Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

She braked hard and the vehicle slewed in a long, breathtaking skid that for one awful moment seemed to be taking them over the edge to the beach and the rocks below. They came to a stop, the front bumper lodged against a boulder, and she opened the door and got out.

There was no sign of Owen Morgan or his launch and when she looked up at the boathouse the great doors were still closed. She turned and found the General scrambling out at the rear, helped by Jagbir. As the little Gurka straightened, his coat fell open to show the ivory-and-silver hilt of his kukri, the curved blade in its leather sheath thrust into his waistband.

As Fiona came round from the other side there was a faint cry up on the hill. Anne looked up and saw de Beaumont and his men running towards them. One of them paused, raised lugs rifle and fired a warning shot that whined across the jetty into the water.

Hamish Grant turned quickly. “What about Owen?”

“No sign of him or the launch,” Anne said. “But Foxhunter’smoored at the end of the jetty.”

Any brief hope that they might be able to take over the launch before de Beaumont and his men arrived disappeared as a sailor came out of the wheelhouse, looked towards them, then hurried back inside.

“We’d better get up to the hotel,” Anne said.

They started up the hill, Fiona leading the way, Hamish Grant using his walking stick to help him. There was another cry from de Beaumont and the sailor who had been guarding Foxhunter rushed out on deck with a rifle and loosed off a quick shot which splintered the woodwork of one of the boathouse doors.

Anne could taste blood in her mouth and there was a pain in her chest. She took Hamish Grant’s hand and scrambled on, her feet slipping on the wet turf, and then they were on to the terrace and moving into the porch.

Fiona flung open the door and led the way inside. The bar was quite empty, a small fire burning in the grate. The stillness was so complete that Anne could hear her heart pounding.

Hamish Grant leaned against a table, struggling for breath, and she called out: “Owen! Owen Morgan! Where are you?”

There was no footfall and yet a quiet voice said with startling suddenness from behind her, “He isn’t here.”

Anne turned quickly and looked into the calm face of Juliette Vincente. “For God’s sake, Juliette. Where is he? What’s going on?”

“I think that perhaps you have come to the wrong place, madame.” Juliette's hand came out of her pocket, holding the pistol. “And now we will all wait quietly for the Comte de Beaumont.”

In the same moment Jagbir drove forward, the terrible Gurkha battle-cry bursting from his throat. His hand swung from under his coat, the razor-sharp blade of the kukri hissing softly through space.

Juliette Vincente pulled the trigger twice, bullets smashing into the little Gurkha's body, and then he was on top of her. As she fired again at close quarters the heavy blade swung down, half severing her neck. They fell together, Jagbir on top, the kukri as firmly clenched in his right hand in death as it had been in life.

As Fiona screamed, the door swung open. Hamish Grant turned, pulling the Webley from his pocket, thrusting it towards the dark formless shadow against the light that was de Beaumont.

Behind him the window shattered and the barrel of a rifle was rammed painfully into his back. “If the General is wise he will drop it,” Marcel said.

Hamish Grant stood there, trapped in the moment of decision, and already it was too late. De Beaumont moved forward and pulled the Webley gently from his grasp.

“And now, old friend, perhaps you will be sensible?”

Fleur de Lys rolled her slim length into the wind, plunging over a wave as water broke across her prow. In the wheelhouse Mallory leaned over the chart table. Behind him the wheel clicked to one side eerily to compensate as the vessel veered to starboard, the automatic pilot in control.

The Admiralty charts he had found in the flat drawers underneath the table were very comprehensive. The one which covered the Pointe du Chateau coastline and the Gironde Marshes told him everything he needed to know.

The door of the saloon companionway swung open and Guyon appeared. He wore a yellow oilskin jacket and carried a large mug of coffee in each hand.

“How are we doing?”

Mallory checked his watch. “Almost noon. Not long now. We’re doing about fifteen knots.”

“I heard the weather forecast on the radio in the galley just before I came up,” Guyon said. “It wasn’t good. Winds increasing and fog indicated in the coastal area.”

“We’re running into it already.”

Mallory drank some of his coffee and Guyon peered through the window. In the distance the fog waited like a damp shroud and heavy grey skies dropped towards the sea. Already the waves were lifting into whitecaps in the northwest.

“How far would you say we’re behind L’Alouette now?” Guyon said.

Mallory shrugged. “Submerged, she only has half our speed. Allowing for the start she had, it’s going to run things a little close.”

He leaned over the chart again. “She’ll have to surface inshore of lie de Yeu before moving into the main creek flowing out of the marshes.”

“What depth is it there?”

Mallory traced its course with a pencil. “Four or five fathoms. Strong tidal currents constantly changing. Not to be relied on. I know what that means. One day there’s a sandbank. The next, six fathoms of clear water. These tidal marshes are all the same.”

“But we could get in with Fleur de Lys?”

“I think so. Probably not as far as the central island where the cottage is. It’s marked on the chart. Half a mile in.”

Guyon straightened and the inimitable wry grin twisted his mouth. “Things might get interesting, eh?”

“I think you could say that.”

Gradually the mist enfolded them until they were running through a strange, enclosed world and Mallory took over the wheel and reduced speed to ten knots. About thirty minutes later they emerged into a patch of clear water and saw the coastline of Pointe du Chateau no more than half a mile to port.

As they approached, a string of rocks and small islands lifted out of the sea, running parallel to the coast, trailing away towards the great hog-back of the lie de Yeu, looming out of the mist in the distance.

Mallory called to Guyon to take over the wheel and went back to the chart. When he straightened, his eyes glittered strangely.

“I think we can save a little time here, but it means taking a chance. L’Alouette will have to use the inshore passage. She has no other choice. This side of lie de Yeu there’s another passage marked between the island and the reef. Three fathoms.”

“We might take the bottom out of her,” Guyon said.

Mallory shrugged. “It’s de Beaumont’s boat, not mine.1

Guyon grinned tightly. “Then I suggest you take the wheel.”

Mallory changed course a point and the young Frenchman went down the saloon companionway. When he returned he carried two lifejackets.

“When I was a child a gypsy woman told my mother I must always beware of water. Superstitious nonsense, of course, but unfortunately my Breton blood says otherwise. I’d hate to prove her right at this stage.”

Mallory changed to the automatic pilot, slipped his arms through the straps of the lifejacket and took over the wheel again. They were running parallel with the islands now and Fleur de Lys rocked in the turbulence, waves slapping solidly against her hull.

Rain hammered against the window, cascading in a sheet which blurred the outlines of all solid objects, adding a strangely dreamlike quality to the whole scene, ile de Yeu was very close and he could see white water boiling in a frenzy across the jagged spine of the reef.