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JACK HIGGINS
WRATH OF THE LION
Contents
Title Page Publisher’s Note Dedication Foreword Chapter One: Storm Warning Chapter Two: To Sup With The Devil Chapter Three: London Confidential Chapter Four: G3 Chapter Five: Passage By Night Chapter Six: Iron Grant Chapter Seven: On The Reef Chapter Eight: The Man From Tangiers Chapter Nine: The Butcher Of Perak Chapter Ten: An Affair Of Honour Chapter Eleven: In A Lonely Place Chapter Twelve: To The Dark Tower Chapter Thirteen: Council Of War Chapter Fourteen: Force Of Arms Chapter Fifteen: The Fleur De Lys Chapter Sixteen: Sea Fury Chapter Seventeen: The Run To The Island Chapter Eighteen: Last Round About the Author Also By Jack Higgins Copyright About the Publisher
WRATH OF THE LION was first published in the UK by John Lang in 1964 and later by Signet in 1996, but has been out of print for some years.
In 2008, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back WRATH OF THE LION for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
For Joe Cooper – good friend
This was the first book I wrote that expressed my enduring love for the Channel Islands. St Pierre is a fictional island – at the time of writing it was not fashionable to use real locations – but is heavily based on Alderney. The themes introduced here – boats at sea in bad weather, action at night and diving – have appeared in many of my books since then, and reflect my own abiding passion for scuba-diving.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
William Blake
The graticules misted over, momentarily obscured by a curtain of green water, but as the tip of the periscope broke through to the surface the small untidy freighter jumped into focus with astonishing clarity. Lieutenant Fenelon gripped the handles of the eyepiece and his breath escaped in a long sigh.
Beside him, Jacaud said, ‘The Kontoro?’
Fenelon nodded. ‘Not more than five hundred yards away.’
Jacaud dropped his cigarette and ground it into the deck with his heel. ‘Let me see.’
Fenelon stood back, conscious of the hollowness at the base of his stomach. He was twenty-six years of age and had never seen action, never known what war was like except through the eyes of other men. But this – this was a new sensation. He felt strangely dizzy and passed a hand across his eyes as he waited.
Jacaud grunted and turned. He was a big, dangerous-looking man badly in need of a shave, a jagged scar bisecting his right cheek.
‘Nice of them to be on time.’
Fenelon took another look. The Kontoro moved slowly to the right across the little black lines etched on the glass of the periscope and his throat went dry. He was already beginning to taste a little of that special excitement that takes possession of the hunter when his quarry is in plain sight.
‘One torpedo,’ he said softly. ‘That’s all it would take.’
Jacaud was watching him, a strange, sardonic smile on his face. ‘What would be the point? No one would ever know.’
‘I suppose not.’ Fenelon called the control room from his voice-pipe. ‘Steer one-oh-five and prepare to surface.’
He whipped the periscope down, the hiss it made as it slid into its well mingling with the clamour of the alarm klaxon. As he turned, brushing sweat from his eyes, Jacaud took a Lüger from his pocket. He removed the clip, checked it with the rapidity of the expert and slammed it back into the butt with a click that somehow carried with it a harsh finality.
He lit another cigarette. When he looked up he was no longer smiling.
In the wheelhouse of the Kontoro Janvier, the first officer, yawned as he bent over the chart. He made a quick calculation and threw down his pencil. By dead reckoning they were forty miles west of Ushant and the weather forecast wasn’t good. Winds of gale force reported imminent in sea areas Rockall, Shannon, Sole and Finisterre.
For the moment there was only an unnatural calm, the sea lifting in a great oily swell. Janvier was tired, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep. A native of Provence, he had never managed to get used to the cold of these northern seas and he shivered with distaste as he gazed out into the grey dawn.
Behind him the door to the companionway clicked open and the steward entered holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. He gave one to Janvier and the other to the helmsman, taking his place at the wheel for a few moments while the man drank.
Janvier opened the door and walked out on to the bridge. He stood at the rail drinking his coffee and breathing deeply of the cold morning
