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.’
‘Raoul Guyon, aged twenty-nine. Went straight to Indo-China from St Cyr in 1952. He’s the only known survivor of his particular cadet class for that year, which is enough to set any man apart for a start.’
‘He wasn’t at Dien-Bien-Phu?’
Adams shook his head. ‘No, but he was at plenty of other hot spots. He was up to his ears in it in Algeria. There was some talk of a girl. Moorish, I think. She was murdered by the F.L.N. and it had a big effect on him. He was badly wounded a day or two later.’
There followed a picture of Guyon half raised on a stretcher, his chest heavily bandaged, blood soaking through. The face was sunken, beyond pain, the eyes stared into an abyss of loneliness.
‘There’s a lad who’s been through the fire,’ Mallory said.
‘And then some. Commander of the Legion of Honour, Croix de la Valeur Militaire and half a dozen mentions in despatches. On top of that, he paints like an angel.’
‘A man to be reckoned with.’
‘And don’t you forget it.’
For the next twenty minutes they continued to sit there, discussing questions of time and place, some important technical data and various other items, all of which were relevant to the success of the operation. When they finally returned to the office Adams sat behind his desk and nodded at a large and well-filled in-tray.
‘Look at that lot,’ he said with an expression of disgust. ‘God in heaven, but I’d trade places with you, Neil.’
Mallory grinned. ‘I wonder? Is there anything else?’
Adams shook his head. ‘Call in at the technical branch. They’ve got a rather neat line in transmitters for you. They’ll give you a call-sign, suitable code and so on. Come back in half an hour. I’ll have some identity papers and things ready, plus a rough outline of my little scheme to bring you and Mrs Grant together.’
‘Now that I look forward to,’ Mallory said.
And
