Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

She paused, wrinkling her nose, aware of the heavy, acrid taint of oil on the fresh morning air. It seeped into a pool from under the door of the engine compartment. She opened it and looked into a twisted mass of smashed pipes and broken valves.

She crouched on one knee, gazing at the engine, her mind frozen. As she started to rise, steps boomed hollowly on the wooden planking of the jetty and Owen Morgan called, “Hello below!”

Anne went up the companionway and came out on deck as he stepped down from the jetty. He wore an old blue pilot coat and rubber boots. Rain frosted his grey hair. He started to grin, but his smile faded at the sight of her troubled face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Take a look at the engine.”

He went down the companionway quickly. When he reappeared his face was grave. “Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?”

“To make sure we couldn’t get off the island,” she said.

He frowned quickly. “Look, how about letting me in on all this? Where’s Foxhunter? I heard her go out early this morning.”

“That must have been Colonel Mallory and Monsieur Guyon,” she said. “They should have been back by now. I’m very much afraid something may have happened to them.”

“Are they in some kind of trouble?”

“They could be, but there isn’t time to explain now, Owen. We must get to Guernsey as soon as possible. What about your launch?”

“I hauled her up the slipway and into the boathouse ready for winter only two days ago,” he said. “No trouble to bring her down again if it’s all that urgent. I can have her ready for sea in half an hour.”

“Do that,” Anne said. Til go back to the house for the others. I’ll explain things more fully when I get back.”

She hurried along the jetty, climbed behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It required a lot of choke before it would turn over and Owen was already half-way up the slope towards the boathouse at the side of the hotel when she finally moved away.

The Welshman’s skin crawled with excitement. Whatever was wrong, it was certainly serious. So much had been evident from Anne Grant’s manner and actions, and to a man whose entire life had been a series of adventures the prospect of action carried all the kick of a good stiff drink. When he was only a few yards away from the boathouse he remembered that the heavy door was padlocked. He turned and moved up the slope quickly to the side door of the hotel.

When he went into the kitchen Juliette was standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes. “Where’s the key to the boathouse?” he. demanded.

She turned, her eyebrows arching in surprise. “On the nail behind the door where it always is. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got to get the boat out,” he said. “The Grants want me to run them over to Guernsey. Can’t explain why. I don’t even know myself. But it must be something serious.”

He took down the key and went out again. After he had gone Juliette Vincente stood at the sink, gazing blankly at the door. After a moment she dried her hands carefully, hung up the towel and went up the back stairs to her bedroom.

Owen Morgan opened the heavy doors of the boathouse and moved inside. The launch was seated firmly into a deep concrete slot, a steel cable coiled around a winch at her stern, holding her in place.

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 Guymon’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, 150 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.