He stretched out a hand and covered hers. You’re at-tracted to him, aren’t you?” She made no reply and he sighed. “God knows it was bound to happen. A long time since Angus went, Anne. A long, long time.”
The door opened and Jagbir appeared, Mallory at his shoulder. “Mr. Mallory is here, General.”
Hamish Grant straightened in his chair, shoulders squared, and said calmly, “Show Colonel Mallory in, Jagbir.”
Mallory paused just inside the room, his face very white in the soft light, the strange dark eyes showing nothing. “Who told you?”
“De Beaumont,” the General said. “When he was head of French Military Intelligence in Algiers in “59 they had a general file on people like you. I understand you were run-ning guns out of Tangiers to the F.L.N. Is that correct?”
For the moment Mallory was aware only of a feeling of profound relief. That de Beaumont should recognise him from the North African days was unfortunate, but at least the front he had used in Tangiers had obviously been ac-cepted and that was the main thing.
“Does it matter?” he said. “My past, I mean?”
“Good heavens, man, I’m not interested in what you got up to in Tangiers. It’s what happened in Perak that I want to know about.”
“And suppose I say that’s none of your damned business?”
The old man stayed surprisingly calm, but Anne moved forward and touched Mallory on the sleeve. “Please, Neil, I must know.”
Her eyes seemed very large as she gazed up at him, and he turned abruptly, crossed to the French window and went down the steps of the terrace outside.
He stood at the wall above the inlet in the desolate light ofgloaming, and, below, the lights of a ship out to sea seemed very far away.
He was tired, drained of all emotion, aware out of some strange inner knowledge that whatever a man did came to nothing in the final analysis.
A step sounded on gravel behind him. When he turned, Hamish Grant and his daughter-in-law were standing at the bottom of the steps. They moved to the table, the old man lowered himself into one of the chairs and Anne Grant ap-proached Mallory.
For a long time she stood peering at him, her face in shadow, and then she swayed forward, burying her face against his chest, and his arms went round her instinctively.
The old man was silhouetted sharply against the pale night sky and the sea, hands crossed on top of his stick, rooted into the ground like some ancient statue.
“Right, Colonel Mallory,” he said in a voice that would brook no denial, “I’m ready when you are.”
CHAPTERNINE
THE BUTCHER OF PERAK
lieutenant gregsonpaced nervously up and down, smok-ing a cigarette, trying to look as unconcerned as the half-dozen Malay soldiers who squatted in the long grass talking quietly. At the edge of the clearing the body of a man was suspended by his ankles above the smouldering embers of a fire, the flesh peeling from his skull.
The smell was nauseating, so bad that Gregson could almost taste it. He shuddered visibly and wondered what was keeping the Colonel. He was only twenty-two, slim with good shoulders, but the face beneath the red beret was fine-drawn, the eyes set too deeply in their sockets.
He heard the sound of the Land Rover coming along the track and snapped his fingers quickly. There was no need. The soldiers had risen as one man with the easy, relaxed discipline of veterans and stood waiting. A moment later Sergeant Tewak pushed his way into the clearing, followed by the Colonel.
Mallory wore a paratrooper’s beret and a camouflaged uniform open at the neck, no badges of rank in evidence. He stood staring at the body, dark eyes brooding in that strange white face, and restlessly tapped a bamboo swagger stick against his right knee.
When he spoke his voice was calm. “When did you find him?”
“About an hour ago. I thought you might want to see him exactly as they left him.”
Mallory nodded. “Leave Sergeant Tewak in charge here. He can bring the body into Maluban in your Land Rover. You can come back with me.”