by Jack Higgins
“Which he has now become,” Mallory said, “and in more ways than one.”
“You are thinking of his threat to dispose of de Gaulle during his visit to St. Malo next month?” Guyon shook his head, lay on the other bed, pillowing his head on his hands. “I’m not too worried about that. They won’t get de Gaulle. He’s indestructible, that one. Like one of those rocks out there on the reef after a storm. A little more weathered, but still standing.”
“Which leaves us with the Granville affair,” Mallory said. “And the hell of it is there doesn’t seem to be a damned thing we can do about it.”
He lit a cigarette and lay on his back, gazing at the ceiling, going over the events of the previous couple of hours in his mind. After a while he said softly: The first rule in this game is that the job must come before everything else. Most men I’ve worked with, in your position, would have played along with de Beaumont, would even have executed me if necessary.”
“Perhaps I saw the situation differently,” Guyon said.
"You moved so fast you didn’t even notice the difference in weight the blanks made. Why?”
“Something I’ve been asking myself on and off for the past hour or more. It’s not easy to explain. Let’s just say that suddenly people have become important to me again and leave it at that.”
He turned his face to the wall and Mallory lay there, smoking his cigarette, thinking how strange it was that a young man, all feeling burned out of him by the flames of two savage wars, should be brought back to life by that oldest and most elemental of human emotions – love.
He was cold and stiff and his limbs ached. He pulled the blanket over his legs and checked his watch. It was almost 5 a.m. and he lay in the darkness listening to the rain and the wind. After a while he drifted into sleep again.
He became aware that someone was prodding him and opened his eyes. Raoul Guyon squatted beside him. Grey light seeped into the room through the barred window and Mallory swung his legs to the floor.
“Still raining?”
Guyon nodded. “Hasn’t let up all night. It’s almost eight.”
Mallory walked to the door and peered through the iron grille into the corridor outside. A young sailor sat in a chair reading a book, a heavy service revolver in the holster at his waist.
Mallory crossed to the window. The casement opened easily enough, but the bars set in the ledge on either side were strong and firm. He looked into the grey morning, out along the reef to lie de Roc. Rain slanted down and visibility was poor, a cold mist drifting close to the surface of the water.
“I wonder what they’re doing over there?” Guyon said at his shoulder.
“They must have realised by now that something’s gone wrong.” Mallory shrugged. “If they’ve any sense at all they’ll have brought in Owen Morgan and gone to Guernsey for help in your launch.”
“Surely de Beaumont will have considered that possibility?”
“He probably has. That’s what’s worrying me.”
There was a rattle of bolts and the door opened. As they both turned, Marcel entered and stood to one side, a revolver in his right hand. The young sailor followed, carrying a tray which he placed on the bed. They withdrew without saying a word, bolting the door again.
The food was simple, bread and cheese and hot coffee, and Mallory suddenly realised how hungry he was. They sat on either side of the tray to eat and finished off by sharing his last cigarette.
Afterwards he lay on the bed waiting for something to happen, while Guyon paced restlessly up and down the cell, the rain hammering against the window. It was almost ten o’clock when the door opened again and de Beaumont entered, Marcel at his back.
He seemed in a good humour and smiled cheerfully. “Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you spent a good night? Your quarters are adequate?”
“I’ve seen worse,” Mallory admitted.
“Anything I can get you?”
“The condemned man’s last wish?” Mallory shrugged. “We could do with some cigarettes. That’s about all.”
Marcel took a packet of Gauloise from his pocket and threw them on the bed. “Anything else?” de Beaumont said politely.
Mallory put a cigarette in his mouth and tossed the packet to Guyon. “I don’t think so.”
“Then you will excuse me? You’ll be interested to know that Jacaud and his men left for Pointe du Chateau fifteen minutes ago as scheduled. Under the circumstances I think it’s time I paid a visit to our friends on fie de Roc.”
“I wouldn’t count on anyone being there to meet you.”
“Oh, they’ll be there, all right. I can assure you of that.”
De Beaumont smiled faintly as if enjoying some private joke, nodded to Marcel and passed outside. The door closed and the bolts were rammed home with a harsh finality.
Guyon turned with a gesture of despair and Mallory motioned him to silence. When he went to the door the young sailor was back on his chair reading a magazine.
Mallory crossed to the window and looked outside. A minute or two later he heard the sound of an engine and Foxhunter came into view, running alongside the reef towards lie de Roc.
“There he goes.”
Guyon moved to the window, peered out and frowned. “But why has he taken Foxhunter?
“Easier to handle than Fleur de Lys on the short run and there’s too much sea for the speedboat.”
Guyon, thinking of Fiona, dropped his cigarette and stamped on it viciously. “I didn’t like his last remark. He sounded far too sure of himself. As if he knew for certain that the General and the girls would still be on the island.”
“I imagine he does/ Mallory said. “It’s been a long night. He could have been up to anything, but that isn’t important at the moment. He probably only intends to bring them back here for safe custody until he’s ready to move out.”
“You may be right.”
“It’s Henri Granville I’m thinking about, sitting in the middle of the Gironde Marshes not knowing that sometime after noon there’ll be a knock at the door. I can see the smile on Jacaud’s face now.”
“And nothing we can do about it.”
“Plenty, if we could get out of here. There’s always the radio room in the tower, or the Fleur de Lys would be a better bet. A boat of that size is bound to have a radio telephone.”
Guyon shook his head. “Those marshes are one of the most isolated places on the entire coast. Even if we managed to contact my people in Paris it would still be too late for Henri Granville. They’d never reach him in time.”
“But we could,” Mallory said. “L’Alouette will have to make the entire run submerged. That will take her a good three hours.”
“It’s almost an hour since she left,” Guyon pointed out.
“Fleur de Lys has twice the speed. We could still beat Jacaud to the punch.”
“Only if we get out of here within the next half-hour,” Guyon said. “And I stopped believing in miracles a long time ago.”
“We don’t need a miracle. Just a little luck,” Mallory pulled him down on the bed. “Now listen carefully.”
It was cold in the passage and the young sailor shivered and got to his feet. He stamped vigorously to restore his circulation and walked a few paces away from the chair. He was bored. He was also a little afraid. In the beginning the whole affair had seemed like a great adventure, a crusade. Now he was not so sure. He turned to move back to his chair and a muffled cry sounded from inside the cell.
He stood there, a puzzled frown on 1m face. There was another cry, followed by the crash of a bed going over. He arrived at the grille in time to see Guyon drive his fist into Mallory’s face, knocking him against the wall.
“You got me into this, you bastard!” the young Frenchman cried. Til kill you! I’ll kill you!”
He flung himself forward and Mallory ducked under another blow, moved in close and tripped him. A moment later and he was kneeling on Guymon’s chest, hands twisted into his collar as he throttled him
expertly.
The young sailor gave a cry of alarm. He pulled back the bolts and moved into the cell, revolver ready in his right hand. He reached for Mallory’s collar and to his amazement Guyon erupted from the floor, grabbed his wrist savagely and twisted the revolver from his grasp. The sailor’s mouth opened in a cry of alarm that was cut short as Mallory’s fist moved in a short arc against the side of the jaw.
Mallory picked up the revolver, nodded to Guyon and they went outside quickly. All was quiet. Guyon bolted the door and they hurried along the passage.
A strange quiet reigned until they reached the main corridor when they heard voices in the distance and the clatter of pans from the kitchen. They passed along to the far end and Mallory opened the door cautiously and stepped on to the landing at the top of the steps which led down to the cave.
The jetty was deserted and Fleur de Lys and the speedboat were the only craft moored to the wall. They went down the stone steps quickly, paused for a moment at the bottom, then hurried across to Fleur de Lys.
When they went into the wheelhouse they saw at once that the radio telephone had been removed from its housing on the wall. Mallory grinned tightly. “He’s a cautious bastard, I’ll say that for him.”
“Only to be expected.” Guyon shrugged. “A good soldier tries to foresee every eventuality.” He looked around and shook his head. “This looks one hell of a size for two of us.”
“We’ll manage,” Mallory said. “We’ll have to. There’s plenty of fuel in the tank, which is the main thing. Go get those lines off the jetty and we’ll move out.”
Guyon went forward quickly and untied the first line. As he started aft there was a harsh cry. When he glanced up he saw a sailor standing on the landing at the top of the steps. He ran along the deck and cast off the other line. The sailor drew a revolver and fired two wild shots as he came down the steps.
He was too late. The engines were already roaring into life and Mallory took Fleur de Lys out through the entrance. Spray splashed against the window, waves breaking over the deck as he turned through the lee-side of the reef and set course for Pointe du Chateau.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FORGE OF ARMS
hamish grant opened the door and stood listening to the sound of quiet breathing. Fiona was stretched on the sofa and Anne slept in the wing-backed chair, a rug over her legs.
As he started to close the door she opened her eyes and said softly, “What time is it?”
“Just after eight. Jabber’s made some fresh tea.”
She got to her feet, draped the rug over Fiona and followed him out. “Any sign of them?”
The old man shook his head. “Not yet.”
The kitchen looked out over the courtyard, a large and pleasant room, beams supporting a low ceiling. Jagbir was frying eggs at the stove. When he saw Anne he poured a cup of tea and gave it to her and she stood in front of the fire, drinking it slowly.
Beyond, through the wide window, clouds hung threateningly over the fields, rain dripped from the gutters and brown leaves crawled across the cobbles. She went to the window and gazed out into the rain, thinking of Mallory.
Hamish Grant moved beside her and squeezed her hand. “He did say it would take till breakfast-time. I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”
Tm not,” she said. “One thing I am sure of is his ability to look after himself, but I’d have thought we’d have heard from them by now.”
“We very probably will before much longer.”
She finished her tea and moved to the door. “I think I’ll run down to the harbour and see what’s happening.”
“I’ll send Jagbir with you.”
She shook her head. “Let him get on with breakfast. I shan’t be long. No need to wake Fiona till I get back. She could do with the sleep.”
She went along the hall, pulled on her sheepskin coat and let herself out of the front door. Rain fell steadily and she fastened a scarf about her hair as she went down the drive and turned through the gates.
Visibility was poor, a grey, clinging mist drifting in patches across the water, and the central hill of the island looked very green against the leaden sky. She hurried along the road and paused on the brow of the hill to look down into the harbour. Only one boat was moored there, Raoul Guymon’s launch, and the shooting brake was parked at the end of the jetty.
She went down the hill quickly, taking a short cut across the wet grass. The shooting brake was beaded with moisture, the engine cold. She stood there for a moment, a frown on her face, then walked along the jetty and stepped on to the deck of Guymon’s launch. She went into the small saloon, stood looking about her for a moment, then turned to go.
She paused, wrinkling her nose, aware of the heavy, acrid taint of oil on the fresh morning air. It seeped into a pool from under the door of the engine compartment. She opened it and looked into a twisted mass of smashed pipes and broken valves.
She crouched on one knee, gazing at the engine, her mind frozen. As she started to rise, steps boomed hollowly on the wooden planking of the jetty and Owen Morgan called, “Hello below!”
Anne went up the companionway and came out on deck as he stepped down from the jetty. He wore an old blue pilot coat and rubber boots. Rain frosted his grey hair. He started to grin, but his smile faded at the sight of her troubled face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Take a look at the engine.”
He went down the companionway quickly. When he reappeared his face was grave. “Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?”
“To make sure we couldn’t get off the island,” she said.
He frowned quickly. “Look, how about letting me in on all this? Where’s Foxhunter? I heard her go out early this morning.”
“That must have been Colonel Mallory and Monsieur Guyon,” she said. “They should have been back by now. I’m very much afraid something may have happened to them.”
“Are they in some kind of trouble?”
“They could be, but there isn’t time to explain now, Owen. We must get to Guernsey as soon as possible. What about your launch?”
“I hauled her up the slipway and into the boathouse ready for winter only two days ago,” he said. “No trouble to bring her down again if it’s all that urgent. I can have her ready for sea in half an hour.”
“Do that,” Anne said. Til go back to the house for the others. I’ll explain things more fully when I get back.”
She hurried along the jetty, climbed behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It required a lot of choke before it would turn over and Owen was already half-way up the slope towards the boathouse at the side of the hotel when she finally moved away.
The Welshman’s skin crawled with excitement. Whatever was wrong, it was certainly serious. So much had been evident from Anne Grant’s manner and actions, and to a man whose entire life had been a series of adventures the prospect of action carried all the kick of a good stiff drink. When he was only a few yards away from the boathouse he remembered that the heavy door was padlocked. He turned and moved up the slope quickly to the side door of the hotel.
When he went into the kitchen Juliette was standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes. “Where’s the key to the boathouse?” he. demanded.
She turned, her eyebrows arching in surprise. “On the nail behind the door where it always is. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got to get the boat out,” he said. “The Grants want me to run them over to Guernsey. Can’t explain why. I don’t even know myself. But it must be something serious.”
He took down the key and went out again. After he had gone Juliette Vincente stood at the sink, gazing blankly at the door. After a moment she dried her hands carefully, hung up the towel and went up the back stairs to her bedroom.
Owen Morgan opened the heavy doors of the boathouse and moved inside. The launch was seated firmly into a deep concrete slot, a steel cable coiled around a winch at her stern, holding her in place.
He jumped down on to the deck, pulled off the top of the engine housing and paused suddenly, his throat going dry. The engine was in exactly the same state as the one in Guymon’s boat. Delicate pipes and valves smashed beyond repair, a heavy hammer from his own tool-kit lying in the ruins.
As he got to his feet there was the scrape of a shoe on stone behind him. He turned and looked up at Juliette. She wore his old corduroy jacket against the cold, her hands thrust deep into the pockets.
“What’s wrong, Owen?” she asked.
And then in one single, inexplicable flash of intuition he knew that she was responsible and his eyes widened. “Why, Juliette?” he said. “Why did you do it?”
“My brother was killed in Algeria, Owen.” Her voice was flat, lifeless. “He died for France. They repaid him by giving what he’d died for away. I couldn’t stand by and allow that to happen.”
Anger flared inside him like flames through dry leaves. “What sort of bloody nonsense are you telling me, girl? What about my boat?”
He started to clamber up beside her and she backed away, 150 taking a revolver from her pocket. He stood facing her, very still, the skin on his face so white that it was almost transparent, a bewildered expression on his face.
“It’s me, Juliette. Owen.” He took a step forward.
“Move past me very slowly, Owen,” she said. “Your hands behind your back. Don’t make me kill you.”
He stood poised, feet apart, and wild laughter erupted from his mouth. “Kill me, girl? You?”
In a moment he drove forward, one hand reaching for the gun, the other grabbing for her coat. In that same instant something seemed to move in her eyes and he knew with the most appalling certainty that he had made the last mistake of his life.
The sound of the shot re-echoed deafeningly between the walls of the boathouse and the force of the bullet, smashing through his body, sent him staggering backwards. He swayed on the edge of the ramp, hands clutching at his stomach, the blood erupted from his mouth in a bright stream and he fell back on the deck.
