by Jack Higgins
In his office at the command post Mallory heard the rattle of the sub-machine-gun clearly. He paused for a moment, head raised, then returned to the map in front of him. A few minutes later the door opened and Tewak entered, shaking rain from his groundsheet.
Mallory sat back. "What happened?”
“The sentry got him as he was crossing the garden. Mrs. Hume’s outside. Apparently she ran out of the house when she heard the shooting. She saw his condition.”
“Bring her in,” Mallory said.
She was wearing an old Burberry that was far too big for her, the shoulders soaked by the rain. Tewak led her forward and she slumped into a chair and sat looking at Mallory, her face old and careworn.
“I saw Mr. Li,” she said dully. “I saw what you’d done to him.”
“Mr. Li was directly responsible for the murder by torture of Lieutenant Gregson and his men,” Mallory said. “He was responsible for the deaths of thirteen schoolgirls two weeks ago and very many more innocent people during the past two years.”
"You tortured him,” she said. ““Tortured him in cold blood, then shot him down.”
“If he’d gone to Singapore he’d have been tried and very probably sentenced to ten years at the most as a political offender,” Mallory said. “His friends would have got him out before then, believe me.”
“You fool,” she whispered. “You’ve lost everything. Everything. Don’t you see that?”
Mallory leaned forward. “There are sixty-three Communist guerrillas in Perak, Mrs. Hume. That’s something I got out of Li. About thirty of them are camped at this moment on an abandoned rubber estate near Trebu. I’ve got a large patrol in that area now. They’ll be in position to attack at 2 a.m. The rest are going to pass downriver hidden in two fishing boats within the next hour. Apparently, they’d intended to destroy the railway bridge at Peg at dawn. I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed.”
She frowned slightly, as if finding difficulty in taking in* what he had said. “But you’ve only got a handful of men. You can’t possibly hope to defeat such a large group.”
“Solicitude for my welfare at this stage, Mrs. Hume? You’re slipping.” He got to his feet and buckled on his revolver. “Don’t worry, we have our ways.” He crossed to the door, opened it and turned. “Stay here, and this time I mean it.”
Mary Hume opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came, and suddenly she was afraid. Afraid of this terrible young man. There was nothing she could do, nothing to prevent the tragedy that was taking place. Out of some strange, inner knowledge she knew that Neil Mallory, in the process of destroying the evil that he hated, was also destroying himself. The most surprising thing of all was that she cared.
Mallory moved across to the jetty and paused beside the two men who squatted behind the heavy machine-gun. Another was positioned on top of a small hill fifty yards away and between them they covered the river with an arc of fire.
At the end of the jetty Tewak waited with the rest of the men. Two of them crouched behind the narrow wall, the heavy tanks of their flame-throwers bulging obscenely.
The rain rushed into the river with a heavy, sibilant whispering, and Mallory was aware of a strange, aching sadness. It was as if he had done all this before in another time, another place. As if life were a circle turning endlessly. Everything that had happened during the previous few hours lacked definition, like a dream only half remembered.
And then Tewak grunted. There was the slapping of water against a keel, a sensation of an even darker mass moving through the darkness, and Mallory tapped Tewak lightly on the shoulder.
The little sergeant picked up a portable spot and switched it on. The white beam lanced through the night, picking out two large fishing boats as they slipped downstream, side by side, sails furled, a man in each stern working a sweep.
There was a cry of alarm and the first boat half lifted out of the water as it collided with the ferry hawser which Tewak and his men had suspended across the river an hour earlier.
The boat spun round, crashing into its fellow, and there was another cry, followed by a burst of small-arms fire directed towards the jetty.
Mallory called out and the men with the flame-throwers stood up. Liquid fire arched through the night, splashing across the two boats. Immediately their superstructure and sails started to burn and men poured on to their decks from below.
The two heavy machine-guns opened up, raking the decks, chopping down the guerrillas as soon as they appeared. Tewak dropped the spot, picked up his sub-machine-gun and joined in with the rest of the men.
It was over within a few minutes. A handful jumped from the blazing inferno and struck out desperately for safety, but the flame-throwers searched them out, the fire licking hungrily across the surface of the water, catching them one by one.
By this time the river and the village were brilliantly illuminated and Mallory stood there watching, taking no part in what was happening. He glanced at his watch. It was just after 2 a.m. and he wondered how Harrison was getting on.
He turned and found Mary Hume standing a few yards away. When he walked towards her he saw that she was crying.
“You butcher,” she said. “You butcher. I’ll see you hang for this night’s work.”
Tm sure you will, Mrs. Hume,” he said calmly and went past her along the jetty.
Twenty-four hours left now till that plane arrived, that was all, but it was enough. If he moved fast along the river bank to meet up with Harrison and his men coming south they’d be certain to sweep up any survivors of the clash at the rubber estate. Another twenty-four hours and after that…
As he went up the bank towards the command post the first fishing boat sank beneath the surface with a hiss of steam.
CHAPTER TEN
AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR
A match flared outlining Hamish Grant’s craggy features as he lit a cheroot. “And the enquiry?”
It was quite dark now, and, below, waves creamed over the rocks in the entrance of the tiny inlet. It was a warm, soft night, stars strung away to the horizon, and when a cloud moved from the face of the moon the terrace was bathed in a hard, white light.
Mallory turned from looking out to sea and shrugged. “A foregone conclusion. They used terms like: "Previous gallant service." Hinted that I hadn’t really recovered from the ordeal of two years in a Chinese prison camp.”
“And spared you the ultimate disgrace.”
“They didn’t actually cashier me, if that’s what you mean. You could say I was eased into retirement as quietly as possible. For the good of the service, of course.”
“Naturally,” the old man said. “A bad business. That sort of thing rubs off on everyone concerned.”
“What I did to Li he would have done to me,” Mallory said. “The purpose of terrorism is to terrorise. Lenin said that. It’s on page one of every Communist handbook on revolutionary warfare. You can only fight that kind of fire with fire. Otherwise you might as well lie down and let the waves wash over you. That’s what I brought out of that Chinese prison camp, General.”
“An interesting point of view.”
“The only one in the circumstances. I did what had to be done. When I’d finished there was no more terror by night in Perak. No more Kota Banus. No more butchering of little girls. God knows, that should count for something.”
There was silence. In the moonlight Anne Grant’s face seemed very pale, the eyes dark and secret, telling him nothing. When a cloud crossed the moon she became a motionless silhouette, her face turned towards him, but still she didn’t speak.
Mallory sighed and tossed his cigarette over the wall in a glowing curve. “Under the circumstances, perhaps you’ll excuse me, General? This has turned out to be one of those evenings when I could do with a drink.”
He turned and went up the steps, the sound of his going fading quickly into the darkness. After a while Hamish Grant said quietly: “It’s not often one meets a man like that. Someone who’s willing to c
arry the guilt for the rest of us. It takes a rather special brand of courage.”
She turned towards him, her face a pale blur, and then, as if coming to a decision, stood up. “Do you mind?”
He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “Leave me the car, will you? I might join you later.”
And that was that, Mallory told himself. That was very much that. No question of what she had thought of him. Her silence, that stillness, had been answer enough. And the strange thing was that it mattered, that for the first time in years the protective shell he had grown had cracked and now he was defenceless.
His chin was on his breast, hands in pockets, as he turned on to the springy turf beside the road, white in the moonlight that ran down to the harbour.
A small wind seemed to crawl across his face and he drew in his breath sharply. He heard no sound and yet he knew that she walked beside him. He spoke calmly, but with a faint Irish intonation, inherited from his father, always apparent in moments of great stress.
“And what would you be wanting, Anne Grant?”
“A drink, Neil Mallory,” she said, matching his mood, “and perhaps another. Would that be asking too much?”
He paused and turned to face her, hands still thrust into his pockets. In the moonlight she looked very beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever thought a woman could be, and there were tears in her eyes. He slipped an arm about her shoulders and together they went down the hill towards the lights of the hotel.
In the long grass on the hill above the cliffs Raoul Guyon lay on his back and stared into an infinity of stars, his hands clasped behind his head. Beside him Fiona Grant sat cross-legged, combing her hair.
She turned and smiled, her face clear in the moonlight. “Well, are you going to make an honest woman of me?”
“As always, you have a gift for the difficult question,” he said.
“A plain yes or no would do. I’m reasonably civilised.”
“A word no woman is entitled to use,” he said solemnly, and lit a cigarette. “Life is seldom as simple as yes or no, Fiona.”
“I don’t agree,” she said. “It’s people who make it complicated. My father likes you, if that’s got anything to do with it, and I can’t see what they’d have to complain about at your end. After all, I could pass for French.”
Tm quite sure my mother would adore you. On the other hand, we Bretons are very old-fashioned in certain matters. She would never allow me to marry a girl who couldn’t bring a sizable dowry with her.”
“Would eleven thousand pounds do?” Fiona said. “My favourite uncle died last March.”
Tm sure Maman would be most impressed,” Guyon told her.
She squirmed against him, laying her head on his chest. “In any case, why should we worry about money? I know most artists have to struggle, but how many of them paint like you?”
“A good point.”
And she was right. Already he had sold many paintings, working between assignments on the family farm near Loudeac that his mother still managed so competently. Mornings on the banks of the Oust with leaves drifting from the beech trees into the river and the smell of wet earth. Country that he had grown up in and loved. He was aware, with a strange wonderment, that he wanted to take this girl there, to see again with her the old grey farmhouse rooted into its hollow amongst the trees, walk with her over the familiar country that he loved so much.
“Of course, there could always be someone else,” she said.
Her voice was light and yet there was a poignancy there. It was as if she was aware of how near to hurt she might be, and he pulled her close instinctively.
“There was a girl once, Fiona, in Algiers a long time ago. She gave me peace when I needed it more than anything else on earth. She paid for that gift with her life. A high price. I’ve been trying to escape from her ever since.”
There was a short silence, and then she said gently: “Have you ever considered that it might be Algeria that you’re running from? That somehow this girl has come to symbolise everything that ever happened there?”
In that single instant he knew that what she had said was true. That by some strange perception she had struck right to the very heart of things.
“I know I’m young, Raoul,” she continued, “and on the whole I’ve only seen the lighter side, but I know this: the war in Algeria wasn’t the first to send men home with blood on their hands and it won’t be the last. But that’s life. There wouldn’t be any sweet without sour. People get by.”
“At a guess I’d say you must be about a thousand years old.”
He kissed her passionately and she linked her arms behind his neck and pressed her body against him. After a while she rolled away and lay on her back, breathless, eyes sparkling.
“And now do you think I might get to see that farm in Brittany?”
He pulled her to her feet and held her at arm’s length. “Did I ever have a choice?”
She reached up to kiss him and then turned and ran away down the hill. Guyon gave her a start of perhaps twenty yards and then went after her, laughter bubbling up spontaneously inside him for the first time in years.
The bar at the hotel was a long, pleasant room with whitewashed walls, its windows facing out to sea. Two large oil lamps were suspended from one of the oak beams that supported the low roof.
Jacaud and two other men sat at a table in a corner and played cards. Owen Morgan leaned on the bar beside them, watching the play, a small, greying man with hot Welsh eyes and a face hardened by a lifetime of the sea.
Beside an open window Mallory and Anne faced each other across a small table, smoking cigarettes. Far out to sea the lights of a ship moved slowly across the horizon like something from another world and Anne sighed.
“A big one. I wonder where she’s going?”
“Tangiers, the Azores. Take your choice.”
“An invitation?”
“Of the most improper kind,” he said, and smiled.
“You should do that more often,” she said. “It suits you.”
Before he could reply a shadow fell across the table. Juliette Vincente was standing there, a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses on her tray. She was perhaps thirty-five, a plain, rather simple-looking woman in a blue woolen dress, thickening slightly at the waist, but her skin was fresh and clean, the cheeks touched with crimson.
“From Monsieur le Comte, madame,” she said simply, and placed the bottle and glasses on the table.
At the far end of the bar two or three broad steps lifted to another room where de Beaumont sat beside a pleasant fire. Anne nodded and he raised his glass.
“Small return for a delightful meal.”
“Shall I ask him over?” Mallory said.
She shook her head. “Not unless you want to.”
A moment or two later the station wagon braked to a halt outside and Raoul Guyon and Fiona got out, turning to help the General. The old man led the way up the steps confidently and entered the bar.
“Over here, Hamish!” Anne called, and he turned and came towards them.
Mallory got to his feet and brought a chair forward and Fiona slipped into the window-seat beside Anne. Guyon picked up the bottle and nodded approvingly.
“Heidsieck, 1952. How typical for the English to reserve the best for themselves. I must really do something to upset the balance.”
He moved across to the bar and Hamish Grant produced a brown leather cheroot case and proffered it to Mallory. “Try one of these. Filthy things, but nothing quite like “em. Picked up the habit in India.”
Mallory took one and offered the old man a light as Guyon returned. “Our good friend Owen is raiding his cellar. He can’t guarantee that everything will have necessarily come in through the proper channels, but no matter. He tells me that the revenue man only comes once a year and always warns him in advance.”
“Understandable,” the General said. “They were in the navy together.”
Owen Morgan appeared a
few moments later and came across with a wide grin. “No need for ice,” he said to Guyon as he offered a bottle for inspection. “It’s cold enough where that’s been.”
“Excellent,” Guyon said. “I’ll open it while you fetch some glasses.”
His gaiety was quite infectious and within a few moments he had them all laughing with a description of an outrageous and quite untruthful incident from his past. The conversation which followed moved along spontaneously.
Once or twice Mallory noticed the three men in the corner looking towards them, obviously irritated after some particularly loud burst of laughter from Fiona or Guyon. One of them hammered on the table and called loudly to Owen Morgan for more cognac.
Mallory leaned across to Anne. “The one on the left with the haircut. He was at the wheel of de Beaumont’s boat this afternoon. Who is he?”
“They call him Jacaud,” she said. “That’s all I can tell you. He seems to go everywhere with de Beaumont. I think the others are afraid of him.”
“Hardly surprising,” Guyon put in. “There’s about fifteen stone of bone and muscle there, mostly muscle from the look of him.”
Jacaud got to his feet, crossed the bar and mounted the steps to the other room. He leaned on de Beaumont’s table and they held a short conversation. Mallory watched them over the rim of his glass. Once, de Beaumont turned and looked towards them. He gazed coolly at Mallory for a moment, then turned back to Jacaud.
The big Frenchman rejoined his friends and Owen Morgan turned on the radio, the sound of music filling the room. Guyon pulled Fiona to her feet and grinned.
“Come on, let’s liven the place up a little.”
They made an attractive couple as they circled the room. The beautiful young girl on the threshold of womanhood, and Guyon, his lean, sun-blackened face animated and full of life.
Anne Grant watched them wistfully and coloured when she saw that Mallory was looking at her. “Fiona always makes me feel old,” she said.
“But not too old.” Mallory turned to the General. “You’ll excuse us, sir?”
The General touched the champagne bottle lightly and raised his glass. “Enjoy yourselves while you can. I’ll make do with this.”
