Jack Higgins – Wrath of the Lion 1964 The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. WILLIAM BLAKE

Bouvier shrugged and an expression of contempt crossed his face. “Say? Say what? There is no charge to answer. I know it and you know it. Frenchmen everywhere will -”

Jacaud plucked the sub-machine-gun from the hands of the sailor standing next to him, aimed quickly and fired along burst that drove Bouvier back against the rail. He spun round, the material of his raincoat bursting into flame as bullets hammered across his back, and fell to the deck.

His wife cried his name once, took a single step forward and fainted, one of the passengers catching her as she fell backwards.

From the well-deck there was a strange, muted sigh from the crew and then there was only silence. Jacaud tossed the machine-gun to the sailor he had taken it from and went down the ladder without a backward glance. Fenelon looked as if he might be sick at any moment. He nodded to his men and hurriedly followed the big man, missing a step half-way down and almost falling to the deck.

They went over the side one by one and from the conning tower of the submarine the heavy machine-gun covered them menacingly. When they were all in the dinghy the sailors standing by the forward hatch hauled on the line quickly.

They left the dinghy to drift and everyone scrambled down through the hatch except Fenelon, who walked along the hull and climbed the ladder to the conning tower. He stood looking up at the freighter for a moment as the two vessels drifted apart, and on theKontoro there was a strange, un-canny silence.

The two sailors dismounted the machine-gun and dis-appeared. Fenelon remained only a moment or two longer before following. The conning-tower hatch clanged shut, the sound echoing flatly across the water.

On theKontoro it was as if a spell had been broken and everyone surged forward to the rail. Janvier had never felt quite so helpless in his life before and for some unac-countable reason was strangely close to tears.

In the distance the wind was already beginning to lift the waves into whitecaps and he remembered the gale warning.L’Alouette sank beneath the waves like a grey ghost, the tri-colour waved bravely, then that too disappeared and there was only the sea.

CHAPTERTWO

TO SUP WITH THE DEVIL

Athin sea fog rolled in from Southampton Water as the taxi turned the corner and pulled into the kerb. Anne Grant peered out through the window at the dim bulk of the building rearing into the night.

The original structure had been Georgian, so much was obvious, but the years had left their mark. A line of uneven steps lifted to the door, the paint cracked and peeling in the diffused yellow light of a street-lamp. Above it a small glass sign saidRegent Hotel.

She tapped on the partition and the driver opened it. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“Regent Hotel, Farthing Lane. That’s what you said and that’s where I’ve brought you,” the man replied. “It’s only a doss-house, lady. The sort of place sailors come to for a kip on their first night ashore. What did you expect – the Rite?”

She opened the door and got out, hesitating for a moment as she gazed up at the damp, crumbling facade of the hotel. Except for the lapping of water against the wharf pilings on the other side of the street, it was completely quiet. When a cafe door was opened somewhere in the middle distance the music and laughter might have been coming from another planet. She gave the driver ten shillings, told him to wait and went up the steps.

The corridor was dimly lit, a flight of stairs rising into the shadows at the far end. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the stale smell compounded of cooking odours and urine and moved forward.

There was a door to the left, the legendBar etched in acid on its frosted-glass panel. When she opened it she found herself in a long, narrow room, the far end shrouded in dark-ness. An old marble-topped bar fronted one wall, a cracked mirror behind it, and a man leaned beside the beer pumps reading a newspaper.

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