“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 of gloaming, 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 approached 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.”

lieutenant gregson paced nervously up and down, smoking 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.”

He turned abruptly into the jungle and Gregson gave the necessary orders to Tewak and followed. When he reached the Land River Mallory was already sitting behind the wheel and Gregson climbed into the passenger seat.

The Colonel drove away rapidly and Gregson lit a cigarette and said carefully, “I hope you’re not blaming yourself in any way, sir?”

Mallory shook his head. “He was a good soldier, he knew the risks he was taking. If they’d accepted him we’d have learned a hell of a lot. Probably enough to have put them out of business in the whole of Perak. But they didn’t.”

Remembering the pathetic, tortured body, the stench of burning flesh, Gregson shuddered. “They didn’t give him much of a chance, did they, sir?”

“They seldom do,” Mallory observed dryly. “There are one or two chair borne flunkeys in Singapore who could have learned something this afternoon. Unfortunately they never seem to come this far in.” He took a cigarette from his breast pocket, one hand on the wheel, and lit it. “There was a signal from H.Q. while you were away. They’re sending me a plane Friday. There’s to be an enquiry.”

Gregson turned quickly. “The Kelantang affair?”

Mallory nodded. “Apparently the papers got hold of it back home.” He slowed to negotiate a steep hill. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Gregson said angrily. “There isn’t a guerrilla left in Kelantang. The Tigers have had more success in six months than any other unit since the emergency began.”

“They don’t like my methods,” Mallory said. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Neither did I, at first, but I know now that it’s the only way. If you don’t fight fire with fire you might as well pack up and go home.”

“And they won’t let us do either,” Mallory said. “Britain never likes to let go of anything. That’s my Irish father speaking and he had the best of reasons for knowing.”

The Land Rover went over a small rise as it emerged from the jungle, and beneath them, beside the river, was Maluban. There were perhaps forty or fifty thatched houses on stilts, the saw-mill and rubber warehouse on the far side of the jetty.

It was very still, the jungle brooding in that quiet period before night fell, and as Mallory took the ^Land Rover down into the village a whistle sounded shrilly and the workers started to emerge from the mill.

He braked to a halt outside his command post, a weathered, clapboard bungalow raised on concrete stilts, saluted the sentry and ran up the steps briskly. Inside, a corporal sat at a radio transmitter in one corner. He started to rise and Mallory pushed him down.

“Anything?” he asked in Malayan.

“Not since you left, sir.”

Mallory moved to the large map of the area which was pinned to one wall. He ran a finger along the course of the river. “Jack must be about there now. A good forty miles.”

Gregson nodded and indicated a small village to the southwest. “Harry should be at Trebu by nightfall. Between them they’ll have swept most of the western side of the river.”

“Without turning up a damned thing. What’s our effective strength here at the moment?”

“Including Sergeant Tewak and the six men bringing in the body, a dozen. Eight men in the sick-bay and all genuine.”

“You don’t need to tell me.” Mallory picked up his swagger stick. “Mr. Li's giving a dinner party tonight. I’ll probably be there till midnight. Call me if anything turns up.”

“Something special?”

Mallory nodded. “He’s got a journalist staying with him for a few days. A woman called Mary Hume.”

“Isn’t she the one who used to be an M.P.?”

“That’s right. One of these professional liberals who spend their time visiting the trouble spots and kicking the poor old army up the backside in print.”

“Never mind/ Gregson said. “Old Li’s food is always interesting.”

“Some consolation.” Mallory moved to the door, turned and, for almost the first time since Gregson had known him, smiled. “Friday – that’s just three days. Not much time to clean up Perak, eh?”

When he had gone Gregson went back to the map. There was a hell of a lot of country and he knew in his bones that the patrols they had out along the river were wasting their time. There were perhaps sixty Chinese guerrillas in Perak, certainly no more. And yet they were enough to terrorise an entire state, to fill the people themselves with such fear that all hopes of co-operation were impossible.

And on Friday the Colonel was to fly to Kuala Lumpur to face an enquiry that could well lead to his court-martial and disgrace. Gregson cursed softly. If only Mallory could have flown out with the news that he and his Tigers had done it again. Had destroyed the last effective guerrilla band in the north. That would have given them something to think about at H.Q.