Amatch flared outlining Hamish Grant’s craggy features as he lit a cheroot. “And the enquiry?”
It was quite dark now, and, below, waves creamed over the rocks in the entrance of the tiny inlet. It was a warm, soft night, stars strung away to the horizon, and when a cloud moved from the face of the moon the terrace was bathed in a hard, white light.
Mallory turned from looking out to sea and shrugged. “A foregone conclusion. They used terms like: Previous gallant service. Hinted that I hadn’t really recovered from the ordeal of two years in a Chinese prison camp.”
“And spared you the ultimate disgrace.”
“They didn’t actually cashier me, if that’s what you mean. You could say I was eased into retirement as quietly as pos-sible. For the good of the service, of course.”
“Naturally,” the old man said. “A bad business. That sort of thing rubs off on everyone concerned.”
“What I did to Li he would have done to me,” Mallory said. “The purpose of terrorism is to terrorise. Lenin said that. It’s on page one of every Communist handbook on revolutionary warfare. You can only fight that kind of fire with fire. Otherwise you might as well lie down and let the waves wash over you. That’s what I brought out of that Chinese prison camp, General.”
“An interesting point of view.”
“The only one in the circumstances. I did what had to be done. When I’d finished there was no more terror by night in Perak. No more Kota Banus. No more butchering of little girls. God knows, that should count for something.”
There was silence. In the moonlight Anne Grant’s face seemed very pale, the eyes dark and secret, telling him nothing. When a cloud crossed the moon she became a mo-tionless silhouette, her face turned towards him, but still she didn’t speak.
Mallory sighed and tossed his cigarette over the wall in a glowing curve. “Under the circumstances, perhaps you’ll excuse me, General? This has turned out to be one of those evenings when I could do with a drink.”
He turned and went up the steps, the sound of his going fading quickly into the darkness. After a while Hamish Grant said quietly: “It’s not often one meets a man like that. Someone who’s willing to carry the guilt for the rest of us. It takes a rather special brand of courage.”
She turned towards him, her face a pale blur, and then, as if coming to a decision, stood up. “Do you mind?”
He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “Leave me the car, will you? I might join you later.”
And that was that,Mallory told himself.That was very much that. No question of what she had thought of him. Her silence, that stillness, had been answer enough. And the strange thing was that it mattered, that for the first time in years the protective shell he had grown had cracked and now he was defenceless.
His chin was on his breast, hands in pockets, as he turned on to the springy turf beside the road, white in the moon-light that ran down to the harbour.
A small wind seemed to crawl across his face and he drew in his breath sharply. He heard no sound and yet he knew that she walked beside him. He spoke calmly, but with a faint Irish intonation, inherited from his father, always ap-parent in moments of great stress.
“And what would you be wanting, Anne Grant?”
“A drink, Neil Mallory,” she said, matching his mood, “and perhaps another. Would that be asking too much?”
He paused and turned to face her, hands still thrust into his pockets. In the moonlight she looked very beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever thought a woman could be, and there were tears in her eyes. He slipped an arm about her shoulders and together they went down the hill towards the lights of the hotel.
In the long grass on the hill above the cliffs Raoul Guyon lay on his back and stared into an infinity of stars, his hands clasped behind his head. Beside him Fiona Grant sat cross-legged, combing her hair.