Wrath of the Lion sd-8

by Jack Higgins

Ashford flushed, turned and crossed the room quickly. The door closed behind him and Sir Charles sat there thinking about it all. After a while he flicked a switch on the intercom.

  “Send in Mallory.”

  He lit a cigarette and stood by the window, gazing out over the city, still the greatest in the world, whatever anyone tried to say. When he opened the window he could smell the river and the sound from a ship’s hooter drifted faintly on the quiet air as it moved down from the Pool.

  He was tired and there was a slight ache somewhere behind his right eye. Something he should really see his doctor about. On the other hand, perhaps it was better not to know? He wondered whether Mallory would survive long enough to ever take his place behind the desk in this quiet room. It would have been a comforting thought, but he knew it was rather unlikely.

  The door clicked open behind him and closed again. When he turned Mallory was standing beside the desk. An easy-fitting suit of dark worsted outlined his broad shoulders and in the diffused white light his aquiline face gave an impression of strength and breeding, not out of place anywhere.

  Sir Charles moved back to his chair and sat down. “How are you, Neil?”

  “Pretty fit, sir. I’ve just had six weeks on the island.”

  “I know. How’s your shoulder?”

  “No more trouble. They’ve done a good job.”

  Sir Charles nodded. “You’ll have to be a little more careful next time, won’t you?” He opened a file, took out a typewritten document and pushed it across. “Have a look at that.”

  He occupied himself with some other papers and Mallory skimmed through the three closely typed sheets of foolscap. When he had finished he handed them back, face expressionless.

  “Where’s the Kontoro now?”

  “The destroyer which found her took her straight into Brest. For the time being the French are holding the lid down tight. Complete security and so on. They can’t keep it quiet for more than three or four days. These things always leak out sooner or later.”

  “What are they trying to do about it?”

  “The usual round-up of anyone who’s even remotely suspected of being connected with the O.A.S. or C.N.R. On top of that, the Deuxieme Bureau and the Brigade Criminelle, backed by every available military security agent, have been given one order. Find that submarine.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought that would be too difficult.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Sir Charles said. “For one thing this is no ordinary submarine. She’s quite small. A thing the Germans were working on at the end of the war.”

  “What’s her radius?”

  "Not much over a thousand.”

  “Which means she could be based in Spain or even Portugal?”

  “The French are working along those lines right now, but they’ve got to be careful. On top of that, they’re combing the entire Biscay coast, every creek, every island.” He sighed heavily. “I’ve a horrible feeling that they’re completely wasting their time.”

  “I wondered when you were coming to that,” Mallory said.

  Sir Charles grinned impishly like a schoolboy, opened a drawer and took out a map which he unfolded across the desk. It was a large-scale Admiralty chart of the Channel Islands and the Golfe de St. Malo.

  “Ever hear of Philippe de Beaumont?”

  “The paratroop colonel? The one who helped bring de Gaulle back to power?”

  “That’s right. He was one of the leaders of the military coup of May 1958 and a member of the original Committee of Public Safety. Philippe, Comte de Beaumont. Last survivor of one of the greatest of the French military families.”

  “And he’s living in the Channel Islands?”

  “He was the great advocate of a French Algeria. When de Gaulle came down on the side of independence he resigned his commission and left France.” Sir Charles drew a circle on the chart about thirty miles south-west of Guernsey. “There’s an island called lie de Roc owned by old Hamish Grant.”

  “You mean Iron Grant, the Western Desert general?”

  “That’s right. Been living there for five years with his daughter Fiona, writing up the war. His daughter-in-law Mrs. Anne Grant seems to run things. Her husband was killed in Korea. About a mile west of lie de Roc there’s a smaller island called St. Pierre.”

  “And de Beaumont’s living there?”

  “He bought it from Grant two years ago. There’s a sort of castle up on top of the rock, one of those mock-Gothic jobs some crank built during the nineteenth century.”

  “And you think he’s up to no good?”

  “Let’s put it this way. The French have checked on him for two years now and can’t find even the hint of a connection with either the O.A.S. or C.N.R., although he’s known to be sympathetic to their aims. Frankly, even their Foreign Office think he’s simply a grand seigneur who won’t come home because he’s annoyed with the General.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  “I might have done until yesterday evening.”

  "What happened to change your mind?”

  “I’ve had a man keeping an eye on de Beaumont for a year now, just as a precaution. There’s a small hotel on lie de Roc. He was working there as barman. He went missing Tuesday. Yesterday evening he drifted in on the evening tide. The police went over from Guernsey and picked up the body. Needless to say there isn’t even a hint of foul play.”

  “You think he may have seen something?”

  Sir Charles shrugged. “I don’t see why not. L’Alouette left Brest on a routine training patrol two days ago. She could have called at St. Pierre and our man could have seen her.

  It’s pretty obvious that he came across something, and the Deuxieme agree with me. They’re sending a man across to work with you on this thing.”

  “I wondered when we were coming to that,” Mallory said.

  Sir Charles pushed a file across. “Raoul Guyon, aged twenty-nine. He was a captain in a colonial parachute regiment. Went straight to Indo-China from St. Cyr in

  1952.”

  Mallory looked down at the photograph. It showed a young man, slim-hipped and wiry, the sleeves of his camouflaged jacket rolled up to expose sunburnt arms. The calm, sun-blackened face, dark eyes, were shaded by a peaked cap that somehow gave him a strangely sinister, forbidding appearance.

  “Why did he leave the army?”

  “God knows,” Sir Charles said. “I should imagine six years in Algeria was enough for any man. He asked to be placed on unpaid leave and Legrande of the Deuxieme offered him a job.”

  “When do I meet him?”

  "You don’t, for the moment. Apparently, he’s quite a talented painter. He’s using that as a cover. Should book in at the hotel on lie de Roc sometime tomorrow.”

  "What about me?”

  “A little more complicated, I’m afraid. If de Beaumont is up to no good, then he’ll be expecting company. We need to make your background convincing enough to fool him for at least a day or two, and I might as well tell you now that’s all the time we can allow.”

  “What do I do?” Mallory asked.

  Sir Charles opened another file and passed a photo across. The girl who stared out at Mallory was somewhere in her twenties, dark hair close-cropped like a young boy’s, almond-shaped eyes slanting across high cheekbones. She was not beautiful in any conventional sense and yet in a crowd she would have stood out.

  “Anne Grant?” he said instinctively.

  Sir Charles nodded. “She came over this morning to finalise the purchase of a thirty-foot motor-cruiser called Foxhunter. It’s moored at Lulworth now. Apparently, she hired a seaman through the pool to skipper the thing for a couple of months till she and her sister-in-law get used to it for themselves. A big boat for a couple of girls.”

  Mallory nodded. “I ran one in and out of Tangiers for a while back in “59. Remember?”

  “Think you could handle one again?”

  Mallory grinned. “I don’t see why not.”

  Sir
Charles nodded in satisfaction. “First you’ll have to get rid of this seaman. After that all you have to do is make sure you get his job.”

  “That shouldn’t prove too difficult.” Mallory hesitated and went on: “Couldn’t we work something out with General Grant? Let him know what we’re after? He’d be certain to co-operate.”

  Sir Charles shook his head. “Before you knew where you were he’d be running the whole damned show. In any case, I’m never happy about bringing amateurs into these things if it can be avoided. They give the game away too easily. Use him by all means, but only in an extreme situation where there’s no other way.” He got to his feet abruptly. “I want results on this one, Neil, and I want them fast. Cut any corners you have to. I’ll back you all the way.”

  One corner of Mallory’s mouth twitched ironically. “I seem to remember someone saying that to me once before.”

  Sir Charles’s face was grave and dispassionate, the eyes calm, and Mallory knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if necessary the old man would not have the slightest compunction in throwing him to the wolves.

  “I’m sorry, Neil,” he said.

  “At least I know where I stand with you.” Mallory shrugged. “That’s something.”

  Sir Charles took an old gold watch from his pocket and checked it quickly. "You’ll have to get moving. I’ve arranged for you to be fully briefed by 63 at eight o’clock. They’ll give you everything. Money, seaman’s papers and a special transmitter. Report your arrival. After that, radio silence till you have some news. I’ve arranged for three M.T.B.s to proceed to Jersey, ostensibly for shallow-water exercises. The moment we get anything positive from you they’ll move in so fast de Beaumont won’t know what’s hit him.

  Mallory walked to the door. As he opened it, the old man said: “Good luck, Neil. With the right kind this could turn out to be a pretty straightforward one.

  “Aren’t they all?” Mallory said dryly, and the door closed gently behind him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GS

  professor yoshiyama was little more than five feet in height and wore a judo jacket and trousers many times washed, a black belt around his waist. The face was the man’s most outstanding feature, the skin the colour of parchment and almost transparent. There was nothing weak there. Only strength and intelligence and a kind of gentleness. It could have been that of a saint or scholar. It was, in fact, the face of a great master who had practised his art for more than fifty years.

  His voice was dry and rather pedantic, the vowels clipped slightly, but the dozen men sitting cross-legged on the floor were giving him all their attention. High in the balcony of the gymnasium, Mallory leaned on the rail and watched.

  “The literal meaning of the two Japanese characters which make up the word karate is empty hands,” Yoshiyama said. “This refers to the fact that karate developed as a system of self-defence relying solely on unarmed techniques. The system was first developed centuries ago on the island of Okinawa during a time when the inhabitants were forbidden to carry arms on pain of death.”

  There was a strangely old-fashioned flavour to everything he said, as if he were repeating a lesson painfully learned. He turned to a large wall chart which carried an outline of a human figure with all vital points, and their respective striking areas, clearly marked.

  “The system consists of techniques of blocking or deflecting an attack and of counter-attacking by punching, striking or kicking.” He turned, his face bland, expressionless. “But there is more to karate that well-practised tricks and physical force.” He tapped his head. “There is also the mental application. You will be taught how to focus all your strength and energy on a single target at any given time. Let me show you what I mean.”

  He nodded briefly and his two assistants picked up three lengths of planking. They were perhaps two feet long, each plank an inch thick. The two men took up their positions in front of Yoshiyama, holding the three planks between them and slightly above waist-level. In a single incredibly fluid motion the old man’s left foot stamped forward and his right fist moved up from the waist, knuckles extended. There was a report like a gunshot and the planks split from end to end.

  A quick murmur rose from the class and Yoshiyama turned, quite unperturbed. “It is also possible to snap a brick in half with the edge of the hand.” He permitted himself one brief smile. “But this requires practice. Major Adams, please.”

  A small, wiry, middle-aged man with greying hair and a black patch over his right eye stood up at the back of the class and came forward. Like Yoshiyama, he wore a black belt, but where his left arm should have been a metal limb dangled.

  “You will observe that Major Adams is rather a small man," Yoshiyama said. “He is also no longer in the prime of life. If we add to this the fact that he has only one arm one would not under normal circumstances give him much hope of surviving any kind of physical assault. As it happens, however, his circumstances are far from normal.”

  He nodded to one of his assistants and moved out of the way. The assistant, a young, powerfully built Japanese with dark hair, ran to the far side of the gymnasium. He selected a knife from a table which contained an assortment of weapons, turned and ran forward, a blood-curdling cry surging from his throat.

  He swerved to one side, came to a dead stop, then moved in quickly, the knife slashing at the Major’s face. Adams moved with incredible speed, warding off the attacking arm with an extended knife-hand block. At the same moment he fell diagonally forward to one side and delivered a roundhouse kick to the groin. In what was virtually the same motion he kicked at his opponent’s knee-joint with the same foot. The Japanese somersaulted, ending flat on his back, and the foot thudded across his windpipe.

  For a moment they lay there and then both men scrambled to their feet grinning widely. “In other circumstances, and had the blows been delivered with full force, my assistant would now be dead,” Yoshiyama said simply.

  Adams picked up a towel, started to wipe sweat from his face and caught sight of Mallory in the gallery. He nodded briefly, said something to Yoshiyama and moved across to the door. Mallory met him in the corridor outside.

  “What are you trying to do, go out in a blaze of glory?”

  Adams grinned. “Every so often I get so sick of the sight of that damned desk that I could blow my top. Yoshiyama provides a most efficient safety-valve.” He ran a hand over his right hip and winced slightly. “That last fall hurt like hell. I must be getting old.”

  As they mounted the stairs at the end of the corridor, Mallory thought about Adams. One of the best agents the department had ever had; all the guts in the world and a mind like a steel trap until the night he’d got too close for someone’s comfort and they’d tied a Mills bomb to the handle of his hotel bedroom in Cairo.

  And now he was a desk man, running 63, the intelligence section that was the pulse-beat of the whole organisation. Some people would have said he was lucky, but not Adams.

  He opened a door and walked through a small, neat office. A middle-aged, desiccated-looking spinster with neat grey hair and rimless spectacles sat behind the typewriter. She glanced up, an expression of disapproval on her face, and Adams grinned.

  “Don’t say it, Milly. Just tell them I’m ready.”

  He led the way into his own office. Like Sir Charles’s, it commanded a fine view of the river, the desk standing by the window. He opened a cupboard, took out a heavy bathrobe and pulled it on.

  “Sorry about the delay. I thought Sir Charles would keep you for an hour at least.”

  “More like fifteen minutes,” Mallory said. “He always goes straight to the heart of things with the sticky ones.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” Adams said. “Interesting more than anything else. Whole thing could be just a storm in a teacup. Let’s go into the projection room.”

  He opened the far door and they descended a few steps into a small hall. There were several rows of comfortable seats and a large screen. The place was
quite deserted. They sat down and Mallory offered Adams a cigarette.

  “Any gaps in this one?”

  Adams exhaled with a sigh of pleasure and shook his head. 1 don’t think so. Nothing important, anyway. Has the old man told you much?”

  “He’s outlined the job, told me who the principals are. No more than that.”

  “Let’s get started, then.” Adams turned and glanced up at the projection box where a dim light showed. “Ready when you are.”

  A section of film started to run a few moments later. It showed a submarine entering port slowly, her crew lining the deck.

  “To start with5that’s what all the fuss is about,” Adams said. “L'Alouette. Taken at Oran a couple of years ago.”

  “She looks rather small. There can’t be more than a dozen men on deck.”

  “Originally a German U-boat. Type XXIII. Just over a hundred feet long. Does about twelve kilometres submerged. Crew of sixteen.”

  “What about armament?”

  “Two twenty-one-inch torpedoes in the bow and she doesn’t carry spares.”

  "Doesn’t leave much room for mistakes.”

  Adams nodded. “They never really amounted to anything. This one was built at Deutsches Werft in 1945 and sunk with all hands in the Baltic. She was raised in '46, refitted and handed over to the French.”

  The film ended and a slide appeared. It showed a young French naval officer, eyes serious beneath the uniform cap, the rather boyish face schooled to gravity.

  “Henri Fenelon, full lieutenant. He’s her commander. Age twenty-six, unmarried. Born in Nantes. Father still lives there. Runs a small wine-exporting business.”

  Mallory studied the face for a moment or two. “Looks weak to me. Ever been in action?”

  Adams shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

  Mallory shrugged. “He looks as if he could crack easily. What’s his political background?”

  “That’s the surprising thing. We can’t find any evidence of an O.A.S. connection at all.”

  “Probably did it for adventure,” Mallory said. “He only needed half a dozen men in the crew to agree with him. They could have coerced the rest.”