Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

“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.”

They moved into the centre of the floor. She slipped one arm about his neck and danced with her head on his shoulder, her body pressed so closely against him that he could feel the line from breast to thigh.

For a moment, he forgot about everything except the fact that he was dancing with a warm, exciting girl whose perfume filled his nostrils and caused a pleasant ache of longing in the pit of his stomach.

It had been a long time since he had slept with a woman, but that wasn’t the whole explanation. That Anne Grant attracted him was undeniable, but there was something more there, something deeper that for the moment was beyond his comprehension.

The music stopped, a pause between records, and they went back to their table. The others followed a few moments later, and as Fiona seated herself there was a burst of loud laughter from Jacaud and his two friends in the corner, followed by a remark in French, coarse and to the point and quite unprintable.

Guyon swung round, his face hardening. The three men returned his gaze boldly. He took one quick step towards them and Mallory caught him by the sleeve and pulled him down into his chair.

“Let it go.”

Guyon was shaking with suppressed anger. “You heard what he said?”

Fiona leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Don’t let it upset you, Raoul. They’ve had a little too much to drink, that’s all.”

A shadow fell across the table and Mallory looked up into the face of the man he had heard Owen Morgan refer to as Marcel a little earlier. He was of medium height and wore denim pants and a blue seaman’s jersey. He was very drunk and clutched at the edge of the table to steady himself.

“I think you’d be better off sitting down,” Mallory told him in French.

Marcel ignored him, leaned across the table, knocking over a glass, and grabbed Anne by one arm. “You dance with me now?" he mouthed in broken English.

Mallory grabbed for the man’s right arm just above the elbow, his thumb hooking into the pressure point. As he swung round, mouth opening in a cry of agony, Guyon kicked him under the right knee-cap. Marcel staggered backwards, lost his balance and sprawled across the other table. Jacaud pushed him to one side, got to his feet and moved forward.

He stood there, swaying slightly as if drunk, and yet the slate-grey eyes were as cold as ice, eternally watchful.

“Two to one, messieurs,” he said in excellent English. “You made the odds.”

Owen Morgan came round the bar on the run, face very white, eyes blazing. The big Frenchman sent him staggering in backwards with a single, contemptuous shove of his hand and laughed harshly.

“He asked for it, Jacaud,” de Beaumont called sharply. “Let it end there.”

Jacaud ignored him and de Beaumont made no move to come down into the bar, gave no indication of being able or willing to control the situation. He stayed by the fire, a watchful expression on his face.

In that moment Mallory realised that the whole thing had been arranged. That for some reason of his own de Beaumont had deliberately engineered the situation.

Guyon started to rise and Mallory pulled him down again. “My affair.”

Jacaud stood there swaying a little, still keeping up the pretence of being drunk, his great hands hooked slightly, every muscle tensed and ready. He lurched forward and stood over them.

“Of course, my friend might be willing to settle for a drink.” He nodded at the table. “A bottle of champagne would do.”

“Anything to oblige,” Mallory said calmly.

He reached for the bottle and, as he turned, reversed his grip and smashed it across the side of the Frenchman’s skull. As Anne cried out, Jacaud staggered and fell to one knee. Mallory picked up a chair, moved in fast and smashed it down across the great shoulders. Jacaud grunted, started to keel over and Mallory smashed the broken chair down again and again, until it splintered. He tossed it to one side and waited.

Slowly, painfully, Jacaud reached for the edge of the bar and pulled himself up. He hung there for a moment, then turned to Mallory, wiping blood from his face casually.

And then, incredibly, he charged, head down like a wounded bull, the great hands reaching out to destroy. Mallory judged his moment exactly, swerved to one side, allowing the Frenchman to plunge past, and slashed him across the kidneys with a karate blow delivered with the edge of his hand.

Jacaud screamed and fell to the floor. For a little while he stayed there on his hands and knees, and when he got to his feet he was slobbering like an animal. He lurched forward and Mallory kicked his feet from under him. Jacaud crashed to the floor, rolled over and lay still.

In the silence which followed, de Beaumont came down the steps slowly. He dropped to one knee beside Jacaud, examined him and looked up. “You are a hard man, Colonel Mallory.”

“When I have to be,” Mallory said. “You could have done something to stop this. Why didn’t you?”

He turned without waiting for a reply and went back to the table. “I think that might do for one night. Shall we go?”

Hamish Grant’s face was pale, the nostrils flaring slightly as he got to his feet. “You know, I really think it’s about time I bought you a drink, Neil. I’ve got some rather special whiskey back at the house. So Irish that you can taste the peat. I’d like to have your opinion on it.”