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 of physical assault. As it happens, however, his circumstances are far from normal.’
He nodded to one of his assistants and moved out of the way. The assistant, a young, powerfully built Japanese with dark hair, ran to the far side of the gymnasium. He selected a knife from a table which contained an assortment of weapons, turned and ran forward, a blood-curdling cry surging from his throat.
He swerved to one side, came to a dead stop, then moved in quickly, the knife slashing at the Major’s face. Adams moved with incredible speed, warding off the attacking arm with an extended knife-hand block. At the same moment he fell diagonally forward to one side and delivered a round-house kick to the groin. In what was virtually the same motion he kicked at his opponent’s knee-joint with the same foot. The Japanese somersaulted, ending flat on his back, and the foot thudded across his windpipe.
For a moment they lay there and then both men scrambled to their feet grinning widely. ‘In other circumstances, and had the blows been delivered with full force, my assistant would now be dead,’ Yoshiyama said simply.
Adams picked up a towel, started to wipe sweat from his face and caught sight of Mallory in the gallery. He nodded briefly, said something to Yoshiyama and moved across to the door. Mallory met him in the corridor outside.
‘What are you trying to do, go out in a blaze of glory?’
Adams grinned. ‘Every so often I get so sick of the sight of that damned desk that I could blow my top. Yoshiyama provides a most efficient safety-valve.’ He ran a hand over his right hip and winced slightly. ‘That last fall hurt like hell. I must be getting old.’
As they mounted the stairs at the end of the corridor, Mallory thought about Adams. One of the best agents the department had ever had; all the guts in the world and a mind like a steel trap until the night he’d got too close for someone’s comfort and they’d tied
