Wrath of the Lion

by Jack Higgins

  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 Guyon’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, 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.

  Juliette Vincente moved to the edge of the ramp and looked down at him. He lay very still, his dark eyes fixed on a point a million miles beyond her. She put the revolver back into her pocket, went outside and started to close the heavy doors. When she turned, Foxhunter was just coming round the point into the harbour.

  In the kitchen Hamish Grant sat at one end of the table, the remains of his breakfast before him, and listened gravely to what Anne had to tell him.

  When she had finished he shook his head briefly. ‘No use trying to pretend things look good. They don’t. But one thing is certain. There isn’t much we can do on our own.’

  ‘Then Guernsey is our only hope?’

  He nodded and got to his feet. ‘I think it would be better if we all went. It never pays to take chances and things could get rather unhealthy.’

  Fiona came in from the hall carrying his old British warm. ‘You’ll need this on, Father. It’s rather cold.’

  It was the first time she had called him anything but General since she was quite small, and his heart went out to her. He reached for her face, dimly seen, and patted her cheek.

  ‘Not to worry, Fiona. We’ll get things sorted out.’

  She held his hand tightly for a moment, then turned and led the way into the hall. Anne was already sitting behind the wheel of the brake, the engine ticking over. The General and Jagbir got into the rear, Fiona in the front, and Anne drove away quickly.

  It was still raining heavily and she turned on the wipers, leaning forward, watching for pot-holes in the dirt road. As the brake climbed to the crest of the hill she changed to a lower gear, ready for the descent to the harbour. They went over the top of the rise, Fiona gave a cry of alarm and Anne braked quickly.

  De Beaumont, Marcel and three sailors stood in the road, looking out towards the sea. About a quarter of a mile offshore, and running strongly south-west towards the French coast, was Fleur de Lys. Marcel had one arm outstretched as he pointed. He turned to speak to de Beaumont and saw the shooting brake.

  As they fanned across the road, Anne slammed her foot hard against the accelerator in a reflex action that took the old brake forward in a surge of power. She saw the mouths open in alarm, voiceless above the roaring of the engine, and then they were scattering to either side. The brake shot through and bounced down on the road, swerving on the bend at the bottom, cutting across the grass towards the jetty.

  She braked hard and the vehicle slewed in a long, breathtaking skid that for one awful moment seemed to be taking them over the edge to the beach and the rocks below. They came to a stop, the front bumper lodged against a boulder, and she opened the door and got out.

  There was no sign of Owen Morgan or his launch and when she looked up at the boathouse the great doors were still closed. She turned and found the General scrambling out at the rear, helped by Jagbir. As the little Gurka straightened, his coat fell open to show the ivory-and-silver hilt of his kukri, the curved blade in its leather sheath thrust into his waistband.

  As Fiona came round from the other side there was a faint cry up on the hill. Anne looked up and saw de Beaumont and his men running towards them. One of them paused, raised his rifle and fired a warning shot that whined across the jetty into the water.

  Hamish Grant turned quickly. ‘What about Owen?’

  ‘No sign of him or the launch,’ Anne said. ‘But Foxhunter’s moored at the end of the jetty.’

  Any brief hope that they might be able to take over the launch before de Beaumont and his men arrived disappeared as a sailor came out of the wheelhouse, looked towards them, then hurried back inside.

  ‘We’d better get up to the hotel,’ Anne said.

  They started up the hill, Fiona leading the way, Hamish Grant using his walking stick to help him. There was another cry from de Beaumont and the sailor who had been guarding Foxhunter rushed out on deck with a rifle and loosed off a quick shot which splintered the woodwork of one of the boathouse doors.

  Anne could taste blood in her mouth and there was a pain in her chest. She took Hamish Grant’s hand and scrambled on, her feet slipping on the wet turf, and then they were on to the terrace and moving into the porch.

  Fiona flung open the door and led the way inside. The bar was quite empty, a small fire burning in the grate. The stillness was so complete that Anne could hear her heart pounding.

  Hamish Grant leaned against a table, struggling for breath, and she called out: ‘Owen! Owen Morgan! Where are you?’

  There was no footfall and yet a quiet voice said with startling suddenness from behind her, ‘He isn’t here.’

  Anne turned quickly and looked into the calm face of Juliette Vincente. ‘For God’s sake, Juliette. Where is he? What’s going on?’

  ‘I think that perhaps you have come to the wrong place, madame.’ Juliette’s hand came out of her pocket, holding the pistol. ‘And now we will all wait quietly for the Comte de Beaumont.’

  In the same moment Jagbir drove forward, the terrible Gurkha battle-cry bursting from his throat. His hand swung from under his coat, the razor-sharp blade of the kukri hissing softly through space.

  Juliette Vincente pulled the trigger twice, bullets smashing into the little Gurkha’s body, and then he was on top of her. As she fired again at close quarters the heavy blade swung down, half severing her neck. They fell together, Jagbir on top, the kukri as firmly clenched in his right hand in death as it had been in life.

  As Fiona screamed, the door swung open. Hamish Grant turned, pulling the Webley from his pocket, thrusting it towards the dark formless shadow against the light that was de Beaumont.

  Behind him the window shattered and the barrel of a rifle was rammed painfully into his back. ‘If the General is wise he will drop it,’ Marcel said.

  Hamish Grant stood there, trapped in the moment of decision, and already it was too late. De Beaumont moved forward and pulled the Webley gently from his grasp.

 
‘And now, old friend, perhaps you will be sensible?’

  15

  The Fleur de Lys

  Fleur de Lys rolled her slim length into the wind, plunging over a wave as water broke across her prow. In the wheelhouse Mallory leaned over the chart table. Behind him the wheel clicked to one side eerily to compensate as the vessel veered to starboard, the automatic pilot in control.

  The Admiralty charts he had found in the flat drawers underneath the table were very comprehensive. The one which covered the Pointe du Château coastline and the Gironde Marshes told him everything he needed to know.

  The door of the saloon companionway swung open and Guyon appeared. He wore a yellow oilskin jacket and carried a large mug of coffee in each hand.

  ‘How are we doing?’

  Mallory checked his watch. ‘Almost noon. Not long now. We’re doing about fifteen knots.’

  ‘I heard the weather forecast on the radio in the galley just before I came up,’ Guyon said. ‘It wasn’t good. Winds increasing and fog indicated in the coastal area.’

  ‘We’re running into it already.’

  Mallory drank some of his coffee and Guyon peered through the window. In the distance the fog waited like a damp shroud and heavy grey skies dropped towards the sea. Already the waves were lifting into whitecaps in the northwest.

  ‘How far would you say we’re behind L’Alouette now?’ Guyon said.

  Mallory shrugged. ‘Submerged, she only has half our speed. Allowing for the start she had, it’s going to run things a little close.’

  He leaned over the chart again. ‘She’ll have to surface inshore of Ile de Yeu before moving into the main creek flowing out of the marshes.’

  ‘What depth is it there?’

  Mallory traced its course with a pencil. ‘Four or five fathoms. Strong tidal currents constantly changing. Not to be relied on. I know what that means. One day there’s a sandbank. The next, six fathoms of clear water. These tidal marshes are all the same.’

  ‘But we could get in with Fleur de Lys?’

  ‘I think so. Probably not as far as the central island where the cottage is. It’s marked on the chart. Half a mile in.’

  Guyon straightened and the inimitable wry grin twisted his mouth. ‘Things might get interesting, eh?’

  ‘I think you could say that.’

  Gradually the mist enfolded them until they were running through a strange, enclosed world and Mallory took over the wheel and reduced speed to ten knots. About thirty minutes later they emerged into a patch of clear water and saw the coastline of Pointe du Château no more than half a mile to port.

  As they approached, a string of rocks and small islands lifted out of the sea, running parallel to the coast, trailing away towards the great hog-back of the Ile de Yeu, looming out of the mist in the distance.

  Mallory called to Guyon to take over the wheel and went back to the chart. When he straightened, his eyes glittered strangely.

  ‘I think we can save a little time here, but it means taking a chance. L’Alouette will have to use the inshore passage. She has no other choice. This side of Ile de Yeu there’s another passage marked between the island and the reef. Three fathoms.’

  ‘We might take the bottom out of her,’ Guyon said.

  Mallory shrugged. ‘It’s de Beaumont’s boat, not mine.’

  Guyon grinned tightly. ‘Then I suggest you take the wheel.’

  Mallory changed course a point and the young Frenchman went down the saloon companionway. When he returned he carried two lifejackets.

  ‘When I was a child a gypsy woman told my mother I must always beware of water. Superstitious nonsense, of course, but unfortunately my Breton blood says otherwise. I’d hate to prove her right at this stage.’

  Mallory changed to the automatic pilot, slipped his arms through the straps of the lifejacket and took over the wheel again. They were running parallel with the islands now and Fleur de Lys rocked in the turbulence, waves slapping solidly against her hull.

  Rain hammered against the window, cascading in a sheet which blurred the outlines of all solid objects, adding a strangely dreamlike quality to the whole scene. Ile de Yeu was very close and he could see white water boiling in a frenzy across the jagged spine of the reef.

  He swung the wheel hard to port. Fleur de Lys shuddered protestingly, a wave slammed against her hull and the deck tilted. Guyon was thrown across the wheelhouse and Mallory fell to one knee. The wheel started to spin, but already his hands were back in position. As he brought her head round she lurched forward towards the narrow band of clear water between the reef and the island.

  He gave her everything the engines had to offer and the boat responded magnificently. The passage rushed towards them at a seemingly impossible speed and then they were into it, water crashing across great rocks on either side, white, curling fingers reaching out to enfold them.

  All around, boulders were appearing and disappearing, waves foaming over them and Raoul Guyon hung on to the chart table, his face white.

  Strange, swirling currents snatched at the rudder and for one agonising moment Fleur de Lys slewed to port. Mallory heaved on the wheel. There was a slight, audible shudder that ran through the entire craft as she slid across a sandbank, and then they were into clear water.

  Fog rolled from the land in patches and they could smell the foetid odour of the marshes that was carried towards them on the offshore breeze. Mallory reduced speed and they moved in, the engines rumbling protestingly on a low note.

  The marshes drifted out of the fog, dark and sinister, waiting to receive them, and overhead a long wavering skein of geese passed like wind-blown spirits of the dead. Long, narrow sandbanks lifted out of the water and, landward, miles of rough grass marsh, a maze of creeks, waterlogged mud and wavering barriers of reeds.

  They turned the end of a long sandbar and the mouth of the creek opened before them. Guyon leaned forward with a cry of alarm. Squatting just inside the entrance like some land-blown whale was L’Alouette, her grey-black plates shining with moisture. Fenelon stood in the conning tower with Jacaud and below three sailors were fitting an outboard motor to the stern of a large rubber dinghy.

  Mallory took Fleur de Lys forward in a surge of power, her bow wave cascading across the hull of the submarine, knocking one of the sailors into the water. There was a startled cry and as they passed there was no more than ten feet between them. Mallory was aware of the shocked dismay on Fenelon’s face, of Jacaud frowning in disbelief, and then they were through and safe in the fog.

  He reduced speed to five knots and opened the window. Fog was sucked in, sharp and cold, the taste of it bitter as death. He strained his eyes into the gloom, watching the reeds drift by. A few minutes later they slid gently to a halt with a slight jar.

  Mallory quickly reversed the engines. For a moment nothing seemed to be happening and then quite suddenly Fleur de Lys slid backwards.

  ‘That settles that,’ he said. ‘We obviously aren’t going to get any further.’

  He cut the engines, went out on deck and climbed on top of the wheelhouse. The reeds were very thick at this point, but to the left was a small lagoon, circular in shape and perhaps a hundred feet in diameter.

  He pointed to it as Guyon scrambled up beside him. ‘Our one chance.’

  He jumped to the deck, went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. As they rumbled into life he spun the wheel and crashed the boat into the reeds as she gathered speed.

  For a moment they seemed an impenetrable barrier and then they slowly parted and Fleur de Lys passed through into the lagoon. Mallory cut the engines and she moved slowly to the far end and came to a halt, her prow grounding gently against a sandbank.

  ‘No time to waste,’ he said. ‘One of us stays with the boat. The other goes for Granville and his wife.’

  ‘That had better be me,’ Guyon said. ‘We have mutual acquaintances. I think he would trust me.’

  Mallory pulled the chart forward. ‘You’ll do b
etter by going on foot and swimming the intervening channels.’ He opened a drawer and produced a pocket compass. ‘Keep due west and you can’t miss the central island. About a quarter of a mile away.’

  ‘Getting Granville back here might be difficult,’ Guyon said. ‘He’s an old man.’

  ‘But used to these marshes. That’s why he comes here, remember. You’ll have to make out the best way you can.’ Mallory produced the revolver he had taken from the young sailor at the castle and held it out. ‘Not much, but better than nothing.’

  Guyon pushed it into the pocket of his oilskin jacket and went out on deck quickly. He jumped from the prow to the sandbank and plunged into the reeds.

  Mallory lit a cigarette and stood on deck in the quiet rain. Perhaps five minutes later he heard the sound of an outboard motor passing along the main channel. It moved into the distance, muffled by the fog, and then there was only silence.

  As Guyon went through the reeds a curlew whistled hauntingly somewhere to the left and wildfowl called as they lifted from the water, disturbed by his passing. He came out on higher ground, checked the compass and ran forward, alone in a land of shining mudflats, lonely creeks and everywhere the reeds.

  He came to the end of solid ground and waded across a narrow creek, his feet sinking into soft mud. He could taste the salt on his lips and it stung his eyes painfully, but he kept on moving, pushing through the reeds into the grey shroud.

  Gradually the ground became firmer again until he was able to run across sand and coarse marsh-grass. A few moments later he stood on the banks of a shallow lake and the house loomed out of the fog on its island fifty yards away.

  The evil, scum-covered waters reached out to meet him as he moved forward, and he took out the revolver and held it above his head. It was not likely that the water would affect it, but there was no point in taking chances.

  It was surprisingly easy going, the mud giving way to hard sand, and he was soon moving up on to dry land again. As he ran towards the single-storeyed house a narrow wooden jetty loomed out of the fog and he paused abruptly. No boat was moored there, not even a marsh punt. He stood there, a frown on his face, considering the fact, then turned and went towards the house.