“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 lie 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 lie 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 lie 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 Deuxieme 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 Deuxieme 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 lie 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.

“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 63 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.