Wrath of the Lion. Jack Higgins
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L’Alouette left Brest on a routine training patrol two days ago. She could have called at St Pierre and our man could have seen her. It’s pretty obvious that he came across something, and the Deuxième agree with me. They’re sending a man across to work with you on this thing.’
‘I wondered when we were coming to that,’ Mallory said.
Sir Charles pushed a file across. ‘Raoul Guyon, aged twenty-nine. He was a captain in a colonial parachute regiment. Went straight to Indo-China from St Cyr in 1952.’
Mallory looked down at the photograph. It showed a young man, slim-hipped and wiry, the sleeves of his camouflaged jacket rolled up to expose sunburnt arms. The calm, sun-blackened face, dark eyes, were shaded by a peaked cap that somehow gave him a strangely sinister, forbidding appearance.
‘Why did he leave the army?’
‘God knows,’ Sir Charles said. ‘I should imagine six years in Algeria was enough for any man. He asked to be placed on unpaid leave and Legrande of the Deuxième offered him a job.’
‘When do I meet him?’
‘You don’t, for the moment. Apparently, he’s quite a talented painter. He’s using that as a cover. Should book in at the hotel on Ile de Roc sometime tomorrow.’
‘What about me?’
‘A little more complicated, I’m afraid. If de Beaumont is up to no good, then he’ll be expecting company. We need to make your background convincing enough to fool him for at least a day or two, and I might as well tell you now that’s all the time we can allow.’
‘What do I do?’ Mallory asked.
Sir Charles opened another file and passed a photo across. The girl who stared out at Mallory was somewhere in her twenties, dark hair close-cropped like a young boy’s, almond-shaped eyes slanting across high cheekbones. She was not beautiful in any conventional sense and yet in a crowd she would have stood out.
‘Anne Grant?’ he said instinctively.
Sir Charles nodded. ‘She came over this morning to finalise the purchase of a thirty-foot motor-cruiser called Foxhunter. It’s moored at Lulworth now. Apparently, she hired a seaman through the pool to skipper the thing for a couple of months till she and her sister-in-law get used to it for themselves. A big boat for a couple of girls.’
Mallory nodded. ‘I ran one in and out of Tangiers for a while back in ’59. Remember?’
‘Think you could handle one again?’
Mallory grinned. ‘I don’t see why not.’
Sir Charles nodded in satisfaction. ‘First you’ll have to get rid of this seaman. After that all you have to do is make sure you get his job.’
‘That shouldn’t prove too difficult.’ Mallory hesitated and went on: ‘Couldn’t we work something out with General Grant? Let him know what we’re after? He’d be certain to co-operate.’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘Before you knew where you were he’d be running the whole damned show. In any case, I’m never happy about bringing amateurs into these things if it can be avoided. They give the game away too easily. Use him by all means, but only in an extreme situation where there’s no other way.’ He got to his feet abruptly. ‘I want results on this one, Neil, and I want them fast. Cut any corners you have to. I’ll back you all the way.’
One corner of Mallory’s mouth twitched ironically. ‘I seem to remember someone saying that to me once before.’
Sir Charles’s face was grave and dispassionate, the eyes calm, and Mallory knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if necessary the old man would not have the slightest compunction in throwing him to the wolves.
‘I’m sorry, Neil,’ he said.
‘At least I know where I stand with you.’ Mallory shrugged. ‘That’s something.’
Sir Charles took an old gold watch from his pocket and checked it quickly. ‘You’ll have to get moving. I’ve arranged for you to be fully briefed by G3 at eight o’clock. They’ll give you everything. Money, seaman’s papers and a special transmitter. Report your arrival. After that, radio silence till you have some news. I’ve arranged for three M.T.B.s to proceed to Jersey, ostensibly for shallow-water exercises. The moment we get anything positive from you they’ll move in so fast de Beaumont won’t know what’s hit him.
Mallory walked to the door. As he opened it, the old man said: ‘Good luck, Neil. With the right kind this could turn out to be a pretty straightforward one.
‘Aren’t they all?’ Mallory said dryly, and the door closed gently behind him.
Professor Yoshiyama was little more than five feet in height and wore a judo jacket and trousers many times washed, a black belt around his waist. The face was the man’s most outstanding feature, the skin the colour of parchment and almost transparent. There was nothing weak there. Only strength and intelligence and a kind of gentleness. It could have been that of a saint or scholar. It was, in fact, the face of a great master who had practised his art for more than fifty years.
His voice was dry and rather pedantic, the vowels clipped slightly, but the dozen men sitting cross-legged on the floor were giving him all their attention. High in the balcony of the gymnasium, Mallory leaned on the rail and watched.
‘The literal meaning of the two Japanese characters which make up the word karate is empty hands,’ Yoshiyama said. ‘This refers to the fact that karate developed as a system of self-defence relying solely on unarmed techniques. The system was first developed centuries ago on the island of Okinawa during a time when the inhabitants were forbidden to carry arms on pain of death.’
There was a strangely old-fashioned flavour to everything he said, as if he were repeating a lesson painfully learned. He turned to a large wall chart which carried an outline of a human figure with all vital points, and their respective striking areas, clearly marked.
‘The system consists of techniques of blocking or deflecting an attack and of counter-attacking by punching, striking or kicking.’ He turned, his face bland, expressionless. ‘But there is more to karate that well-practised tricks and physical force.’ He tapped his head. ‘There is also the mental application. You will be taught how to focus all your strength and energy on a single target at any given time. Let me show you what I mean.’
He nodded briefly and his two assistants picked up three lengths of planking. They were perhaps two feet long, each plank an inch thick. The two men took up their positions in front of Yoshiyama, holding the three planks between them and slightly above waist-level. In a single incredibly fluid motion the old man’s left foot stamped forward and his right fist moved up from the waist, knuckles extended. There was a report like a gunshot and the planks split from end to end.
A quick murmur rose from the class and Yoshiyama turned, quite unperturbed. ‘It is also possible to snap a brick in half with the edge of the hand.’ He permitted himself one brief smile. ‘But this requires practice. Major Adams, please.’
A small, wiry, middle-aged man with greying hair and a black patch over his right eye stood up at the back of the class and came forward. Like Yoshiyama, he wore a black belt, but where his left arm should have been a metal limb dangled.
‘You will observe that Major Adams is rather a small man,’ Yoshiyama said. ‘He is also no longer in the prime of life. If we add to this the fact that he has only one arm one would not under normal circumstances give him much hope of surviving any kind