There was a knock at the door, it opened and Jacaud entered. He came forward and waited, the cold eyes in the brutal, animal face giving nothing away.
“Have Foxhunter refueled and made ready for sea,” de Beaumont said.
“I’ve already seen to it. Are we leaving?”
“I should imagine it would be the sensible thing to do. Even if Mallory hasn’t managed a landfall yet Granville must certainly be in touch with the French authorities by now. Admittedly they will then have to contact British Intelligence, but I shouldn’t imagine it will be long before we’re faced with some sort of official delegation.”
“Where are we going – Portugal?”
“Perhaps you, but not me, Jacaud.” Philippe de Beaumont extracted a cigarette from his case and fitted it carefully into his holder. “We leave in half an hour for Jersey. When you have landed me in St. Helier you are a free man. You and the others may go where you please.”
Jacaud’s eyes narrowed. “Jersey? Why would you want to go there?”
“Because they possess a more than adequate airport, my dear Jacaud, and an early-morning flight to Paris. I intend to be on it.”
“You must be mad. You couldn’t walk ten yards along the Champs Elysees without somebody recognising you.”
“No need,” de Beaumont said calmly. “You see, I intend to place myself in the hands of the authorities.”
For once Jacaud’s iron composure was shattered. “Give yourself up? You’d face certain execution.”
“That would be for the court to decide.” De Beaumont shook his head. “I’ve been wrong, Jacaud. We all have. I thought I wanted what was best for France. I see now that what I really wanted was what was best for me. Further bloodshed and violence would accomplish nothing. The events of the past few days have taught me that.”
“And what about the women and the old man? What do we do with them?”
“We can release them before we leave. They’ll be picked up before long.”
“And Guyon?”
“Him we will also leave.”
Rage erupted from Jacaud’s mouth in a growl of anger. “I’ll see that one on his back if it’s the last thing I do on top of earth. God in heaven, I could have left him to drown.”
“Sergeant-Major Jacaud!” De Beaumont’s voice was like cold steel. “I have given you certain orders. You will see that they are carried out. Understand?”
For a dangerous moment the fire glimmered in Jacaud’s eyes, and then, quite suddenly, he – subsided. “I beg the Colonel’s pardon.”
“Accepted. Release Captain Guyon and General Grant and bring them up here. We leave in half an hour.”
Jacaud opened the door and went out. De Beaumont sighed, and said almost to himself: “Twenty-three years of blood and war. Too much for any man.”
It was Anne who answered him, her face very pale. “Before God, Colonel de Beaumont, I pity you.”
He took her hand and kissed it gently, then crossed to the door to the turret room and opened it. “Perhaps you would wait in here?”
They walked past him. He closed the door and went to the fireplace. He looked up at the standard for a long moment, then sat down at his writing desk and picked up a pen.
Marcel sat at the table in his tiny room, a bottle of cognac in front of him. He was reading an old magazine, turning the pages slowly, his mind elsewhere. They should have been out of this place the moment Jacaud had returned with the news of the loss of L’Alouette, so much was obvious. He wondered what de Beaumont had wanted, and raised his glass to his lips. Behind him the door crashed open and Jacaud entered.
His face was white, the skin drawn tightly over the prominent cheekbones, and there was a strange, smoky look in his eyes that made Marcel’s flesh crawl.
“What is it? What happened up there?”
Jacaud grabbed the glass, filled it with cognac and swallowed it down. “He wants us to take him to Jersey. From there he intends to fly to Paris to hand himself over to the authorities.”
“He must be mad.” Marcel’s face turned a sickly yellow colour. “Are you going to let him?”
“Am I hell. If they get him they get all of us. It would only be a matter of time.”
“What about the prisoners?”
“He’s going to release them.”
Marcel jumped up in alarm. “We’ve got to get out of here. This whole thing’s going sour.”
“We’re getting out of here all right, but on our own,” Jacaud said. “Just you and me. Everyone else can go to the devil. But first I’ve got to settle with de Beaumont. He knows too much for his own good.”
“And Guyon?”
“I’ll have to forgo that pleasure. You take care of him and the old man. I’ll see you on the jetty in fifteen minutes.”
He went out and Marcel raised the bottle of cognac to his lips, swallowed deeply and tossed it into a corner.
It was quiet in the corridor and he moved quickly along to the end and paused outside a stout wooden door. He took a revolver from his pocket and checked it quickly. There were four rounds in the cylinder and he unbolted the door, kicked it open and moved inside.
Raoul Guyon and General Grant rose to meet him. Marcel closed the door behind him and moved forward.
"You first, Captain,” he said, and his hand swung up.
Guyon flung himself to one side and the bullet chipped stone from the wall. In the same moment Hamish Grant slashed at the light with his walking stick, plunging the room into darkness.
Marcel cried out sharply and fired twice. He was aware of a shadow moving over towards the right in the split-second flash and fired twice again. The second time the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He flung the useless weapon into the darkness with a sob and reached for the door.
There was the scrape of a foot behind him and a great arm slid around his neck. He was aware of the pain, of the relentless brute strength, and struggled wildly. Hamish Grant increased the pressure, his fingers locked together like steel bands, and the Frenchman went limp.
The old man dropped him to the floor and said hoarsely, “Raoul, where are you?”
There was a movement in the darkness beside him. “Here, General.”
Hamish Grant put out a hand and touched him on the shoulder. “Are you hit?”
“Not a chance,” Guyon said. “But let’s get out of here. We must find the girls.”
The old man opened the door cautiously and walked into the passage. Something moved, a dark shadow against the light. He reached out, a snarl rising in his throat, and his wrists were gripped tightly.
A tired, familiar voice said: “All right, General. It’s me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
mallory struggled across a great slippery mass of rounded stones and paused on top of a natural escarpment. He had never felt greater loneliness in his entire life. On each side stretched the sea, and before him, clear in the moonlight, the sinister, twisted maze of jagged rocks and great boulders that made up the reef.
At high water the escarpment upon which he was now standing would be a good five fathoms deep, and he moved on, slipping and stumbling across a morass of slimy seaweed, sinking up to his knees in places.
It had taken him three-quarters of an hour to get half-way along the reef. With each passing moment it became more and more apparent that unless he could increase his rate of progress the tide would sweep back in to pound him across these cruel rocks.
He came out on to a strip of wet sand shining in the moonlight, and started to run. For perhaps a hundred yards the sand held true and then petered out into gravel and broken stone.
He entered a forest of dark pointing fingers which lifted into the moonlight like some strange prehistoric monument and wasted ten minutes finding his way through. As he struggled out along a shelving bank of seaweed he paused and looked down at moonlight shining on the waters of the Middle Passage.