those mock-Gothic jobs some crank built during the nineteenth century.’

‘And you think he’s up to no good?’

‘Let’s put it this way. The French have checked on him for two years now and can’t find even the hint of a connection with either the O.A.S. or C.N.R., although he’s known to be sympathetic to their aims. Frankly, even their Foreign Office think he’s simply a grand seigneur who won’t come home because he’s annoyed with the General.’

‘And you don’t agree?’

‘I might have done until yesterday evening.’

‘What happened to change your mind?’

‘I’ve had a man keeping an eye on de Beaumont for a year now, just as a precaution. There’s a small hotel on Ile de Roc. He was working there as barman. He went missing Tuesday. Yesterday evening he drifted in on the evening tide. The police went over from Guernsey and picked up the body. Needless to say there isn’t even a hint of foul play.’

‘You think he may have seen something?’

Sir Charles shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. L’Alouette left Brest on a routine training patrol two days ago. She could have called at St Pierre and our man could have seen her. It’s pretty obvious that he came across something, and the Deuxième agree with me. They’re sending a man across to work with you on this thing.’

‘I wondered when we were coming to that,’ Mallory said.

Sir Charles pushed a file across. ‘Raoul Guyon, aged twenty-nine. He was a captain in a colonial parachute regiment. Went straight to Indo-China from St Cyr in 1952.’

Mallory looked down at the photograph. It showed a young man, slim-hipped and wiry, the sleeves of his camouflaged jacket rolled up to expose sunburnt arms. The calm, sun-blackened face, dark eyes, were shaded by a peaked cap that somehow gave him a strangely sinister, forbidding appearance.

‘Why did he leave the army?’

‘God knows,’ Sir Charles said. ‘I should imagine six years in Algeria was enough for any man. He asked to be placed on unpaid leave and Legrande of the Deuxième offered him a job.’

‘When do I meet him?’

‘You don’t, for the moment. Apparently, he’s quite a talented painter. He’s using that as a cover. Should book in at the hotel on Ile de Roc sometime tomorrow.’

‘What about me?’

‘A little more complicated, I’m afraid. If de Beaumont is up to no good, then he’ll be expecting company. We need to make your background convincing enough to fool him for at least a day or two, and I might as well tell you now that’s all the time we can allow.’

‘What do I do?’ Mallory asked.

Sir Charles opened another file and passed a photo across. The girl who stared out at Mallory was somewhere in her twenties, dark hair close-cropped like a young boy’s, almond-shaped eyes slanting across high cheekbones. She was not beautiful in any conventional sense and yet in a crowd she would have stood out.

‘Anne Grant?’ he said instinctively.

Sir Charles nodded. ‘She came over this morning to finalise the purchase of a thirty-foot motor-cruiser called Foxhunter. It’s moored at Lulworth now. Apparently, she hired a seaman through the pool to skipper the thing for a couple of months till she and her sister-in-law get used to it for themselves. A big boat for a couple of girls.’

Mallory nodded. ‘I ran one in and out of Tangiers for a while back in ’59. Remember?’

‘Think you could handle one again?’

Mallory grinned. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Sir Charles nodded in satisfaction. ‘First you’ll have to get rid of this seaman. After that all you have to do is make sure you get his job.’

‘That shouldn’t prove too difficult.’ Mallory hesitated and went on: ‘Couldn’t we work something out with General Grant? Let him know what we’re after? He’d be certain to co-operate.’

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘Before you knew where you were he’d be running the whole damned show. In any case, I’m never happy about bringing amateurs into these things if it can be avoided. They give the game away too easily. Use him by all means, but only in an extreme situation where there’s no other way.’ He got to his feet abruptly. ‘I want results on this one, Neil, and I want them fast. Cut any corners you have to. I’ll back you all the way.’

One corner of Mallory’s mouth twitched ironically. ‘I seem to remember someone saying that to me once before.’

Sir Charles’s face was grave and dispassionate, the eyes calm, and Mallory knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if necessary the old man would not have the slightest compunction in throwing him to the wolves.

‘I’m sorry, Neil,’ he said.

‘At least I know where I stand with you.’ Mallory shrugged. ‘That’s something.’

Sir Charles took an old gold watch from his pocket and checked it quickly. ‘You’ll have to get moving. I’ve arranged for you to be fully briefed by G₃ at eight o’clock. They’ll give you everything. Money, seaman’s papers and a special transmitter. Report your arrival. After that, radio silence till you have some news. I’ve arranged for three M.T.B.s to proceed to Jersey, ostensibly for shallow-water exercises. The moment we get anything positive from you they’ll move in so fast de Beaumont won’t know what’s hit him.

Mallory walked to the door. As he opened it, the old man said: ‘Good luck, Neil. With the right kind this could turn out to be a pretty straightforward one.

‘Aren’t they all?’ Mallory said dryly, and the door closed gently behind him.

4

G₃

Professor Yoshiyama was little more than five feet in height and wore a judo jacket and trousers many times washed, a black belt around his waist. The face was the man’s most outstanding feature, the skin the colour of parchment and almost transparent. There was nothing weak there. Only strength and intelligence and a kind of gentleness. It could have been that of a saint or scholar. It was, in fact, the face of a great master who had practised his art for more than fifty years.

His voice was dry and rather pedantic, the vowels clipped slightly, but the dozen men sitting cross-legged on the floor were giving him all their attention. High in the balcony of the gymnasium, Mallory leaned on the rail and watched.

‘The literal meaning of the two Japanese characters which make up the word karate is empty hands,’ Yoshiyama said. ‘This refers to the fact that karate developed as a system of self-defence relying solely on unarmed techniques. The system was first developed centuries ago on the island of Okinawa during a time when the inhabitants were forbidden to carry arms on pain of death.’

There was a strangely old-fashioned flavour to everything he said, as if he were repeating a lesson painfully learned. He turned to a large wall chart which carried an outline of a human figure with all vital points, and their respective striking areas, clearly marked.

‘The system consists of techniques of blocking or deflecting an attack and of counter-attacking by punching, striking or kicking.’ He turned, his face bland, expressionless. ‘But there is more to karate that well-practised tricks and physical force.’ He tapped his head. ‘There is also the mental application. You will be taught how to focus all your strength and energy on a single target at any given time. Let me show you what I mean.’

He nodded briefly and his two assistants picked up three lengths of planking. They were perhaps two feet long, each plank an inch thick. The two men took up their positions in front of Yoshiyama, holding the three planks between them and slightly above waist-level. In a single incredibly fluid motion the old man’s left foot stamped forward and his right fist moved up from the waist, knuckles extended. There was a report like a gunshot and the planks split from end to end.

A quick murmur rose from the class and Yoshiyama turned, quite unperturbed. ‘It is also possible to snap a brick in half with the edge of the hand.’ He permitted himself one brief smile. ‘But this requires practice. Major Adams, please.’

A small, wiry, middle-aged man with greying hair and a black patch over his right eye stood up at the back of the class and came forward. Like Yoshiyama, he wore a black belt, but where his left arm should have been a metal limb dangled.

‘You will observe that Major Adams is rather a small man,’ Yoshiyama said. ‘He is also no longer in the prime of life. If we add to this the fact that he has only one arm one would not under normal circumstances give him much hope of surviving any kind of physical assault. As it happens, however, his circumstances are far from normal.’

He nodded to one of his assistants and moved out of the way. The assistant, a young, powerfully built Japanese with dark hair, ran to the far side of the gymnasium. He selected a knife from a table which contained an assortment of weapons, turned and ran forward, a blood-curdling cry surging from his throat.

He swerved to one side, came to a dead stop, then moved in quickly, the knife slashing at the Major’s face. Adams moved with incredible speed, warding off the attacking arm with an extended knife-hand block. At the same moment he fell diagonally forward to one side and delivered a round-house kick to the groin. In what was virtually the same motion he kicked at his opponent’s knee-joint with the same foot. The Japanese somersaulted, ending flat on his back, and the foot thudded across his windpipe.

For a moment they lay there and then both men scrambled to their feet grinning widely. ‘In other circumstances, and had the blows been delivered with full force, my assistant would now be dead,’ Yoshiyama said simply.

Adams picked up a towel, started to wipe sweat from his face and caught sight of Mallory in the gallery. He nodded briefly, said something to Yoshiyama and moved across to the door. Mallory met him in the corridor outside.

‘What are you trying to do, go out in a blaze of glory?’

Adams grinned. ‘Every so often I get so sick of the sight of that damned desk that I could blow my top. Yoshiyama provides a most efficient safety-valve.’ He ran a hand over his right hip and winced slightly. ‘That last fall hurt like hell. I must be getting old.’

As they mounted the stairs at the end of the corridor, Mallory thought about Adams. One of the best agents the department had ever had; all the guts in the world and a mind like a steel trap until the night he’d got too close for someone’s comfort and they’d tied a Mills bomb to the handle of his hotel bedroom in Cairo.

And now he was a desk man, running G₃, the intelligence section that was the pulse-beat of the whole organisation. Some people would have said he was lucky, but not Adams.

He opened a door and walked through a small, neat office. A middle-aged, desiccated-looking spinster with neat grey hair and rimless spectacles sat behind the typewriter. She glanced up, an expression of disapproval on her face, and Adams grinned.

‘Don’t say it, Milly. Just tell them I’m ready.’

He led the way into his own office. Like Sir Charles’s, it commanded a fine view of the river, the desk standing by the window. He opened a cupboard, took out a heavy bathrobe and pulled it on.

‘Sorry about the delay. I thought Sir Charles would keep you for an hour at least.’

‘More like fifteen minutes,’ Mallory said. ‘He always goes straight to the heart of things with the sticky ones.’

‘I wouldn’t call it that,’ Adams said. ‘Interesting more than anything else. Whole thing could be just a storm in a teacup. Let’s go into the projection room.’

He opened the far door and they descended a few steps into a small hall. There were several rows of comfortable seats and a large screen. The place was quite deserted. They sat down and Mallory offered Adams a cigarette.

‘Any gaps in this one?’

Adams exhaled with a sigh of pleasure and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Nothing important, anyway. Has the old man told you much?’

‘He’s outlined the job, told me who the principals are. No more than that.’

‘Let’s get started, then.’ Adams turned and glanced up at the projection box where a dim light showed. ‘Ready when you are.’

A section of film started to run a few moments later. It showed a submarine entering port slowly, her crew lining the deck.

‘To start with, that’s what all the fuss is about,’ Adams said. ‘L’Alouette. Taken at Oran a couple of years ago.’

‘She looks rather small. There can’t be more than a dozen men on deck.’

‘Originally a German U-boat. Type XXIII. Just over a hundred feet long. Does about twelve kilometres submerged. Crew of sixteen.’

‘What about armament?’

‘Two twenty-one-inch torpedoes in the bow and she doesn’t carry spares.’

‘Doesn’t leave much room for mistakes.’

Adams nodded. ‘They never really amounted to anything. This one was built at Deutsches Werft in 1945 and sunk with all hands in the Baltic. She was raised in ’46, refitted and handed over to the French.’

The film ended and a slide appeared. It showed a young French naval officer, eyes serious beneath the uniform cap, the rather boyish face schooled to gravity.

‘Henri Fenelon, full lieutenant. He’s her commander. Age twenty-six, unmarried. Born in Nantes. Father still lives there. Runs a small wine-exporting business.’

Mallory studied the face for a moment or two. ‘Looks weak to me. Ever been in action?’

Adams shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’

Mallory shrugged. ‘He looks as if he could crack easily. What’s his political background?’

‘That’s the surprising thing. We can’t find any evidence of an O.A.S. connection at all.’

‘Probably did it for adventure,’ Mallory said. ‘He only needed half a dozen men in the crew to agree with him. They could have coerced the rest.’

‘Sounds feasible,’ Adams said. ‘Let’s move on.’

Various slides followed. There was an Admiralty chart of Ile de Roc, with the harbour, the hotel and General Grant’s house all clearly marked. St Pierre was little more than a rock lifting a hundred or so feet out of the sea and crowned by the Victorian Gothic Castle.

Mallory shook his head. ‘God knows how they ever managed to build the damned thing out there.’

‘Eighteen-sixty-one,’ Adams said. ‘A self-made industrialist called Bryant. Bit of a megalomaniac. Saw himself as king of the castle and so on. Cost him better than a hundred thousand to build the place and that was real money in those days.’

‘I can’t see a jetty. Is it on the other side?’

‘There’s a cave at the base of the cliffs. If you look carefully you can see the entrance. The jetty’s inside.’

The castle faded and another picture took its place. It was that of a distinguished-looking man with silvering hair, eyes calm in a sensitive, aquiline face.

‘De Beaumont?’ Mallory said.

Adams nodded. ‘Philippe, Comte de Beaumont. One of the oldest of the great French families. He’s even a rather distant blood relation of you-know-who, which makes the whole thing even more complicated.’

‘I know quite a lot about his military history,’ Mallory said. ‘After all, he’s something of a hero to paratroopers the world over. He came over here during the war and joined de Gaulle, didn’t he?’

‘That’s right. Received just about every decoration possible. Afterwards he went to Indo-China as a colonel of colonial paratroops. The Viets picked him up at the surrender of Dien-Bien-Phu in 1954. After his release he returned to France and was posted to Algeria. He was always at loggerheads with the top brass. Once had an argument with the old man himself at an official reception over what constitutes war in the modern sense.’

‘That should have been enough to get him put out to grass on its own.’

Adams shrugged. ‘They needed him, I suppose. After all, he was the most outstanding paratroop colonel in Algeria at that time. Handled all the dirtier jobs the top brass didn’t want to soil its fingers with.’

‘So he helped bring de Gaulle back to power?’

‘That’s right. A prime mover in the Algérie Française movement. The General, of course, kicked him right in the teeth by granting independence to Algeria after all.’

‘And de Beaumont cleared out?’

‘After Challe’s rather abortive little coup last year. Whether or not he was actually mixed up in that little lot we can’t be certain. The point is that he left France and bought this place on St Pierre from Hamish Grant. Caused quite a stir in the French papers at the time.’

‘And he’s kept his nose clean since then?’

‘As a whistle.’ Adams grinned. ‘Even the French can’t turn anything up on him. He runs a boat, by the way. Forty-foot twin-screw motor-yacht named Fleur de Lys. The very latest thing for deep-sea cruising with depth-sounder, automatic pilot and 100 h.p. DAF diesels. A bit of a recluse, but he’s been seen in St Helier occasionally. What do you think?’

‘I’d say he has the kind of inbred arrogance that can only come from a thousand years of always being right, or at least thinking you were,’ Mallory said. ‘Men like him can never sit still. They usually have to be plotting at one thing or another. Comes from that natural assumption that anything conflicting with their own views must be wrong.’

‘Interesting,’ Adams said. ‘He has more the look of a seventeenth-century puritan to me. One of the thin-lipped intolerant variety. A damned good colonel in the New Model Army.’

‘Jesus and no quarter?’ Mallory shook his head. ‘He’s no bigot. Simply a rather arrogant aristocrat with a limited field of vision and an absolute conviction of the rightness of his own actions. When he decides on a plan of attack he follows it through to the bitter end. That’s what made him such an outstanding officer. For men like him the rot sets in only if they step outside themselves and see just how much the whole damned thing is costing.’

‘An interesting analysis, considering you’ve only seen his photo.’

‘I know about him as a soldier,’ Mallory said. ‘At Dien-Bien-Phu they offered to fly him out. He was too valuable to lose. He refused. In his last message he said they’d been wrong from headquarters staff down to himself. That the whole Dien-Bien-Phu strategy had been a terrible mistake. He said that if his men had to stay and pay the price the least he could do was stay and pay it with them.’

‘Which probably accounted for his popularity with the troops,’ Adams said.

‘Men like him are never loved by anyone,’ Mallory said. ‘Even themselves.’

De Beaumont’s picture was replaced by another. The face which stared down at them was strong and brutal, the eyes cold, hair close-cropped.

‘Paul Jacaud,’ Adams said. ‘Aged forty. Parents unknown. He was raised by the madame of a waterfront brothel in Marseilles. Three years in the Resistance, joined the paratroops after the war. He was sergeant-major in de Beaumont’s regiment. Medaille Militaire plus a court-martial for murder that failed for lack of evidence.’

‘And still with his old boss?’

‘That’s right. You can make what you like out of that. Let’s have a look at the angels now.’

A picture of Harnish Grant flashed on the screen, a famous one taken in the Ardennes in the winter of ’44. Montgomery stood beside him, grinning as they examined a map. He was every inch Iron Grant, great shoulders bulging under a sheepskin coat.

‘Quite a man,’ Mallory said.

‘And he hasn’t changed much. Of course, his sight isn’t too good, but he’s still going strong. Written a couple of pretty good campaign histories of the last war.’

‘What about the family?’

‘He’s a widower. Son was killed in Korea. At the moment his household consists of his daughter Fiona, daughter-in-law Anne and an ex-Gurkha naik called Jagbir who was with him during the war. This is the daughter.’

Fiona Grant had long blonde hair and a heart-shaped face that was utterly appealing. ‘Rather a handful, that one,’ Adams said. ‘She was raised in the south of France, which didn’t help. They tried Roedean, but that was a complete fiasco. She was finally settled in a Paris finishing school, which apparently suited her. She’s at home at the moment.’

‘I like her,’ Mallory said. ‘She’s got a good mouth.’

‘Then see what you think of this one. Anne Grant, the old man’s daughter-in-law.’

It was the same photograph that Sir Charles had shown him and Mallory stared up at it, his throat for some unaccountable reason going dry. It was as if they had met before and yet he knew that to be impossible. The almond-shaped eyes seemed to come to life, holding his gaze, and he shook his head slightly.

‘She’s over here now to finalise the purchase of a new boat.’

‘Sir Charles told me that much. What about this man Sondergard she’s hired through the pool?’

‘We’ll ship him out somewhere. There’s no difficulty there. I’ve already got a little scheme in mind to bring you and Anne Grant together.’

They next saw the picture of a Frenchwoman called Juliette Vincente who was working at the hotel on Ile de Roc, Nothing was known against her and she seemed quite harmless, as did Owen Morgan, her employer. When the Welshman’s face faded away, Mallory straightened in his seat, thinking they had finished. To his surprise another face appeared.

He turned to Adams in surprise. ‘But this is Raoul Guyon, the man I’m going to work with. I’ve already seen his picture. What’s the idea?’

Adams shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, but I’m not really happy about the way the French are handling this business. I’ve got a hunch that old spider Legrande and the Deuxième aren’t telling us all they could. Under the circumstances it might prove useful to know everything there is to know about Raoul Guyon. He’s rather unusual.’

Mallory looked again at the photo Sir Charles had shown him. The slim, wiry figure in the camouflage uniform, the sun-blackened face, the calm, expressionless eyes.

‘Tell me about him.’

‘Raoul Guyon, aged twenty-nine. Went straight to Indo-China from St Cyr in 1952. He’s the only known survivor of his particular cadet class for that year, which is enough to set any man apart for a start.’

‘He wasn’t at Dien-Bien-Phu?’

Adams shook his head. ‘No, but he was at plenty of other hot spots. He was up to his ears in it in Algeria. There was some talk of a girl. Moorish, I think. She was murdered by the F.L.N. and it had a big effect on him. He was badly wounded a day or two later.’

There followed a picture of Guyon half raised on a stretcher, his chest heavily bandaged, blood soaking through. The face was sunken, beyond pain, the eyes stared into an abyss of loneliness.

‘There’s a lad who’s been through the fire,’ Mallory said.

‘And then some. Commander of the Legion of Honour, Croix de la Valeur Militaire and half a dozen mentions in despatches. On top of that, he paints like an angel.’

‘A man to be reckoned with.’

‘And don’t you forget it.’

For the next twenty minutes they continued to sit there, discussing questions of time and place, some important technical data and various other items, all of which were relevant to the success of the operation. When they finally returned to the office Adams sat behind his desk and nodded at a large and well-filled in-tray.

‘Look at that lot,’ he said with an expression of disgust. ‘God in heaven, but I’d trade places with you, Neil.’

Mallory grinned. ‘I wonder? Is there anything else?’

Adams shook his head. ‘Call in at the technical branch. They’ve got a rather neat line in transmitters for you. They’ll give you a call-sign, suitable code and so on. Come back in half an hour. I’ll have some identity papers and things ready, plus a rough outline of my little scheme to bring you and Mrs Grant together.’

‘Now that I look forward to,’ Mallory said.

And the strange thing was that he really did. As he went along the corridor and descended the stairs to the technical branch the memory of her haunted him. Those strange eyes searching, looking for something.

He sighed heavily. Taking it all in all, it looked as if this whole affair could become really complicated.

5

Passage by Night

‘Foxhunter! Ahoy! Ahoy! Foxhunter!’

The boat lay at anchor fifty yards out from the beach, her cream and yellow hull a vivid splash of colour against the white cliffs of the cove. A small wind moved in from the sea, lifting the water across the shingle, and darkness was falling fast.

Anne Grant shivered slightly as a light drizzle drifted across her face. She was tired and hungry and her ankle had started to ache again. She opened her mouth to hail the boat a second time and Neil Mallory appeared on deck. He dropped over the stern into the dinghy and rowed towards her.

He was wearing knee-length rubber boots and when the prow of the fibre-glass dinghy ground on the wet shingle he stepped into the shallows and swung it round so that the stern was beached.

He held out his hand for the girl’s suitcase and smiled. ‘How do you feel?’

‘All the better for being here,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day. I had a lot of running around to do.’

She was wearing a tweed suit with a narrow skirt and a sheepskin coat. He helped her into the stern seat, pushed off and rowed for the boat.

Anne took in the flared, raking bow and long, sloping deckhouse of Foxhunter with a conscious pleasure. As she breathed deeply of the good sea air she smiled at Mallory.

‘What do you think of her?’

‘Foxhunter?’ He nodded. ‘She’s a thoroughbred all right, but that’s still an awful lot of boat for two women to handle as a regular thing. How old is your sister-in-law?’

‘Fiona is eighteen, whatever that proves. I think you underrate us.’

‘What about the engines?’ he said. ‘They’ll need looking after.’

‘We’ve no worries there. Owen Morgan, who runs the hotel on the island, is a retired ship’s engineer. He’ll give us any help we need and there’s always Jagbir.’

‘Who’s he?’ Mallory said quickly, remembering that he wasn’t supposed to know.

‘The General’s orderly. He was a naik in a Gurkha regiment. They’ve been together since the early days of the war. He hasn’t had what you would call a formal education, but he’s still the best cook I’ve ever come across, and he has an astonishing aptitude for anything mechanical.’

‘Sounds like a good man to have around the house,’ Mallory said.

They bumped against the side of Foxhunter and he handed her up the short ladder and followed with her suitcase. ‘What time would you like to leave?’

She took the case from him. ‘As soon as you like. Have you eaten?’

‘Not since noon.’

‘I’ll change and make some supper. We can leave afterwards.’

‘When she had gone Mallory pulled the dinghy round to the stern and hoisted it over the rail. By now darkness was falling fast and he turned on the red and green navigation lights and went below.

He found her working at the stove in the galley, wearing old denims and a polo-necked sweater that somehow made her look more feminine than ever. She looked over her shoulder and smiled.

‘Bacon and eggs all right?’

‘Suits me,’ he said.

When it was ready they sat opposite each other at the saloon table and ate in companionable silence. As she poured coffee a sudden flurry of rain drummed against the roof.

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. ‘That doesn’t sound too good. What’s the forecast?’

‘Three-to-four wind – rain squalls. Nothing to get worked up about. Are you worried?’

‘Not in the slightest.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I always like to know what I’m getting into, that’s all.’

‘Don’t we all, Mrs Grant?’ He got to his feet. ‘I think we ought to get started.’

When he went on deck the wind had increased, scattering the drizzle in silver cobwebs through the navigation lights. He went into the wheelhouse, pulled on his reefer jacket and spent a couple of minutes looking at the chart.

The door swung open, a flurry of wind lifting the chart like a sail, and Anne Grant appeared at his elbow. She was wearing her sheepskin coat and a scarf was tied around her head, peasant-fashion.

‘All set?’ he said.

She nodded, her eyes gleaming with excitement in the light from the chart table. He pressed the starter. The engines coughed once asthmatically, then roared into life. He took Foxhunter round in a long, sweeping curve and out through the entrance of the cove into the Channel.

The masthead light swung rhythmically from side to side as the swell started to roll beneath them and spray scattered against the window. A couple of points to starboard the red and green navigation lights of a steamer were clearly visible a mile out to sea. Mallory reduced speed to ten knots and they ploughed forward into the darkness, the sound of the engines a muted throbbing on the night air.

He grinned at her. ‘Nothing much wrong there. With any kind of luck we should have a clear run.’

‘When do you want me to take over?’

He shrugged. ‘No rush. Get some sleep. I’ll call you when I feel tired.’

The door banged behind her and a small trapped wind whistled round the wheelhouse and died in a corner. He pulled the hinged seat down from the wall, lit a cigarette and settled back comfortably, watching the foam curl along the prow.

This was the sort of thing he looked forward to on a voyage. To be alone with the sea and the night. The world outside retreated steadily as Foxhunter moved into the darkness and he started to work his way methodically through his briefing from beginning to end, considering each point carefully before moving on to another.

It was in recalling that de Beaumont had been in Indo-China that he remembered that Raoul Guyon had been there also. Mallory frowned and lit another cigarette. There might be a connection, although Adams hadn’t said anything about such a possibility. On the other hand, Guyon hadn’t been a Viet prisoner, which made a difference. One hell of a difference.

He checked the course, altering it a point to starboard, and settled back again in the seat, turning the collar of his reefer jacket up around his face. Gradually his mind wandered away on old forgotten paths and he thought of people he had known, incidents which had happened, good and bad, with a sort of measured sadness. His life seemed to be like a dark sea rolling towards the edge of the world, hurrying him to nowhere.

He checked his watch, and found, with a sense of surprise that it was after midnight. The door opened softly, coinciding with a spatter of rain on the window, and Anne Grant came in carrying a tray.

‘You promised to call me,’ she said reproachfully. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I wakened and saw the time. You’ve been up here a good four hours.’

‘I feel fine,’ he said. ‘Could go on all night.’

She placed the tray on the chart table and filled two mugs from a covered pot. ‘I’ve made tea. You didn’t seem to care for the coffee at supper.’

‘Is there anything you don’t notice?’ he demanded.

She handed him a mug and smiled in the dim light. ‘The soldier’s drink.’

‘What are you after?’ he said. ‘The gory details?’

She pulled down the other seat and handed him a sandwich. ‘Only what you want to tell me.’

He considered the point and knew that, as always, a partial truth was better than a direct lie. ‘I was kicked out in 1954.’

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘My pay didn’t stretch far enough.’ He shrugged. ‘You know how it is. I was in charge of a messing account and borrowed some cash to tide me over. Unfortunately the auditors arrived early that month. They usually do in cases like mine.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said deliberately.

‘Suit yourself.’ He got to his feet and stretched. ‘She’s on automatic pilot, so you’ll be all right for a while. I’ll be up at quarter to four to change course.’

She sat there looking at him without speaking, her eyes very large in the half-light, and he turned, opened the door and left her there.

He went down to the cabin and flopped on his bunk, staring up at the bulkhead through the darkness. There had been women before, there always were, but only to satisfy a need, never to get close to. That had been the way for a long time and he had been content. Now this strange, quiet girl with her cropped hair had come into his life and quietly refused to be pushed aside. His last conscious thought was of her face glowing in the darkness, and she was smiling at him.

* * *

He was not aware of having slept, only of being awake and looking at his watch and realising with a sense of shock that it was half-three. He pulled on his jacket and went on deck.

There was quite a sea running and cold rain stung his face as he walked along the heaving deck and opened the glasspanelled door of the wheelhouse. Anne Grant was standing at the wheel, her face disembodied in the compass light.

‘How are things going?’ he asked.

‘I’m enjoying myself. There’s been a sea running for about half an hour now.’

He glanced out of the window. ‘Likely to get worse before it gets better. I’ll take over.’

She made way for him, her soft body pressing against his as they squeezed past each other. ‘I don’t think I could sleep now even if I wanted to.’

He grinned. ‘Make some more tea, then, and come back. Things might get interesting.’

He increased speed a little, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and after a while she returned with the tea. The wheel kicked like a living thing in his hands and he strained his eyes into the grey waste of the morning.

The sea grew rougher, waves rocking Foxhunter from side to side, and again Mallory increased speed until the prow seemed to lift clean out of the water each time a wave rolled beneath them.

Half an hour later they raised Alderney and he became aware of that great tidal surge that drives in through the Channel Islands, raising the level of the water in the Golfe de St Malo by as much as thirty feet.

He altered course for Guernsey and asked Anne to get the forecast on the radio in the saloon. She took her time over it and when she came back she carried more tea and sandwiches on a tray.

‘It’s pretty hopeful,’ she said. ‘Wind moderating, rain squalls dying away.’

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