She frowned slightly, as if finding difficulty in taking in* what he had said. “But you’ve only got a handful of men. You can’t possibly hope to defeat such a large group.”

“Solicitude for my welfare at this stage, Mrs. Hume? You’re slipping.” He got to his feet and buckled on his revolver. “Don’t worry, we have our ways.” He crossed to the door, opened it and turned. “Stay here, and this time I mean it.”

Mary Hume opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came, and suddenly she was afraid. Afraid of this terrible young man. There was nothing she could do, nothing to prevent the tragedy that was taking place. Out of some strange, inner knowledge she knew that Neil Mallory, in the process of destroying the evil that he hated, was also destroying himself. The most surprising thing of all was that she cared.

Mallory moved across to the jetty and paused beside the two men who squatted behind the heavy machine-gun. Another was positioned on top of a small hill fifty yards away and between them they covered the river with an arc of fire.

At the end of the jetty Tewak waited with the rest of the men. Two of them crouched behind the narrow wall, the heavy tanks of their flame-throwers bulging obscenely.

The rain rushed into the river with a heavy, sibilant whispering, and Mallory was aware of a strange, aching sadness. It was as if he had done all this before in another time, another place. As if life were a circle turning endlessly. Everything that had happened during the previous few hours lacked definition, like a dream only half remembered.

And then Tewak grunted. There was the slapping of water against a keel, a sensation of an even darker mass moving through the darkness, and Mallory tapped Tewak lightly on the shoulder.

The little sergeant picked up a portable spot and switched it on. The white beam lanced through the night, picking out two large fishing boats as they slipped downstream, side by side, sails furled, a man in each stern working a sweep.

There was a cry of alarm and the first boat half lifted out of the water as it collided with the ferry hawser which Tewak and his men had suspended across the river an hour earlier.

The boat spun round, crashing into its fellow, and there was another cry, followed by a burst of small-arms fire directed towards the jetty.

Mallory called out and the men with the flame-throwers stood up. Liquid fire arched through the night, splashing across the two boats. Immediately their superstructure and sails started to burn and men poured on to their decks from below.

The two heavy machine-guns opened up, raking the decks, chopping down the guerrillas as soon as they appeared. Tewak dropped the spot, picked up his sub-machine-gun and joined in with the rest of the men.

It was over within a few minutes. A handful jumped from the blazing inferno and struck out desperately for safety, but the flame-throwers searched them out, the fire licking hungrily across the surface of the water, catching them one by one.

By this time the river and the village were brilliantly illuminated and Mallory stood there watching, taking no part in what was happening. He glanced at his watch. It was just after 2 a.m. and he wondered how Harrison was getting on.

He turned and found Mary Hume standing a few yards away. When he walked towards her he saw that she was crying.

“You butcher,” she said. “You butcher. I’ll see you hang for this night’s work.”

Tm sure you will, Mrs. Hume,” he said calmly and went past her along the jetty.

Twenty-four hours left now till that plane arrived, that was all, but it was enough. If he moved fast along the river bank to meet up with Harrison and his men coming south they’d be certain to sweep up any survivors of the clash at the rubber estate. Another twenty-four hours and after that…

As he went up the bank towards the command post the first fishing boat sank beneath the surface with a hiss of steam.

A match 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 possible. 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 motionless 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 moonlight 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 apparent 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.