Juliette Vincente pulled the trigger twice, bullets smashing into the little Gurkha's body, and then he was on top of her. As she fired again at close quarters the heavy blade swung down, half severing her neck. They fell together, Jagbir on top, the kukri as firmly clenched in his right hand in death as it had been in life.

As Fiona screamed, the door swung open. Hamish Grant turned, pulling the Webley from his pocket, thrusting it towards the dark formless shadow against the light that was de Beaumont.

Behind him the window shattered and the barrel of a rifle was rammed painfully into his back. “If the General is wise he will drop it,” Marcel said.

Hamish Grant stood there, trapped in the moment of decision, and already it was too late. De Beaumont moved forward and pulled the Webley gently from his grasp.

“And now, old friend, perhaps you will be sensible?”

Fleur de Lys rolled her slim length into the wind, plunging over a wave as water broke across her prow. In the wheelhouse Mallory leaned over the chart table. Behind him the wheel clicked to one side eerily to compensate as the vessel veered to starboard, the automatic pilot in control.

The Admiralty charts he had found in the flat drawers underneath the table were very comprehensive. The one which covered the Pointe du Chateau coastline and the Gironde Marshes told him everything he needed to know.

The door of the saloon companionway swung open and Guyon appeared. He wore a yellow oilskin jacket and carried a large mug of coffee in each hand.

“How are we doing?”

Mallory checked his watch. “Almost noon. Not long now. We’re doing about fifteen knots.”

“I heard the weather forecast on the radio in the galley just before I came up,” Guyon said. “It wasn’t good. Winds increasing and fog indicated in the coastal area.”

“We’re running into it already.”

Mallory drank some of his coffee and Guyon peered through the window. In the distance the fog waited like a damp shroud and heavy grey skies dropped towards the sea. Already the waves were lifting into whitecaps in the northwest.

“How far would you say we’re behind L’Alouette now?” Guyon said.

Mallory shrugged. “Submerged, she only has half our speed. Allowing for the start she had, it’s going to run things a little close.”

He leaned over the chart again. “She’ll have to surface inshore of lie de Yeu before moving into the main creek flowing out of the marshes.”

“What depth is it there?”

Mallory traced its course with a pencil. “Four or five fathoms. Strong tidal currents constantly changing. Not to be relied on. I know what that means. One day there’s a sandbank. The next, six fathoms of clear water. These tidal marshes are all the same.”

“But we could get in with Fleur de Lys?”

“I think so. Probably not as far as the central island where the cottage is. It’s marked on the chart. Half a mile in.”

Guyon straightened and the inimitable wry grin twisted his mouth. “Things might get interesting, eh?”

“I think you could say that.”

Gradually the mist enfolded them until they were running through a strange, enclosed world and Mallory took over the wheel and reduced speed to ten knots. About thirty minutes later they emerged into a patch of clear water and saw the coastline of Pointe du Chateau no more than half a mile to port.

As they approached, a string of rocks and small islands lifted out of the sea, running parallel to the coast, trailing away towards the great hog-back of the lie de Yeu, looming out of the mist in the distance.

Mallory called to Guyon to take over the wheel and went back to the chart. When he straightened, his eyes glittered strangely.

“I think we can save a little time here, but it means taking a chance. L’Alouette will have to use the inshore passage. She has no other choice. This side of lie de Yeu there’s another passage marked between the island and the reef. Three fathoms.”

“We might take the bottom out of her,” Guyon said.

Mallory shrugged. “It’s de Beaumont’s boat, not mine.1

Guyon grinned tightly. “Then I suggest you take the wheel.”

Mallory changed course a point and the young Frenchman went down the saloon companionway. When he returned he carried two lifejackets.

“When I was a child a gypsy woman told my mother I must always beware of water. Superstitious nonsense, of course, but unfortunately my Breton blood says otherwise. I’d hate to prove her right at this stage.”

Mallory changed to the automatic pilot, slipped his arms through the straps of the lifejacket and took over the wheel again. They were running parallel with the islands now and Fleur de Lys rocked in the turbulence, waves slapping solidly against her hull.

Rain hammered against the window, cascading in a sheet which blurred the outlines of all solid objects, adding a strangely dreamlike quality to the whole scene, ile de Yeu was very close and he could see white water boiling in a frenzy across the jagged spine of the reef.

He swung the wheel hard to port. Fleur de Lys shuddered protestingly, a wave slammed against her hull and the deck tilted. Guyon was thrown across the wheelhouse and Mallory fell to one knee. The wheel started to spin, but already his hands were back in position. As he brought her head round she lurched forward towards the narrow band of clear water between the reef and the island.

He gave her everything the engines had to offer and the boat responded magnificently. The passage rushed towards them at a seemingly impossible speed and then they were into it, water crashing across great rocks on either side, white, curling fingers reaching out to enfold them.

All around, boulders were appearing and disappearing, waves foaming over them and Raoul Guyon hung on to the chart table, his face white.

Strange, swirling currents snatched at the rudder and for one agonising moment Fleur de Lys slewed to port. Mallory heaved on the wheel. There was a slight, audible shudder that ran through the entire craft as she slid across a sandbank, and then they were into clear water.

Fog rolled from the land in patches and they could smell the foetid odour of the marshes that was carried towards them on the offshore breeze. Mallory reduced speed and they moved in, the engines rumbling protestingly on a low note.

The marshes drifted out of the fog, dark and sinister, waiting to receive them, and overhead a long wavering skein of geese passed like wind-blown spirits of the dead. Long, narrow sandbanks lifted out of the water and, landward, miles of rough grass marsh, a maze of creeks, waterlogged mud and wavering barriers of reeds.

They turned the end of a long sandbar and the mouth of the creek opened before them. Guyon leaned forward with a cry of alarm. Squatting just inside the entrance like some land-blown whale was L’Alouette, her grey-black plates shining with moisture. Fenelon stood in the conning tower with Jacaud and below three sailors were fitting an outboard motor to the stern of a large rubber dinghy.

Mallory took Fleur de Lys forward in a surge of power, her bow wave cascading across the hull of the submarine, knocking one of the sailors into the water. There was a startled cry and as they passed there was no more than ten feet between them. Mallory was aware of the shocked dismay on Feelings face, of Jacaud frowning in disbelief, and then they were through and safe in the fog.

He reduced speed to five knots and opened the window. Fog was sucked in, sharp and cold, the taste of it bitter as death. He strained his eyes into the gloom, watching the reeds drift by. A few minutes later they slid gently to a halt with a slight jar.