Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

The beauty of it was too much for a man and he opened the casement and inhaled the good salt air and out beyond the island the lights of a ship seemed very far away.

Life was a series of beginnings and endings, that much at least he had learned. He remembered Dien-Bien-Phu, standing on the edge of a foxhole in the rain as the tricolour was hauled down and little yellow peasants from the rice fields had swarmed over the broken ground to take him and what was left of his men.

And then Algeria. Years of bloodshed. Of death in the streets and death in the hills. He had believed implicitly that the end justified the means, but what if that end was never realised? What if one were left only with the blood on the hands? Blood which had been shed to no purpose, which could never be washed off.

He felt curiously sad and drained of all emotion. A small wind moaned around the tower and then there was only the silence. In that single moment the heart turned to ashes inside him. Looking out over the moonlit sea he knew with a bitter certainty that he had been wrong. That in the final analysis all that he had done came to nothing. That everything Raoul Guyon had said was true.

He walked to the fireplace and looked up at the old battle standard for a long moment. He nodded, as if coming to some secret, hidden decision.

He picked up the telephone and pressed an extension button. When the receiver was lifted at the other end he said briefly, “Send up Jacaud.”

He replaced the phone, moved across to a narrow door, opened it and stepped into the small turret bedroom. Anne Grant sat in a chair by the window. Fiona lay on the bed.

They got to their feet and faced him. He bowed courteously and stood to one side. “If you would be so kind.”

They hesitated perceptibly, then brushed past him. He closed the door, moved to the fire and turned.

“What have you done with my father?” Fiona demanded.

“There is no need to alarm yourself. He will come to no harm. I give you my word.”

“And Raoul Guyon?”

De Beaumont smiled faintly. “A great deal has taken place of which you are not aware. Captain Guyon is at this moment with General Grant. Except for a nasty cut on the head he seemed in fair condition when I saw him an hour ago.”

“You haven’t mentioned Colonel Mallory,” Anne said carefully.

De Beaumont shrugged. “All I can say with truth, my dear, is that at this precise moment I haven’t the slightest idea where he is.”

There was a knock at the door, it opened and Jacaud entered. He came forward and waited, the cold eyes in the brutal, animal face giving nothing away.

“Have Foxhunter refueled and made ready for sea,” de Beaumont said.

“I’ve already seen to it. Are we leaving?”

“I should imagine it would be the sensible thing to do. Even if Mallory hasn’t managed a landfall yet Granville must certainly be in touch with the French authorities by now. Admittedly they will then have to contact British Intelligence, but I shouldn’t imagine it will be long before we’re faced with some sort of official delegation.”

“Where are we going – Portugal?”

“Perhaps you, but not me, Jacaud.” Philippe de Beaumont extracted a cigarette from his case and fitted it carefully into his holder. “We leave in half an hour for Jersey. When you have landed me in St. Helier you are a free man. You and the others may go where you please.”

Jacaud’s eyes narrowed. “Jersey? Why would you want to go there?”

“Because they possess a more than adequate airport, my dear Jacaud, and an early-morning flight to Paris. I intend to be on it.”

“You must be mad. You couldn’t walk ten yards along the Champs Elysees without somebody recognising you.”

“No need,” de Beaumont said calmly. “You see, I intend to place myself in the hands of the authorities.”

For once Jacaud’s iron composure was shattered. “Give yourself up? You’d face certain execution.”

“That would be for the court to decide.” De Beaumont shook his head. “I’ve been wrong, Jacaud. We all have. I thought I wanted what was best for France. I see now that what I really wanted was what was best for me. Further bloodshed and violence would accomplish nothing. The events of the past few days have taught me that.”

“And what about the women and the old man? What do we do with them?”

“We can release them before we leave. They’ll be picked up before long.”

“And Guyon?”

“Him we will also leave.”

Rage erupted from Jacaud’s mouth in a growl of anger. “I’ll see that one on his back if it’s the last thing I do on top of earth. God in heaven, I could have left him to drown.”

“Sergeant-Major Jacaud!” De Beaumont’s voice was like cold steel. “I have given you certain orders. You will see that they are carried out. Understand?”

For a dangerous moment the fire glimmered in Jacaud’s eyes, and then, quite suddenly, he – subsided. “I beg the Colonel’s pardon.”

“Accepted. Release Captain Guyon and General Grant and bring them up here. We leave in half an hour.”

Jacaud opened the door and went out. De Beaumont sighed, and said almost to himself: “Twenty-three years of blood and war. Too much for any man.”

It was Anne who answered him, her face very pale. “Before God, Colonel de Beaumont, I pity you.”

He took her hand and kissed it gently, then crossed to the door to the turret room and opened it. “Perhaps you would wait in here?”

They walked past him. He closed the door and went to the fireplace. He looked up at the standard for a long moment, then sat down at his writing desk and picked up a pen.

Marcel sat at the table in his tiny room, a bottle of cognac in front of him. He was reading an old magazine, turning the pages slowly, his mind elsewhere. They should have been out of this place the moment Jacaud had returned with the news of the loss of L’Alouette, so much was obvious. He wondered what de Beaumont had wanted, and raised his glass to his lips. Behind him the door crashed open and Jacaud entered.

His face was white, the skin drawn tightly over the prominent cheekbones, and there was a strange, smoky look in his eyes that made Marcel’s flesh crawl.

“What is it? What happened up there?”

Jacaud grabbed the glass, filled it with cognac and swallowed it down. “He wants us to take him to Jersey. From there he intends to fly to Paris to hand himself over to the authorities.”

“He must be mad.” Marcel’s face turned a sickly yellow colour. “Are you going to let him?”

“Am I hell. If they get him they get all of us. It would only be a matter of time.”

“What about the prisoners?”

“He’s going to release them.”

Marcel jumped up in alarm. “We’ve got to get out of here. This whole thing’s going sour.”

“We’re getting out of here all right, but on our own,” Jacaud said. “Just you and me. Everyone else can go to the devil. But first I’ve got to settle with de Beaumont. He knows too much for his own good.”

“And Guyon?”

“I’ll have to forgo that pleasure. You take care of him and the old man. I’ll see you on the jetty in fifteen minutes.”

He went out and Marcel raised the bottle of cognac to his lips, swallowed deeply and tossed it into a corner.

It was quiet in the corridor and he moved quickly along to the end and paused outside a stout wooden door. He took a revolver from his pocket and checked it quickly. There were four rounds in the cylinder and he unbolted the door, kicked it open and moved inside.

Raoul Guyon and General Grant rose to meet him. Marcel closed the door behind him and moved forward.

"You first, Captain,” he said, and his hand swung up.