Wrath of the Lion

Mallory shrugged. ‘He looks as if he could crack easily. What’s his political background?’

‘That’s the surprising thing. We can’t find any evidence of an O.A.S. connection at all.’

‘Probably did it for adventure,’ Mallory said. ‘He only needed half a dozen men in the crew to agree with him. They could have coerced the rest.’

‘Sounds feasible,’ Adams said. ‘Let’s move on.’

Various slides followed. There was an Admiralty chart of Ile de Roc, with the harbour, the hotel and General Grant’s house all clearly marked. St Pierre was little more than a rock lifting a hundred or so feet out of the sea and crowned by the Victorian Gothic Castle.

Mallory shook his head. ‘God knows how they ever managed to build the damned thing out there.’

‘Eighteen-sixty-one,’ Adams said. ‘A self-made industrialist called Bryant. Bit of a megalomaniac. Saw himself as king of the castle and so on. Cost him better than a hundred thousand to build the place and that was real money in those days.’

‘I can’t see a jetty. Is it on the other side?’

‘There’s a cave at the base of the cliffs. If you look carefully you can see the entrance. The jetty’s inside.’

The castle faded and another picture took its place. It was that of a distinguished-looking man with silvering hair, eyes calm in a sensitive, aquiline face.

‘De Beaumont?’ Mallory said.

Adams nodded. ‘Philippe, Comte de Beaumont. One of the oldest of the great French families. He’s even a rather distant blood relation of you-know-who, which makes the whole thing even more complicated.’

‘I know quite a lot about his military history,’ Mallory said. ‘After all, he’s something of a hero to paratroopers the world over. He came over here during the war and joined de Gaulle, didn’t he?’

‘That’s right. Received just about every decoration possible. Afterwards he went to Indo-China as a colonel of colonial paratroops. The Viets picked him up at the surrender of Dien-Bien-Phu in 1954. After his release he returned to France and was posted to Algeria. He was always at loggerheads with the top brass. Once had an argument with the old man himself at an official reception over what constitutes war in the modern sense.’

‘That should have been enough to get him put out to grass on its own.’

Adams shrugged. ‘They needed him, I suppose. After all, he was the most outstanding paratroop colonel in Algeria at that time. Handled all the dirtier jobs the top brass didn’t want to soil its fingers with.’

‘So he helped bring de Gaulle back to power?’

‘That’s right. A prime mover in the AlgérieFrançaise movement. The General, of course, kicked him right in the teeth by granting independence to Algeria after all.’

‘And de Beaumont cleared out?’

‘After Challe’s rather abortive little coup last year. Whether or not he was actually mixed up in that little lot we can’t be certain. The point is that he left France and bought this place on St Pierre from Hamish Grant. Caused quite a stir in the French papers at the time.’

‘And he’s kept his nose clean since then?’

‘As a whistle.’ Adams grinned. ‘Even the French can’t turn anything up on him. He runs a boat, by the way. Forty-foot twin-screw motor-yacht named Fleur de Lys. The very latest thing for deep-sea cruising with depth-sounder, automatic pilot and 100 h.p. DAF diesels. A bit of a recluse, but he’s been seen in St Helier occasionally. What do you think?’

‘I’d say he has the kind of inbred arrogance that can only come from a thousand years of always being right, or at least thinking you were,’ Mallory said. ‘Men like him can never sit still. They usually have to be plotting at one thing or another. Comes from that natural assumption that anything conflicting with their own views must be wrong.’

‘Interesting,’ Adams said. ‘He has more the look of a seventeenth-century puritan to me. One of the thin-lipped intolerant variety. A damned good colonel in the New Model Army.’

‘Jesus and no quarter?’ Mallory shook his head. ‘He’s no bigot. Simply a rather arrogant aristocrat with a limited field of vision and an absolute conviction of the rightness of his own actions. When he decides on a plan of attack he follows it through to the bitter end. That’s what made him such an outstanding officer. For men like him the rot sets in only if they step outside themselves and see just how much the whole damned thing is costing.’

‘An interesting analysis, considering you’ve only seen his photo.’

‘I know about him as a soldier,’ Mallory said. ‘At Dien-Bien-Phu they offered to fly him out. He was too valuable to lose. He refused. In his last message he said they’d been wrong from headquarters staff down to himself. That the whole Dien-Bien-Phu strategy had been a terrible mistake. He said that if his men had to stay and pay the price the least he could do was stay and pay it with them.’

‘Which probably accounted for his popularity with the troops,’ Adams said.

‘Men like him are never loved by anyone,’ Mallory said. ‘Even themselves.’

De Beaumont’s picture was replaced by another. The face which stared down at them was strong and brutal, the eyes cold, hair close-cropped.

‘Paul Jacaud,’ Adams said. ‘Aged forty. Parents unknown. He was raised by the madame of a waterfront brothel in Marseilles. Three years in the Resistance, joined the paratroops after the war. He was sergeant-major in de Beaumont’s regiment. Medaille Militaire plus a court-martial for murder that failed for lack of evidence.’

‘And still with his old boss?’

‘That’s right. You can make what you like out of that. Let’s have a look at the angels now.’

A picture of Harnish Grant flashed on the screen, a famous one taken in the Ardennes in the winter of ’44. Montgomery stood beside him, grinning as they examined a map. He was every inch Iron Grant, great shoulders bulging under a sheepskin coat.

‘Quite a man,’ Mallory said.

‘And he hasn’t changed much. Of course, his sight isn’t too good, but he’s still going strong. Written a couple of pretty good campaign histories of the last war.’

‘What about the family?’

‘He’s a widower. Son was killed in Korea. At the moment his household consists of his daughter Fiona, daughter-in-law Anne and an ex-Gurkha naik called Jagbir who was with him during the war. This is the daughter.’

Fiona Grant had long blonde hair and a heart-shaped face that was utterly appealing. ‘Rather a handful, that one,’ Adams said. ‘She was raised in the south of France, which didn’t help. They tried Roedean, but that was a complete fiasco. She was finally settled in a Paris finishing school, which apparently suited her. She’s at home at the moment.’

‘I like her,’ Mallory said. ‘She’s got a good mouth.’

‘Then see what you think of this one. Anne Grant, the old man’s daughter-in-law.’

It was the same photograph that Sir Charles had shown him and Mallory stared up at it, his throat for some unaccountable reason going dry. It was as if they had met before and yet he knew that to be impossible. The almond-shaped eyes seemed to come to life, holding his gaze, and he shook his head slightly.

‘She’s over here now to finalise the purchase of a new boat.’

‘Sir Charles told me that much. What about this man Sondergard she’s hired through the pool?’

‘We’ll ship him out somewhere. There’s no difficulty there. I’ve already got a little scheme in mind to bring you and Anne Grant together.’

They next saw the picture of a Frenchwoman called Juliette Vincente who was working at the hotel on Ile de Roc, Nothing was known against her and she seemed quite harmless, as did Owen Morgan, her employer. When the Welshman’s face faded away, Mallory straightened in his seat, thinking they had finished. To his surprise another face appeared.

He turned to Adams in surprise. ‘But this is Raoul Guyon, the man I’m going to work with. I’ve already seen his picture. What’s the idea?’

Adams shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, but I’m not really happy about the way the French are handling this business. I’ve got a hunch that old spider Legrande and the Deuxième aren’t telling us all they could. Under the circumstances it might prove useful to know everything there is to know about Raoul Guyon. He’s rather unusual.’

Mallory looked again at the photo Sir Charles had shown him. The slim, wiry figure in the camouflage uniform, the sun-blackened face, the calm, expressionless eyes.

‘Tell me about him.’