Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

Guyon turned with a gesture of despair and Mallory motioned him to silence. When he went to the door the young sailor was back on his chair reading a magazine.

Mallory crossed to the window and looked outside. A minute or two later he heard the sound of an engine and Foxhunter came into view, running alongside the reef towards lie de Roc.

“There he goes.”

Guyon moved to the window, peered out and frowned. “But why has he taken Foxhunter?

“Easier to handle than Fleur de Lys on the short run and there’s too much sea for the speedboat.”

Guyon, thinking of Fiona, dropped his cigarette and stamped on it viciously. “I didn’t like his last remark. He sounded far too sure of himself. As if he knew for certain that the General and the girls would still be on the island.”

“I imagine he does/ Mallory said. “It’s been a long night. He could have been up to anything, but that isn’t important at the moment. He probably only intends to bring them back here for safe custody until he’s ready to move out.”

“You may be right.”

“It’s Henri Granville I’m thinking about, sitting in the middle of the Gironde Marshes not knowing that sometime after noon there’ll be a knock at the door. I can see the smile on Jacaud’s face now.”

“And nothing we can do about it.”

“Plenty, if we could get out of here. There’s always the radio room in the tower, or the Fleur de Lys would be a better bet. A boat of that size is bound to have a radio telephone.”

Guyon shook his head. “Those marshes are one of the most isolated places on the entire coast. Even if we managed to contact my people in Paris it would still be too late for Henri Granville. They’d never reach him in time.”

“But we could,” Mallory said. “L’Alouette will have to make the entire run submerged. That will take her a good three hours.”

“It’s almost an hour since she left,” Guyon pointed out.

“Fleur de Lys has twice the speed. We could still beat Jacaud to the punch.”

“Only if we get out of here within the next half-hour,” Guyon said. “And I stopped believing in miracles a long time ago.”

“We don’t need a miracle. Just a little luck,” Mallory pulled him down on the bed. “Now listen carefully.”

It was cold in the passage and the young sailor shivered and got to his feet. He stamped vigorously to restore his circulation and walked a few paces away from the chair. He was bored. He was also a little afraid. In the beginning the whole affair had seemed like a great adventure, a crusade. Now he was not so sure. He turned to move back to his chair and a muffled cry sounded from inside the cell.

He stood there, a puzzled frown on 1m face. There was another cry, followed by the crash of a bed going over. He arrived at the grille in time to see Guyon drive his fist into Mallory’s face, knocking him against the wall.

“You got me into this, you bastard!” the young Frenchman cried. Til kill you! I’ll kill you!”

He flung himself forward and Mallory ducked under another blow, moved in close and tripped him. A moment later and he was kneeling on Guymon’s chest, hands twisted into his collar as he throttled him expertly.

The young sailor gave a cry of alarm. He pulled back the bolts and moved into the cell, revolver ready in his right hand. He reached for Mallory’s collar and to his amazement Guyon erupted from the floor, grabbed his wrist savagely and twisted the revolver from his grasp. The sailor’s mouth opened in a cry of alarm that was cut short as Mallory’s fist moved in a short arc against the side of the jaw.

Mallory picked up the revolver, nodded to Guyon and they went outside quickly. All was quiet. Guyon bolted the door and they hurried along the passage.

A strange quiet reigned until they reached the main corridor when they heard voices in the distance and the clatter of pans from the kitchen. They passed along to the far end and Mallory opened the door cautiously and stepped on to the landing at the top of the steps which led down to the cave.

The jetty was deserted and Fleur de Lys and the speedboat were the only craft moored to the wall. They went down the stone steps quickly, paused for a moment at the bottom, then hurried across to Fleur de Lys.

When they went into the wheelhouse they saw at once that the radio telephone had been removed from its housing on the wall. Mallory grinned tightly. “He’s a cautious bastard, I’ll say that for him.”

“Only to be expected.” Guyon shrugged. “A good soldier tries to foresee every eventuality.” He looked around and shook his head. “This looks one hell of a size for two of us.”

“We’ll manage,” Mallory said. “We’ll have to. There’s plenty of fuel in the tank, which is the main thing. Go get those lines off the jetty and we’ll move out.”

Guyon went forward quickly and untied the first line. As he started aft there was a harsh cry. When he glanced up he saw a sailor standing on the landing at the top of the steps. He ran along the deck and cast off the other line. The sailor drew a revolver and fired two wild shots as he came down the steps.

He was too late. The engines were already roaring into life and Mallory took Fleur de Lys out through the entrance. Spray splashed against the window, waves breaking over the deck as he turned through the lee-side of the reef and set course for Pointe du Chateau.

hamish grant opened the door and stood listening to the sound of quiet breathing. Fiona was stretched on the sofa and Anne slept in the wing-backed chair, a rug over her legs.

As he started to close the door she opened her eyes and said softly, “What time is it?”

“Just after eight. Jabber’s made some fresh tea.”

She got to her feet, draped the rug over Fiona and followed him out. “Any sign of them?”

The old man shook his head. “Not yet.”

The kitchen looked out over the courtyard, a large and pleasant room, beams supporting a low ceiling. Jagbir was frying eggs at the stove. When he saw Anne he poured a cup of tea and gave it to her and she stood in front of the fire, drinking it slowly.

Beyond, through the wide window, clouds hung threateningly over the fields, rain dripped from the gutters and brown leaves crawled across the cobbles. She went to the window and gazed out into the rain, thinking of Mallory.

Hamish Grant moved beside her and squeezed her hand. “He did say it would take till breakfast-time. I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

Tm not,” she said. “One thing I am sure of is his ability to look after himself, but I’d have thought we’d have heard from them by now.”

“We very probably will before much longer.”

She finished her tea and moved to the door. “I think I’ll run down to the harbour and see what’s happening.”

“I’ll send Jagbir with you.”

She shook her head. “Let him get on with breakfast. I shan’t be long. No need to wake Fiona till I get back. She could do with the sleep.”

She went along the hall, pulled on her sheepskin coat and let herself out of the front door. Rain fell steadily and she fastened a scarf about her hair as she went down the drive and turned through the gates.

Visibility was poor, a grey, clinging mist drifting in patches across the water, and the central hill of the island looked very green against the leaden sky. She hurried along the road and paused on the brow of the hill to look down into the harbour. Only one boat was moored there, Raoul Guymon’s launch, and the shooting brake was parked at the end of the jetty.

She went down the hill quickly, taking a short cut across the wet grass. The shooting brake was beaded with moisture, the engine cold. She stood there for a moment, a frown on her face, then walked along the jetty and stepped on to the deck of Guymon’s launch. She went into the small saloon, stood looking about her for a moment, then turned to go.