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‘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.
3 (#u988eca4d-4835-558a-9e95-5b16c4fb4a05)
London Confidential (#u988eca4d-4835-558a-9e95-5b16c4fb4a05)
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 the verdict?’
‘Oh, the P.M. agrees with you entirely. The whole thing must be investigated. But we don’t want the newspapers getting on to it. You’ll have to be damn’ careful.’
‘We usually are,’ Sir Charles said frostily.
‘There’s just one thing the P.M. isn’t too happy about.’ Ashford opened the file on the desk. This fellow Mallory. Is he really the best man for the job?’
‘More than that,’ Sir Charles said. ‘He’s the best man I’ve got and he’s worked with the Deuxième Bureau before with some success. In fact, they’ve asked for him twice. His mother was French, of course. They like that.’
‘It’s this shocking affair in Perak in 1954 that the P.M. isn’t happy about. Dammit all, the man was lucky to escape prison.’
Sir Charles pulled the file across the desk and turned it round. ‘This is the record of a quite exceptional officer.’ He put on a pair of rimless spectacles and started to read aloud, selecting items at random. ‘“Special Air Service during the war … dropped into France three times … betrayed to the Gestapo … survived six months at Sachsenhausen … paratroop captain in Palestine … major in Korea … two years in a Chinese prison camp in Manchuria … released 1953 … posted to Malaya, January 1954, on special service.”’ He closed the file and looked up. ‘A lieutenant-colonel at thirty. Probably the youngest in the army at that time.’
‘And kicked-out at thirty-one,’ Ashford countered.
Sir Charles shrugged. ‘He was told to clear the last Communist guerrilla out of Perak and he did it. A little ruthlessly perhaps, but he did it. His superiors then heaved a sigh of relief and threw him to the wolves.’
‘And you were waiting to catch him, I suppose?’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘I let him drift for a year. Bombay, Alexandria, Algiers. I knew where he was. When I was satisfied that the iron was finally in his soul I pulled him in. He’s worked for me ever since.’
Ashford sighed and got to his feet. ‘Have it your own way, but if anything goes wrong …’
Sir Charles smiled softly. ‘I know, I end up like Neil Mallory. Out on my ear.’
Ashford flushed, turned and crossed the room quickly. The door closed behind him and Sir Charles sat there thinking about it all. After a while he flicked a switch on the intercom.
‘Send in Mallory.’
He lit a cigarette and stood by the window, gazing out over the city, still the greatest in the world, whatever anyone tried to say. When he opened the window he could smell the river and the sound from a ship’s hooter drifted faintly on the quiet air as it moved down from the Pool.
He was tired and there was a slight ache somewhere behind his right eye. Something he should really see his doctor about. On the other hand, perhaps it was better not to know? He wondered whether Mallory would survive long enough to ever take his place behind the desk in this quiet room. It would have been a comforting thought, but he knew it was rather unlikely.
The door clicked open behind him and closed again. When he turned Mallory was standing beside the desk. An easy-fitting suit of dark worsted outlined his broad shoulders and in the diffused white light his aquiline face gave an impression of strength and breeding, not out of place anywhere.
Sir Charles moved back to his chair and sat down. ‘How are you, Neil?’
‘Pretty fit, sir. I’ve just had six weeks on the island.’
‘I know. How’s your shoulder?’
‘No more trouble. They’ve done a good job.’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘You’ll have to be a little more careful next time, won’t you?’ He opened a file, took out a typewritten document and pushed it across. ‘Have a look at that.’
He occupied himself with some other papers and Mallory skimmed through the three closely typed sheets of foolscap. When he had finished he handed them back, face expressionless.
‘Where’s the Kontoro now?’
‘The destroyer which found her took her straight into Brest. For the time being the French are holding the lid down tight. Complete security and so on. They can’t keep it quiet for more than three or four days. These things always leak out sooner or later.’
‘What are they trying to do about it?’
‘The usual round-up of anyone who’s even remotely suspected of being connected with the O.A.S. or C.N R. On top of that, the Deuxième Bureau and the Brigade Criminelle, backed by every available military security agent, have been given one order. Find that submarine.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought that would be too difficult.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Sir Charles said. ‘For one thing this is no ordinary submarine. She’s quite small. A thing the Germans were working on at the end of the war.’
‘What’s her radius?’
‘Not much over a thousand.’
‘Which means she could be based in Spain or even Portugal?’
‘The French are working along those lines right now, but they’ve got to be careful. On top of that, they’re combing the entire Biscay coast, every creek, every island.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I’ve a horrible feeling that they’re completely wasting their time.’
‘I wondered when you were coming to that,’ Mallory said.
Sir Charles grinned impishly like a schoolboy, opened a drawer and took out a map which he unfolded across the desk. It was a large-scale Admiralty chart of the Channel Islands and the Golfe de St Malo.
‘Ever hear of Philippe de Beaumont?’
‘The paratroop colonel? The one who helped bring de Gaulle back to power?’
‘That’s right. He was one of the leaders of the military coup of May 1958 and a member of the original Committee of Public Safety. Philippe, Comte de Beaumont. Last survivor of one of the greatest of the French military families.’
‘And he’s living in the Channel Islands?’
‘He was the great advocate of a French Algeria. When de Gaulle came down on the side of independence he resigned his commission and left France.’ Sir Charles drew a circle on the chart about thirty miles south-west of Guernsey. ‘There’s an island called Ile de Roc owned by old Hamish Grant.’
‘You mean Iron Grant, the Western Desert general?’
‘That’s right. Been living there for five years with his daughter Fiona, writing up the war. His daughter-in-law Mrs Anne Grant seems to run things. Her husband was killed in Korea. About a mile west of Ile de Roc there’s a smaller island called St Pierre.’
‘And de Beaumont’s living there?’
‘He bought it from Grant two years ago. There’s a sort of castle up on top of the rock, one of those mock-Gothic jobs some crank built during the nineteenth century.’
‘And you think he’s up to no good?’
‘Let’s put it this way. The French have checked on him for two years now and can’t find even the hint of a connection with either the O.A.S. or C.N.R., although he’s known to be sympathetic to their aims. Frankly, even their Foreign Office think he’s simply a grand seigneur who won’t come home because he’s annoyed with the General.’
‘And you don’t agree?’
‘I might have done until yesterday evening.’
‘What happened to change your mind?’
‘I’ve had a man keeping an eye on de Beaumont for a year now, just as a precaution. There’s a small hotel on Ile de Roc. He was working there as barman. He went missing Tuesday. Yesterday evening he drifted in on the evening tide. The police went over from Guernsey and picked up the body. Needless to say there isn’t even a hint of foul play.’
‘You think he may have seen something?’
Sir Charles shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. 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.
