Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

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, pre-war 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 Guymon’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. Til have to get down to the harbour straight away. 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.”

“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 Guymon’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 Liiger there as well, but that’s already loaded.”

Guyon opened the drawer and came back, the revolver in one hand, the Liiger in the other. “You can have the Liiger,” the old man went on. Til keep the Webley myself, if you don’t mind.”

Guyon slipped the Liiger 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, Guymon’s hired launch on the other.