Wrath of the Lion

by Jack Higgins

  Mallory hung on, even when a clutching hand reached backwards, wrenching away his own air-hose. He compressed his lips and tightened his grip. Blood began to seep from the man’s nostrils in two clouds and a moment later he swung loosely against Mallory’s arm. Mallory unlocked his fingers and the body bounced away, spun round twice and started to sink.

  There was a roaring in his ears and his temples pounded. He kicked for the surface and bumped against the side of the dinghy, gasping and choking for breath. Guyon reached over and grasped his outstretched hand and Mallory stumbled up the sloping shelf of rock and crouched on his hands and knees, chest heaving.

  Guyon jumped knee-deep into the water beside him and helped him up, pulling away the mask, his face strained and anxious in the moonlight. When he spoke his voice sounded faint and far away and Mallory shook his head several times.

  The roaring subsided abruptly and he gasped: ‘No time for questions. I ran into a little trouble. We’d better get moving.’

  ‘You found L’Alouette?’

  ‘She’s there, all right. Moored to the jetty under the island just like we thought. Room for a couple more from the look of the place.’

  He unbuckled the heavy aqualung, swung it into the prow and clambered aboard the dinghy. As he started the outboard motor Guyon unhooked the painter and followed him. A second later and the dinghy was moving back towards Ile de Roc, following the twisting channel between the great rocks which already reared up on either side as the tide turned.

  ‘What happens now?’ Guyon said.

  ‘We call up Leviathan the moment we get back. Those motor torpedo boats from St Helier will be here before you know it.’

  The dinghy rocked in the turbulence as it swept on a fast current between high black walls and turned towards the point. Behind them a full-throated roar shattered the night and Guyon raised the night-glasses and looked back. When he took them down his face looked very white in the moonlight.

  ‘It’s that damned speedboat of de Beaumont’s. Coming up fast on this side of the reef. Must be doing all of fifteen knots.’

  Mallory glanced back, catching a brief glimpse of the thin pencil of light that was the speedboat’s spot, and opened the throttle of the dinghy’s outboard motor. The strong current was running against them now as they tried to breast the point, and the light craft was twisted round, a wave splashing across her prow.

  ‘Throw the aqualung overboard,’ Mallory shouted.

  Guyon scrambled to his knees, reached for the straps, heaved and slid the aqualung over. There was an immediate difference, the prow riding over the next wave, and they turned the point and moved into what should have been calmer water.

  The turning tide at this point clashed headlong with the usual strong coastal current, and all around them great patches of white water joined with others, sending irregular waves cascading against the cliffs, the undertow sucking them out again.

  The dinghy wallowed in the trough between two great swells, her speed cut in half, and, behind, the roar of the speedboat drew inexorably nearer.

  ‘We’ll never make it to the harbour,’ Guyon called. ‘A couple more minutes and they’ll see us.’

  A great heaving swell was building up to starboard. As it swept in, lifting the dinghy high into the air, Mallory caught a glimpse of Hamish Grant’s house tucked into a fold at the top of the cliffs, a light shining in one of the ground-floor rooms. He swung the tiller over and the current drove the dinghy in towards the cliffs at tremendous speed.

  The gap in the inlet had been at least twenty yards across, but the real problem was that line of jagged rocks blocking the entrance as surely as if it had been a steel portcullis. The one slim hope was that the waves, sweeping in, would raise the water-level and carry them over.

  He shouted to Guyon: ‘This is going to be rough. Hang on and get ready to swim.’

  The Frenchman looked back once, his lips moving in reply, but the roaring of the sea drowned his words. Mallory held on to the tiller with both hands. Strange, swirling currents twisted them round and the dinghy was carried helplessly in.

  The opening of the cove appeared suddenly in the face of the cliff, water boiling through in a great surge. At one side white spray foamed high in the air, while, all around, dirty cream patches formed as rocks showed through.

  The dinghy slewed broadside into the entrance, lifted high and smashed down upon a great green slab of rock. The tiller was wrenched from Mallory’s hand and the outboard motor was torn away with a section of the stern.

  The dinghy slithered forward across the reef and ground to a halt, a jagged edge of rock smashing through the hull. Guyon went head first over the prow with a cry and Mallory went after him.

  The Frenchman tried to stand and Mallory plunged through the boiling surf, hands outstretched to meet him. For a moment they clung together and then another wave, cascading in across the reef, bowled them over.

  Guyon went under, and Mallory, striking after him, found himself in deep water. He grabbed the Frenchman by the collar of his jacket and struck out, the current pushing them forward. His feet touched sand and he stood up, pulling Guyon after him. Water boiled waist-high again, tugging at their limbs. As it receded they lurched forward, feet slipping in the shingle, and staggered up the narrow strip of beach at the base of the cliffs.

  * * *

  Someone was playing the piano, an old, prewar Cole Porter number with something of the night in it, something of warmth and love and hope that seemed to belong to another age than this.

  Crouching in the bushes below the terrace, Mallory was caught for a brief moment, unable to go forward or back. Guyon groaned beside him, coughing up water, and Mallory pulled him to his feet and they staggered up the steps.

  The french window was ajar, one end of a red velvet curtain billowing out as a gust of wind lifted it. He took a deep breath and opened it wide.

  The fire burned brightly on the stone hearth and Hamish Grant’s hair gleamed like silver in the lamplight as he leaned in his wing-backed chair, smoking a cheroot. Anne sat opposite, staring into the fire while Fiona played the piano.

  It was Fiona who saw them first. She gave a sudden gasp, her hands striking a false chord, and jumped to her feet. Anne stood up slowly and Hamish Grant turned his head and looked directly at the window.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Mallory said as he moved forward, one arm still around Guyon’s shoulders.

  Guyon retched suddenly and started to cough again. Mallory helped him to a chair by the fire and the Frenchman fell into it with a groan.

  Anne stayed surprisingly calm. ‘Brandy, Fiona,’ she said. ‘Quickly. Two glasses.’

  Mallory moved forward, water streaming from his rubber suit, and stretched out his hands to the fire, shivering involuntarily as the warmth enveloped him. Hamish Grant reached out to the dark figure, dimly seen, and touched the wet rubber suit.

  ‘A strange time to go swimming.’

  ‘Under the circumstances we didn’t have much choice.’ Mallory turned to Anne, who gazed up at him searchingly. ‘You’re on the phone here, aren’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘Linked to Guernsey by cable, but it hasn’t been working since yesterday’s storm. That often happens. There’s the radio telephone on Foxhunter, of course. Is it important?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Mallory turned to Guyon, who was gulping the brandy Fiona had passed to him. ‘I’ll have to get down to the harbour straightaway. I can use the transmitter.’

  ‘We’ll both go,’ Guyon said. ‘There could be trouble waiting down there.’

  ‘Any chance of an explanation?’ Hamish Grant enquired mildly.

  Mallory took the glass of brandy Fiona offered, swallowed half of it down and coughed as the fiery liquor caught at the back of his throat. ‘I’d say you were entitled to one under the circumstances. I was sent here by British Intelligence and Captain Guyon by the same branch on the other side of the Channel. We were asked to do a quick check on de Beaumont.’
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br />   ‘I see,’ Hamish Grant said. ‘I take it he’s up to no good?’

  ‘Very much so. His present activities are a direct threat to the interests of his own government and the fact that he’s seen fit to operate from British territory presents a serious complication. On top of that, we don’t like what he’s doing anyway.’

  Hamish Grant smiled faintly. ‘How strange. Two great nations side by side through the centuries. We have our quarrels, but somehow they’re always in the family. The moment the chips are down we move in to help each other so fast it’s almost frightening.’

  ‘Can I ask what happened to Van Sondergard?’ Anne asked.

  ‘I paid him double what you would have done and shipped him out.’

  ‘And the incident on the wharf? That was arranged, too?’

  He nodded. ‘It got a little out of hand. That’s why I had to get so rough. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said simply.

  He reached out and touched her face and something glowed deep in her eyes. Her hand went up, holding his against her cheek, and she turned her head, touching her lips to his cold palm. For a brief moment it was as if they were alone. As if the others had ceased to exist. It was Hamish Grant who broke the spell.

  ‘I should imagine dry clothes should be the first step and you’ll need the car.’

  ‘I’ll get it out of the garage,’ Fiona said quickly.

  She was standing at the side of Guyon’s chair. She smiled down at him, then went out through the french windows. Guyon got to his feet and he and Mallory followed Anne out of the room, leaving a trail of sea-water across the carpet.

  She found dry socks, some old service slacks and a couple of heavy sweaters from Hamish Grant’s wardrobe and left the two men in his room to change. When they went downstairs ten minutes later Jagbir was pouring coffee into cups arranged on a table beside the fire. Hamish Grant still sat in his chair, but there was no sign of the girls.

  The little Gurkha offered them coffee, no visible excitement on his face, and the old man said: ‘There was a mention of possible trouble when you go down to the harbour. The violent sort, I presume. Are you armed?’

  Guyon answered: ‘I had a revolver in the pocket of my reefer coat. I lost it coming through the surf.’

  ‘You’ll find another in the top right-hand drawer of the desk behind you,’ the old man said. ‘Half a box of cartridges somewhere at the back. There should be a Lüger there as well, but that’s already loaded.’

  Guyon opened the drawer and came back, the revolver in one hand, the Lüger in the other. ‘You can have the Lüger,’ the old man went on. ‘I’ll keep the Webley myself, if you don’t mind.’

  Guyon slipped the Lüger into his pocket and started to load the Webley. Anne and Fiona came in. They were both wearing heavy sheepskin coats and Anne was binding a scarf about her head, peasant-fashion.

  She smiled at Mallory. ‘Ready when you are.’

  He shook his head gently. ‘Not on your life. You stay right here.’

  A slight crease appeared between her eyes and Fiona started to protest. Hamish Grant cut in sharply, ‘They’ll have enough to worry about without you two.’

  Fiona turned to Anne, but her sister-in-law sighed and shook her head. ‘He’s right, Fiona. We’d only be in the way.’ She smiled up at Mallory. ‘So we sit and wait? How long for?’

  ‘With any luck the whole thing should be wrapped up into a neat parcel by breakfast. And, I warn you, I’ll have an appetite.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  He touched her hand briefly and led the way out into the hall. The shooting brake was parked at the bottom of the steps, its engine ticking over, and he climbed behind the wheel and waited for Guyon. The young Frenchman was standing at the top of the steps with Fiona, Anne in the doorway behind them. The young girl reached up, kissed him and hurried inside. He came down the steps and got into the passenger seat, his face grim.

  Mallory drove away quickly, turning out through the gates along the white road and down the hill towards the harbour. The hotel was in darkness and the cove was exactly as they had left it, Foxhunter moored to one side of the jetty, Guyon’s hired launch on the other.

  Mallory braked to a halt at the end of the jetty, switched off the engine and got out. Moonlight silvered the water and the night sky was like a warm dark velvet cushion scattered with diamonds.

  ‘So far, so good,’ he said to Guyon, and led the way along the jetty.

  He jumped to Foxhunter’s deck and went into the wheelhouse. He switched on the light and cursed softly. The radio telephone had been wrenched from its fastening on the far wall and lay in the corner, smashed beyond repair, a fire-axe beside it.

  ‘They beat us to it after all.’

  He pushed past Guyon, hurried down the companionway and through the saloon to the aft cabin. He dropped to one knee, opened the locker beneath his bunk and rummaged inside.

  ‘Is this what you are looking for, Colonel Mallory?’ Raoul Guyon said softly.

  Mallory got to his feet and turned. Guyon stood on the other side of the table, a drawer open, holding the small electronic transmitter that was Mallory’s only link with the department.

  ‘Good man,’ Mallory said, and took a step forward.

  Guyon dropped the set to the floor and ground his heel into it twice, at the same time taking the Lüger from his coat pocket.

  Mallory stood staring at him, a slight frown on his face, and a voice said: ‘Excellent, Captain Guyon. I was really beginning to despair of you.’

  As Mallory turned, de Beaumont stepped out of the shadows of the dark galley, Jacaud at his side, a submachine-gun in his hands.

  12

  To the Dark Tower

  They were close to the island now and Marcel cut the engine to half-speed and took Foxhunter in slowly towards the dark arch. The speedboat bobbed behind them on a long towline and as Mallory looked out to sea a shadow moved in from the horizon, blanketing the stars.

  Guyon stood by the rail a few feet away talking to de Beaumont in a low voice and Jacaud leaned against the wheelhouse, the sub-machine-gun in his hands. One of his eyes was half-closed, the right side of his face swollen and disfigured by a huge purple bruise, and his eyes stared at Mallory unblinkingly.

  They moved into the dark entrance and Mallory shivered, chilled by the damp air, and then they were through. From end to end the cave was about a hundred yards long and perhaps fifty feet across. Beneath the surface, as he had discovered earlier, it was even wider.

  The long stone jetty was brightly illuminated by two arclamps and they coasted in to tie up behind a magnificent forty-foot, steel-hulled motor-yacht, the name Fleur de Lys painted across her counter.

  The submarine was moored on the far side, squat and black in the water, and looked even smaller than Mallory had imagined. A dozen or so men in the uniform of the French Navy worked busily, loading stores on board under the supervision of a slim, rather boyish-looking lieutenant in peaked cap and reefer jacket. As they went up the short ladder to the jetty, he came forward, saluting de Beaumont casually.

  ‘How are things going, Fenelon?’ de Beaumont asked. ‘Any snags?’

  Fenelon shook his head. ‘We’ll be ready on schedule.’

  ‘Good, I’ll give you a final briefing at 9 a.m.’ Fenelon went back to his men and de Beaumont turned to Mallory. ‘Magnificent, isn’t she? And just the thing for our purposes. Small, compact – only needs a crew of sixteen. You’re familiar with the type?’

  ‘Only on paper.’

  ‘This one has quite a history. Built at Deutsche Werft in 1945 and sunk with all hands within a month of commissioning. After she was raised she was transferred to the French.’

  ‘And now she’s yours,’ Mallory said. ‘A chequered career.’

  A body was against the far wall covered by a tarpaulin, webbed feet turned to one side, blood streaking the pool of sea-water in which it lay.

  ‘We couldn’t find the other one.
The current must have taken him under the reef.’ De Beaumont shook his head. ‘A nasty way to die.’

  The words seemed to carry an implicit threat, but Mallory refused to be drawn, and de Beaumont smiled faintly and led the way across to where a flight of stone steps lifted a hundred feet into the gloom, curving round one wall of the cave. They mounted the steps and emerged on to a stone landing, and de Beaumont led the way to the far end of a passage, passing several doors. One or two stood open to show narrow service bunks and grey blankets neatly folded. From a side entrance there came the smell of cooking.

  He opened another door and they entered a large hall, great curved beams of oak arching into the gloom. There was a wide marble staircase and, above it, a gallery. At one side logs blazed in an immense medieval fireplace.

  ‘Quite a sight, isn’t it? The money these Victorian industrialists must have had to throw around, and every stone brought in by boat.’

  His tone was casual, mannered. He might have been a rather complacent host showing a friend over his new place. They went up the great staircase and moved along the gallery to the far end. De Beaumont opened a door to disclose a narrow spiral staircase. At intervals there were slotted windows and Mallory could see far out to sea as they mounted higher and higher.

  They reached a stone landing and paused outside a door. De Beaumont went in, leaving it ajar. The room contained a great deal of radio equipment and an operator sat before a transmitting set, headphones clamped to his ears. He stood up when de Beaumont appeared. There was a murmur of conversation and then de Beaumont came back outside.

  He continued up the spiral staircase, Mallory, Guyon and Marcel following behind, Jacaud bringing up the rear. At last they emerged on a small landing and de Beaumont opened his final door.

  The room was circular in shape and quite large. It was comfortably furnished, Persian carpets covering the floor, logs burning brightly in the wide fireplace. The walls were lined with books except for a section perhaps twenty feet long covered by a velvet curtain. De Beaumont pulled it to one side, revealing a curved glass window.