Wrath of the Lion

by Jack Higgins

  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.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Some fog patches in the islands, but nothing to worry about.’

  Gradually the wind died, the sea calmed and they ran into a clear September morning with a slight mist rising from the water. Mallory opened a window and inhaled the freshness. When he turned she was smiling at him.

  ‘You can handle a boat, Mr Mallory. I’ll say that for you.’

  ‘Don’t forget to mention the fact in my reference.’

  She smiled, picked up the tray and went out again. He leaned over the chart and checked the course. Foxhunter rounded Les Hanois lighthouse on the western tip of Guernsey an hour and a half later and seagulls and cormorants cried harshly in the sky, sweeping in across the deck from the great cliffs.

  Already visibility was becoming worse, fog drifting in patches across the open sea as Guernsey dropped behind the horizon. He set the automatic pilot, leaned over the chart and Anne Grant came in.

  ‘How are we doing?’

  ‘With any kind of luck we should reach Ile de Roc in an hour to an hour and a half. Depends on the fog. If we run into any really bad patches things could get tricky.’

  ‘There’s a large-scale Admiralty chart of the island and its approaches in the top drawer,’ she said. ‘I bought it specially.’

  He took it out and they leaned over it together. Ile de Roc was perhaps two miles long and three across, the only anchorage a bay at the southern end. The entire area was encircled by a network of sunken reefs with only two deep-water channels giving anything like a safe passage through.

  ‘I’ll take her if you like,’ Anne said. ‘I know these waters like the back of my hand and you need to.’

  ‘The damned place looks like a death-trap.’ Mallory shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t like to be drifting in on those shores on a dirty night.’

  ‘A lot of good ships have done just that. You see St Pierre a mile to the north? In the old days whenever a gale was blowing in from the Atlantic ships were often swept between the two islands to founder on the great sunken reef which links them. At low tide the water-level drops as much as thirty-feet and you can see some of those old wrecks.’

  ‘Dangerous waters to go swimming in.’

  She nodded. ‘Especially at the wrong time. As a matter of fact, the barman from Owen Morgan’s hotel was drowned only the other day. His body drifted in the evening before I left.’

  ‘Not so good.’ Mallory moved on quickly. ‘I see there’s a castle marked on St Pierre.’

  ‘A Gothic mausoleum. It’s out on a twenty-year lease to a French count, Philippe de Beaumont.’

  ‘The place is going to be busier than I thought.’

  She shook her head. ‘We don’t see much of him. He stays pretty close to home and we don’t get many visitors on the island. The hotel only has six bedrooms. They’re booked right through the summer, of course, but Owen usually ends the season at the beginning of September. He likes to enjoy the last of the good weather himself.’

  ‘He won’t need much staff, then?’

  ‘Only during the season and then he uses Guernsey girls. He’s had a French cook living in full-time for nearly a year now. She should have left at the end of the season, but stayed on.’

  ‘Sounds a rather obvious set-up.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s their own affair and she’s a nice girl. I hope he marries her.’

  The fog lifted a little and on either hand the sea broke in a white foam over great reefs. Mallory smiled grimly. ‘I think this is where you start doing your stuff.’

  She took over the wheel and altered course half a point. A moment later, through a sudden break in the fog, the tower
ing cliffs of the island loomed into view and then the grey curtain dropped into place again.

  Mallory reduced speed and Anne Grant took the cruiser forward into the fog. She seemed completely unperturbed and he shrugged fatalistically, pulled down the other seat and took out a cigarette.

  At that moment the whole boat rocked violently and Mallory and the girl were thrown across to the other side of the wheelhouse. Foxhunter yawed alarmingly and Mallory shoved the girl away and scrambled across to the spinning wheel.

  As he pulled the boat back on course, Anne Grant moved beside him and they peered out into the fog. Perhaps a hundred feet to starboard he caught a glimpse of something solid moving through the water and a sizable wave rolled back to rock Foxhunter again.

  ‘And what in the hell was that?’ he said.

  ‘Probably a basking shark. They’re common enough in these waters, but it must have been a big one to leave a wake like that.’

  Mallory stared out into the fog, a frown on his face, remembering the force of that wave. Could a shark, however big it was, have set up such a disturbance? He was still thinking about it when they emerged from the last patch of fog and Ile de Roc reared out of the sea a quarter of a mile away.

  To the west was St Pierre, much smaller, a little blurred because visibility at that distance still wasn’t good. Between the two islands the sea frothed and roared over the great underwater bridge.

  ‘We’re in the clear now,’ Anne Grant said, and he gave Foxhunter everything she had as they roared through the water towards the great round cove which opened to meet them.

  The water was a deep translucent blue, reminding him strangely of the Mediterranean. A stone jetty jutted fifty feet out from the shore and above it was the hotel, a two-storeyed, white-painted building sheltering in a hollow from the winter gales.

  A fifteen-foot launch was moored on the far side of the cove. A young, dark-haired man in sunglasses was sitting in the stern looking over the side. As he turned towards them a swimmer surfaced and Mallory caught a flash of blonde hair.

  When they were a hundred feet from the jetty he cut the engines and Foxhunter settled back into the water, drifting in on her own momentum. Anne Grant was already getting the fenders over the side and Mallory ran out to help her. The moment they touched he jumped for the jetty with a line and ran it twice around an iron bollard. Foxhunter jerked once, bumped against the jetty and was still.

  As he moved to fasten the other line, an engine roared into life, the sound echoing harshly from the cliffs, and the launch came towards the jetty. The swimmer was already almost there. Anne Grant moved to the port rail and Mallory joined her.

  ‘Fiona,’ she said simply.

  As the girl arrived Mallory leaned down and hauled her up and over the rail. She crouched on deck for a moment, laughing and shaking herself like a young puppy.

  ‘But it’s marvellous, Anne. Simply marvellous.’

  She didn’t even look eighteen, long blonde hair trailing damply to her shoulders. She wore a pair of bathing pants and the upper half of a rubber diving suit in bright yellow that fitted her slim figure like a second skin.

  She examined Mallory with interest and her eyes widened in approval. ‘And where did you find him?’

  Anne laughed and kissed her affectionately. ‘Now, don’t start, Fiona. This is Neil Mallory. He’s going to run the boat for us for a month or two till we get the hang of things.’

  Fiona Grant pushed a tendril of wet hair out of her eyes and held out her hand. ‘I don’t know about Anne, but speaking for myself I’ll try not to learn too fast.’

  The launch was no more than twenty or thirty feet away now and its occupant cut the engine and it drifted in towards Foxhunter.

  ‘Who’s this, for goodness’ sake?’ Anne demanded.

  Fiona slipped a wet arm in hers. ‘A simply marvellous man, Anne. He’s French. Staying here for a week or two to paint and do a little skin-diving.’

  ‘But I thought Owen closed the hotel last week?’

  ‘He did, but luckily I was on the jetty when he came in. I persuaded Owen to change his mind.’

  The launch bumped against the side and Mallory caught the thrown line. As he looped it round the rail, the Frenchman vaulted on to the deck. He wore a slim-fitting jersey that left his sunburnt arms bare, and the dark glasses gave him the same slightly sinister and anonymous look the peaked military cap had done in the photo in his file.

  Fiona took his arm and turned to face them. ‘Anne, I’d like you to meet Raoul Guyon,’ she said.

  6

  Iron Grant

  The ancient, grey-stone house was firmly rooted into a hollow in the hill, great beech trees flanking it on either side. At some time a large glass conservatory had been added, running along the whole length of the building, and a series of shallow steps dropped down to a stone terrace.

  From the terrace the cliffs fell a good two hundred feet into a small funnel-shaped inlet that would have made a wonderfully sheltered mooring had it not been for the jagged line of rocks stretching across the entrance.

  Anne Grant leaned on the wall, a cool drink in her hand, and looked out to sea. It had turned into a beautiful day, surprisingly warm for September, with a scattering of white clouds trailing to the horizon. She felt completely relaxed and at peace, happy to be home again. A foot crunched on gravel. When she turned, her father-in-law stood at the top of the steps.

  Major-General Hamish Grant, D.S.O., M.C. and bar, had been well named Iron Grant. Six feet four inches in height, with a great breadth of shoulders, his hair was a snow-white mane swept back behind his ears. He wore an old pair of khaki service trousers and a corduroy jacket.

  He probed at the top step with his walking stick. ‘You there, Anne?’

  ‘Here I am, Hamish.’

  She went up the steps and took his arm and his great, craggy face broke into a warm smile. ‘Fiona seemed tremendously excited about the new boat, but she was hardly in the house for a moment before she was changed and off out again.’

  In a corner of the terrace stood a table containing a tray of drinks and shaded by a large striped umbrella. She led him across and he eased his great bulk into a wicker chair.

  ‘She’s gone down to the hotel to meet Raoul Guyon, this young French painter who’s staying there. She promised to show him some of the island before lunch.’

  ‘What about this fellow Mallory?’

  ‘He should be here at any moment. I asked him to pick up the diving equipment. There was no real hurry, but I thought you might like to meet him.’

  ‘I certainly would if only to thank him for the way he handled this Southampton affair.’ He frowned. ‘Mallory. Neil Mallory. There’s something familiar about that name. Irish, of course.’

  ‘He certainly doesn’t have an accent.’

  ‘And you say he was cashiered for cooking the mess books? That certainly doesn’t fit in with the sort of man who’d take on a couple of thugs in a back alley.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. He’s a strange man, Hamish. At times there’s something almost frightening about him. He’s so curiously remote and detached from things. I think you’ll like him.’

  ‘I’d love to know why they slung him out,’ the General said. ‘Mind you, the War Office, God bless ’em, do some pretty daft things these days.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t raise the subject,’ she said. ‘Promise?’

  He frowned for a moment and then shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. After all, a man’s past is his own affair. Can he sail the boat, that’s the main thing?’

  She nodded. ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Then what have we got to grumble about?’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Get me a brandy and soda like a good girl and tell me some more about Foxhunter.’

  She didn’t get the chance. As she was pouring his drink, Jagbir appeared at the top of the steps, Mallory a yard or two behind him.

  The Gurkha was short and squat, no more than five feet tall, and wore a neat,
sand-coloured linen jacket. He had the ageless, yellow-brown face of the Asiatic and limped heavily on his left foot, relic of a bad wound received at Cassino.

  He spoke good English with the easy familiarity of the old servant. ‘Mr Mallory’s here, General.’

  The General sipped a little of his brandy and put the glass down again. ‘What’s on the stove?’

  ‘Curried chicken. When would you like to have it?’

  ‘Any time you like. Serve it out here.’

  Mallory stood at the top of the steps waiting, cap in hand, and Anne smiled up at him. ‘Would you care to have lunch with us, Mr Mallory?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s good of you to offer, but I’ve already arranged to eat at the hotel.’

  She dismissed Jagbir with a quick nod, trying to hide her disappointment, and Mallory came down the steps.

  ‘This is Mr Mallory, General,’ she said formally.

  Hamish Grant turned towards Mallory, his head slightly to one side. ‘Come a bit closer, man. I don’t see very well.’

  Mallory moved to the table and looked down into the cloudy, opalescent eyes. The General reached out and touched him gently on the chest. ‘My daughter-in-law tells me you’re a good sailor?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Mallory said.

  ‘What was your last ship?’

  ‘An oil-tanker. S.S. Pilar. Tampico to Southampton.’

  The General turned to Anne. ‘Did you check his papers?’ she shook her head and he looked up at Mallory again. ‘Let’s see them.’

  Mallory took a wallet from his hip pocket, extracted a folded document and union card and tossed them on the table.

  ‘See when he last paid off and check the union card. There should be a photo.’

  She checked the documents quickly and nodded. ‘Paid off S.S. Pilar, Southampton, 1st September.’ She smiled as she handed them back. ‘It isn’t a very good photo.’