Wrath of the Lion. Jack Higgins
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I’d have said you were a soldier.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I think you could say I know the breed. My father was one and so was my husband. He was killed in Korea.’
There didn’t seem anything to say and Mallory lit a cigarette and walked to the window. He peered outside, then turned.
‘The motor-cruiser you mentioned, what kind is it?’
‘A thirty-footer by Akerboon. Twin screw, steel hull.’
‘Only the best?’ He looked suitably impressed. ‘How’s she powered?’
‘Penta petrol engine. She’ll do about twenty-two knots at full stretch.’
‘Depth-sounder, automatic steering, every latest refinement?’ He grinned. ‘I’d say she must have cost you all of seven thousand pounds.’
‘Not me,’ she said. ‘My father-in-law. All I did was obey orders. He told me exactly what he wanted.’
‘Sounds like a man who’s used to getting his own way.’
She smiled. ‘A habit he finds hard to break. He’s a major-general.’
‘Grant?’ Mallory frowned. ‘Are you talking about Iron Grant? The Western Desert man?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right. He’s been living in the Channel Islands since he left the army. I keep house for him.’
‘What does the old boy do with himself these days?’
‘He’s almost blind now,’ she said, ‘but he’s still amazingly active and he’s made quite a reputation for himself as a war historian. He uses a tape-recorder and his daughter Fiona and I type up his notes for him.’
‘You said you wanted Sondergard to have had some experience as a skin-diver? Why was that?’
‘It wasn’t essential, but he could have been useful. In the fifteenth century a small fishing village and fortress on Ile de Roc were inundated. The ruins are now about eight fathoms down a few hundred yards off-shore. We’re making a survey. Fiona and I have been doing most of the diving so far.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t find any difficulty in getting another man from the pool to take on a job like that.’
As he looked out of the window and down into the yellow fog she said quietly, ‘I was wondering whether you might be interested?’
He turned slowly, a slight frown on his face. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘What is there to know? You told me yourself you were a sailor.’
‘From necessity,’ he said. ‘Not choice.’
‘You couldn’t handle Foxhunter, you mean?’
‘Is that her name? Oh, yes, I’ve handled boats like that before. I’ve even done a little skin-diving.’
‘Eighty pounds a month and all found,’ she said. ‘Does that tempt you?’
He grinned reluctantly. ‘It does indeed, Mrs Grant.’
She held out her hand in a strangely boyish gesture. ‘I’m glad.’
He held it for a moment, looking into her eyes gravely. Her smile faded, and again she was conscious of that vague irrational fear. Something must have shown on her face. Mallory’s hand tightened on hers and he smiled gently. In that single moment her fear disappeared and an inexplicable tenderness flooded through her. A horn sounded outside in the street and he helped her to her feet.
‘Time to go. Where are you staying?’
‘An hotel in the town centre.’
‘You should cause quite a sensation going through the foyer,’ he told her as he took her arm and helped her across to the door.
The fog was clearing a little as he handed her into the taxi. She wound down the window and leaned out to him. ‘I’ve several things to attend to tomorrow, so I can’t get down to Lulworth again until the evening. I’ll see you down there.’
He nodded. ‘You could do with a morning in bed.’
She smiled wanly in the pale light, but before she could reply the taxi moved away. Mallory stood looking into the fog, listening to the sound of the engine die into the distance, then turned and went up the steps.
When he entered the bar the barman was still reading his newspaper. ‘Where are they?’ Mallory asked.
The man lifted the flap and jerked his thumb at the rear door. ‘In there.’
When Mallory opened the door he found the Irishman sitting at a wooden table beside a coal fire, a basin of hot water in front of him. His clothes were plastered with mud and he was wiping blood from a gash that ran from his ear to the point of his chin. The man with the black beard lay on an old horse-hair sofa, clutching his right arm and moaning softly.
The Irishman lurched to his feet, his eyes wild. ‘You bastard. What were you trying to do, kill us?’
‘I told you to frighten the girl a little, that’s all, but you tried to be clever. Anything you got, you asked for.’ Mallory took several banknotes from his wallet and tossed them on to the table. ‘That should settle the account.’
‘Ten quid!’ the Irishman cried. ‘Ten lousy quid!’ What about Freddy? You’ve broken his arm.’
‘No skin off my nose,’ Mallory said calmly. ‘Tell him to try the Health Service.’
He walked out and the Irishman slumped into his chair again, head swimming. The barman came in and stood looking at him. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Bloody awful. Who is that bastard?’
‘Mallory?’ The barman shrugged. ‘I know one thing. He’s the coldest fish I’ve ever met and I’ve known a few.’ He looked down at the bearded man and shook his head. ‘Freddy doesn’t look too good. Maybe I should phone for an ambulance?’
‘You can do what the hell you like,’ the Irishman said violently.
The barman moved to the door, shaking his head. ‘You know what they say. When you sup with the devil you need a long spoon. I reckon you and Freddy got a little too close.’
He sighed heavily and disappeared into the bar.
The room was half in shadow, the only light the shaded lamp on the desk. The man who sat sideways in the swivel chair, gazing out through the broad window at the glittering lights of London, was small, the parchment face strangely ageless. It was the face of an extraordinary human being, a man who had known pain and who had succeeded in moving beyond it.
The green intercom on his desk buzzed once and he swung round in the chair and flicked a switch. ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Ashford is here, Sir Charles.’
‘Send him in.’
The door opened soundlessly and Ashford advanced across the thick carpet, a tall, greying man in his forties with the worried face of the professional civil servant who had spent too much of his life close to the seats of power.
He sat down in the chair opposite, opened his briefcase and produced a file which he placed carefully on the desk. Sir Charles pushed a silver cigarette box across to him.
‘What’s