Wrath of the Lion

CHAPTERELEVEN

the wind was freshening, lifting the waves into white-caps, and as the dinghy rounded the point water slopped over the gunwale. Guyon carefully eased his weight into the centre and started to bale. He wore a heavy sweater and reefer jacket against the cold. A pair of night-glasses hung around his neck and one of the aquamobiles lay in the prow behind him.

Mallory sat in the stern wearing a black rubber diving suit, the heavy aqualung already strapped into place on his back. As a cross-current started to turn the dinghy in towards the cliffs he opened the throttle on the outboard motor to compensate and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch.

It was 11.45 and there was very little cloud, the sky brilliant with stars, and the moonlight danced across the waves, leaving a trail of silver behind it. The dinghy lifted high on a large swell and swung in towards the great finger of rock which marked the western tip of the island. Mallory opened the throttle again. For a moment the dinghy seemed to stand still and then it forged ahead.

They rounded the point, fighting the cross-currents, Guyon cursing steadily as water slopped over the sides, and then they were sweeping into calmer water. Beyond, St. Pierre and the Gothic towers of the castle were dark against the sky.

Mallory throttled down again and the dinghy coasted on, the sound of her motor a murmur on the wind. The great reef running between the two islands was deceptively innocent in the moonlight. Waves rolling in from the sea splashed lazily across the rocks, now and then a curtain of white spray lifting into the night like silver lace.

He took the dinghy into the calm waters of the Middle Passage until they reached the first point where the roof closed in and water boiled across great jagged black teeth. He cut the motor and the dinghy slowed and ground gently against a sloping, weed-covered shoulder of rock. Guyon hooked the painter into a crevasse and looked towards St. Pierre through the night-glasses.

“About a quarter of a mile. A long swim.”

“Not with the aquamobile,” Mallory said.

Guyon got it over the side, the dinghy heeling dangerously. “Rather you than me. The water’s like ice. How long will you be?”

Mallory shrugged. “No more than half an hour. I’ve no intention of hanging around at the other end.”

He fitted the rubber mouthpiece between his teeth and adjusted his air supply, touched the knife briefly at his belt and clambered awkwardly over the side on to the reef. He waded into the water, swam to the other side of the dinghy and reached for the aquamobile. Guyon smiled once and Mallory nodded and sank beneath the surface.

Moonlight filtered down through the water, probing into the depths. When he passed beneath the surface of the reef and came into the Middle Passage he entered a darker, more sinister, world.

He switched on the powerful spot mounted on top of the scooter and the shaft of light pierced through the darkness in front of him, splaying against the rocks that arched above his head.

He tilted the nose of the aquamobile and- went down gently, leveling out at twenty feet. Although his top speed was no more than three knots, he seemed to rush at a terrifying speed into the wall of grey mist that was the edge of his visibility. The great, arched nave of the reef stretched into infinity before him, the water breaking against his mask.

And then he was through and moving into a strange, unreal landscape of jumbled rocks and pale forests of seaweed waving languidly in the diffused moonlight. He surfaced and looked up at the cliffs of St. Pierre, the pointed towers of the castle dark against the sky.

The moonlight splashed across the face of the cliffs, picking out the dark mouth of the cave. It was now high water and there was no more than a ten- or twelve-foot clearance. Mallory turned the nose of the aquamobile down and leveled out at forty feet. He switched off the.spot and moved into a grey phosphorescent mist.

The great fault in the sea-bed dropped beneath him. At least ten fathoms, Anne had said, slicing into the heart of the island. The mist seemed to swing to one side like a curtain, revealing the entrance to the cave, a good sixty feet across as it widened on its way down.

He drifted in, grey-green walls moving past on either side. The water lightened, the grey merging into aquamarine as artificial light seeped down from the surface. He moved in close to the wall and went forward cautiously.

He stopped abruptly, switching off the aquamobile. From this point on the rough wall of the cave merged into the jetty, great square blocks of masonry like the foundations of some ancient fort descending into the depths. He started up cautiously and immediately the grey-black underbelly of the submarine appeared from the mist.

He had found what he was looking for and to stay any longer was to invite trouble. He turned and flutter-kicked towards the entrance. The light dimmed and he was aware of the current tugging at him.

He swam out into that strange, grey, phosphorescent world and paused to switch on the aquamobile. In that same moment it was torn from his grasp with a metallic clang and a shock-wave, spreading through the water, burst around him.

He turned and saw the frogman suspended in the water about twenty feet away, a weird sea-creature, full of menace, the moonlight glinting on his visor as he reloaded his spear-gun.

Mallory drove forward, pulling the heavy knife from its sheath. When he was perhaps ten feet away the gun exploded again in a shower of silver bubbles. He swung desperately to one side. The spear hurtled past and he moved in fast, his knife cleaving through rubber and flesh.

The man’s body bucked agonisingly, blood rising in a dark cloud as Mallory pulled out the knife and snatched at the air-pipe. As it came free in his hand, air burst out at pressure, bubbles swirling past him on the way to the surface.

He could see the man’s face quite clearly now, eyes bulging, teeth clamped together in agony. Quite suddenly he went over backwards in a graceful curve, like a leaf spiralling earthwards in autumn, the weight of his aqualung taking him down.

Mallory struck up towards the surface, chasing his aqua-mobile, which was rising slowly. He grabbed the handles and switched on, already aware of further shock-waves rippling through the water, bouncing from his body.

The aquamobile surged forward, helped by the turning tide. The sea-bed started to shelve again, and, below, he was aware of the pale forest of seaweed, the ribbons of black rock that were the beginnings of the reef.

Once again he was aware of a shock-wave curling around his body and he glanced to his right. Perhaps fifty yards away and coming up fast through moon-drenched water was a large underwater scooter, at least twice as long as his aqua-mobile, a frogman trailing behind.

Mallory kicked desperately, urging the aquamobile forward. And then the rocks swarmed up out of the gloom on either side and he rushed into the darkness of the Middle Passage. He switched on his spot, planing down to avoid the over-hanging roof. He was aware of a muffled throbbing in his ear and glanced back. A wide band of diffused light spreading through the mist told him that his pursuer wasn’t far behind.

He passed through a section where moonlight streamed in through cracks and fissures in the roof and knew that he was about half-way along the passage, somewhere above the wreck of the freighter. As he came into the clear section he plunged down and at ten fathoms a tapering steel mast loomed out of the gloom. Mallory held on with one hand and waited.

The darkness moved in on him with a terrible, suffocating pressure and the mast seemed to move a little as if the old freighter had rolled. He remembered the dark companionway, dead men’s bones crushed under a steel girder, and shivered, suddenly aware of the cold.

He could sense the turbulence in the water, waves rippling down. When he looked up there was the weird, incandescent glow of the spot-lamp on the other scooter as it passed overhead. He waited for a moment or two, then went up slowly.

At twenty feet he leveled out, switched on the motor, but not the spot, and went after the other scooter. Only in patches was visibility really bad and at this depth the moonlight streamed in through fissures in the rock like regularly spaced lamps along a dark road.

When he emerged at last from the great central nave into clear water he switched off the aquamobile and surfaced.

Raoul Guyon sat in the stern of the dinghy. A yard or two away the frogman stood waist-deep in water on the shelving reef beside his scooter, a loaded spear-gun in his hands. It was almost as if they were holding a conversation.

Mallory released his grip on the aquamobile, went under the surface and swam forward. He erupted in a surge of power, slid his right arm about the man’s neck and fell backwards, towing him into deep water, tearing the air-hose from his mouth.

They sank down through the clear water, the spear-gun spiralling off to one side. Mallory wrenched again with his free hand, pulling away the mask, and the man’s face turned up, contorted with fear.

Mallory hung on, even when a clutching hand reached backwards, wrenching away his own air-hose. He compressed his lips and tightened his grip. Blood began to seep from the man’s nostrils in two clouds and a moment later he swung loosely against Mallory’s arm. Mallory unlocked his fingers and the body bounced away, spun round twice and started to sink.

There was a roaring in his ears and his temples pounded. He kicked for the surface and bumped against the side of the dinghy, gasping and choking for breath. Guyon reached over and grasped his outstretched hand and Mallory stumbled up the sloping shelf of rock and crouched on his hands and knees, chest heaving.

Guyon jumped knee-deep into the water beside him and helped him up, pulling away the mask, his face strained and anxious in the moonlight. When he spoke his voice sounded faint and far away and Mallory shook his head several times.

The roaring subsided abruptly and he gasped: “No time for questions. I ran into a little trouble. We’d better get moving.”

“You found L’Alouette!”

“She’s there, all right. Moored to the jetty under the island just like we thought. Room for a couple more from the look of the place.”

He unbuckled the heavy aqualung, swung it into the prow and clambered aboard the dinghy. As he started the outboard motor Guyon unhooked the painter and followed him. A second later and the dinghy was moving back towards lie de Roc, following the twisting channel between the great rocks which already reared up on either side as the tide turned.

“What happens now?” Guyon said.

“We call up Leviathan the moment we get back. Those motor torpedo boats from St. Helier will be here before you know it.”

The dinghy rocked in the turbulence as it swept on a fast current between high black walls and turned towards the point. Behind them a full-throated roar shattered the night and Guyon raised the night-glasses and looked back. When he took them down his face looked very white in the moonlight.

“It’s that damned speedboat of de Beaumont’s. Coming up fast on this side of the reef. Must be doing all of fifteen knots.”

Mallory glanced back, catching a brief glimpse of the thin pencil of light that was the speedboat’s spot, and opened the throttle of the dinghy’s outboard motor. The strong current was running against them now as they tried to breast the point, and the light craft was twisted round, a wave splashing across her prow.

“Throw the aqualung overboard,” Mallory shouted.

Guyon scrambled to his knees, reached for the straps, heaved and slid the aqualung over. There was an immediate difference, the prow riding over the next wave, and they turned the point and moved into what should have been calmer water.

The turning tide at this point clashed headlong with the usual strong coastal current, and all around them great patches of white water joined with others, sending irregular waves cascading against the cliffs, the undertow sucking them out again.

The dinghy wallowed in the trough between two great swells, her speed cut in half, and, behind, the roar of the speedboat drew inexorably nearer.

“We’ll never make it to the harbour,” Guyon called. “A couple more minutes and they’ll see us.”

A great heaving swell was building up to starboard. As it swept in, lifting the dinghy high into the air, Mallory caught a glimpse of Hamish Grant’s house tucked into a fold at the top of the cliffs, a light shining in one of the ground-floor rooms. He swung the tiller over and the current drove the dinghy in towards the cliffs at tremendous speed.

The gap in the inlet had been at least twenty yards across, but the real problem was that line of jagged rocks blocking the entrance as surely as if it had been a steel portcullis. The one slim hope was that the waves, sweeping in, would raise the water-level and carry them over.

He shouted to Guyon: “This is going to be rough. Hang on and get ready to swim.”

The Frenchman looked back once, his lips moving in reply, but the roaring of the sea drowned his words. Mallory held on to the tiller with both hands. Strange, swirling currents twisted them round and the dinghy was carried helplessly in.

The opening of the cove appeared suddenly in the face of the cliff, water boiling through in a great surge. At one side white spray foamed high in the air, while, all around, dirty cream patches formed as rocks showed through.

The dinghy slewed broadside into the entrance, lifted high and smashed down upon a great green slab of rock. The tiller was wrenched from Mallory’s hand and the outboard motor was torn away with a section of the stern.

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.

Mallory braked to a halt at the end of the jetty, switched off the engine and got out. Moonlight silvered the water and the night sky was like a warm dark velvet cushion scattered with diamonds.

“So far, so good,” he said to Guyon, and led the way along the jetty.

He jumped to Foxhunter’s deck and went into the wheel-house. He switched on the light and cursed softly. The radio telephone had been wrenched from its fastening on the far wall and lay in the corner, smashed beyond repair, a fire-axe beside it.

They beat us to it after all.”

He pushed past Guyon, hurried down the companionway and through the saloon to the aft cabin. He dropped to one knee, opened the locker beneath his bunk and rummaged inside.

“Is this what you are looking for, Colonel Mallory?” Raoul Guyon said softly.

Mallory got to his feet and turned. Guyon stood on the other side of the table, a drawer open, holding the small electronic transmitter that was Mallory’s only link with the department.

“Good man,” Mallory said, and took a step forward.

Guyon dropped the set to the floor and ground his heel into it twice, at the same time taking the Liiger from his coat pocket.

Mallory stood staring at him, a slight frown on his face, and a voice said: “Excellent, Captain Guyon. I was really beginning to despair of you.”

As Mallory turned, de Beaumont stepped out of the shadows of the dark galley, Jacaud at his side, a submachine-gun in his hands.