“I’ve been going over everything he said to me upstairs,” Mallory said. “None of it really makes sense. In the end he must lose. The murder of a fine old man like Henri Granville on its own will be sufficient to lose him, and those who think like him, a great deal of sympathy, and yet he goes on. I wonder why?”
“He was always a strange, ascetic man. A cross between religious fanatic and soldier. The surrender at Dien-Bien-Phu, the humiliation of the Viet camps and our subsequent withdrawal from Indo-China were a source of lasting shame to him. Like many of his kind, he swore it would never happen again.”
“And in spite of everything he could do it did.” 140
Guyon nodded. “De Beaumont is the last of one of our most noble families, his only heir a brother who is a professor of political history at the Sorbonne. A man with pronounced left-wing sympathies. One of his ancestors was one of the few nobles to give wholehearted support to the revolution in 1789, another was a general under Napoleon. For one hun-dred and fifty years the de Beaumonts have been one of the greatest of French families.”
“Something of a national calamity if he had to be arrested.”
“Exactly. The government was more than happy when he chose to reside in the Channel Islands. At the time it seemed to dispose of him as an immediate problem.”
“Which he has now become,” Mallory said, “and in more ways than one.”
“You are thinking of his threat to dispose of de Gaulle during his visit to St. Malo next month?” Guyon shook his head, lay on the other bed, pillowing his head on his hands. “I’m not too worried about that. They won’t get de Gaulle. He’s indestructible, that one. Like one of those rocks out there on the reef after a storm. A little more weathered, but still standing.”
“Which leaves us with the Granville affair,” Mallory said. “And the hell of it is there doesn’t seem to be a damned thing we can do about it.”
He lit a cigarette and lay on his back, gazing at the ceiling, going over the events of the previous couple of hours in his mind. After a while he said softly: The first rule in this game is that the job must come before everything else. Most men I’ve worked with, in your position, would have played along with de Beaumont, would even have executed me if necessary.”
“Perhaps I saw the situation differently,” Guyon said.
You moved so fast you didn’t even notice the difference in weight the blanks made. Why?”
“Something I’ve been asking myself on and off for the past hour or more. It’s not easy to explain. Let’s just say that suddenly people have become important to me again and leave it at that.”
He turned his face to the wall and Mallory lay there, smok-ing his cigarette, thinking how strange it was that a young man, all feeling burned out of him by the flames of two savage wars, should be brought back to life by that oldest and most elemental of human emotions – love.
He was cold and stiff and his limbs ached. He pulled the blanket over his legs and checked his watch. It was almost 5 a.m. and he lay in the darkness listening to the rain and the wind. After a while he drifted into sleep again.
He became aware that someone was prodding him and opened his eyes. Raoul Guyon squatted beside him. Grey light seeped into the room through the barred window and Mallory swung his legs to the floor.
“Still raining?”
Guyon nodded. “Hasn’t let up all night. It’s almost eight.”
Mallory walked to the door and peered through the iron grille into the corridor outside. A young sailor sat in a chair reading a book, a heavy service revolver in the holster at his waist.
Mallory crossed to the window. The casement opened easily enough, but the bars set in the ledge on either side were strong and firm. He looked into the grey morning, out along the reef to lie de Roc. Rain slanted down and visibil-ity was poor, a cold mist drifting close to the surface of the water.