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

De Beaumont stood in front of the great glass window of the tower room and looked out over the sea. Far, far to the west the rim of the ocean was tipped with orange fire, He de Roc dark against the sky.

The beauty of it was too much for a man and he opened the casement and inhaled the good salt air and out beyond the island the lights of a ship seemed very far away.

Life was a series of beginnings and endings, that much at least he had learned. He remembered Dien-Bien-Phu, stand-ing on the edge of a foxhole in the rain as the tricolour was hauled down and little yellow peasants from the rice fields had swarmed over the broken ground to take him and what was left of his men.

And then Algeria. Years of bloodshed. Of death in the streets and death in the hills. He had believed implicitly that the end justified the means, but what if that end was never realised? What if one were left only with the blood on the hands? Blood which had been shed to no purpose, which could never be washed off.

He felt curiously sad and drained of all emotion. A small wind moaned around the tower and then there was only the silence. In that single moment the heart turned to ashes inside him. Looking out over the moonlit sea he knew with a bitter certainty that he had been wrong. That in the final analysis all that he had done came to nothing. That every-thing Raoul Guyon had said was true.

He walked to the fireplace and looked up at the old battle standard for a long moment. He nodded,as if coming to some secret, hidden decision.

He picked up the telephone and pressed an extension button. When the receiver was lifted at the other end he said briefly, “Send up Jacaud.”

He replaced the phone, moved across to a narrow door, opened it and stepped into the small turret bedroom. Anne Grant sat in a chair by the window. Fiona lay on the bed.

They got to their feet and faced him. He bowed cour-teously and stood to one side. “If you would be so kind.”

They hesitated perceptibly, then brushed past him. He closed the door, moved to the fire and turned.

“What have you done with my father?” Fiona demanded.

“There is no need to alarm yourself. He will come to no harm. I give you my word.”

“And Raoul Guyon?”

De Beaumont smiled faintly. “A great deal has taken place of which you are not aware. Captain Guyon is at this moment with General Grant. Except for a nasty cut on the head he seemed in fair condition when I saw him an hour ago.”

“You haven’t mentioned Colonel Mallory,” Anne said carefully.

De Beaumont shrugged. “All I can say with truth, my dear, is that at this precise moment I haven’t the slightest idea where he is.”

There was a knock at the door, it opened and Jacaud entered. He came forward and waited, the cold eyes in the brutal, animal face giving nothing away.

“HaveFoxhunter refueled and made ready for sea,” de Beaumont said.

“I’ve already seen to it. Are we leaving?”

“I should imagine it would be the sensible thing to do. Even if Mallory hasn’t managed a landfall yet Granville must certainly be in touch with the French authorities bynow. Admittedly they will then have to contact British In-telligence, but I shouldn’t imagine it will be long before we’re faced with some sort of official delegation.”

“Where are we going – Portugal?”

“Perhaps you, but not me, Jacaud.” Philippe de Beaumont extracted a cigarette from his case and fitted it carefully into his holder. “We leave in half an hour for Jersey. When you have landed me in St. Helier you are a free man. You and the others may go where you please.”

Jacaud’s eyes narrowed. “Jersey? Why would you want to go there?”

“Because they possess a more than adequate airport, my dear Jacaud, and an early-morning flight to Paris. I intend to be on it.”

“You must be mad. You couldn’t walk ten yards along the Champs Elysees without somebody recognising you.”

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