He turned to Adams in surprise. “But this is Raoul Guyon, the man I’m going to work with. I’ve already seen his picture. What’s the idea?”

Adams shrugged. Tm not sure, but I’m not really happy about the way the French are handling this business. I’ve got a hunch that old spider Legrande and the Deuxieme aren’t telling us all they could. Under the circumstances it might prove useful to know everything there is to know about Raoul Guyon. He’s rather unusual.”

Mallory looked again at the photo Sir Charles had shown him. The slim, wiry figure in the camouflage uniform, the sun-blackened face, the calm, expressionless eyes.

“Tell me about him.”

“Raoul Guyon, aged twenty-nine. Went straight to Indo-China from St. Cyr in 1952. He’s the only known survivor of his particular cadet class for that year, which is enough to set any man apart for a start.”

“He wasn’t at Dien-Bien-Phu?”

Adams shook his head. “No, but he was at plenty of other hot spots. He was up to his ears in it in Algeria. There was some talk of a girl. Moorish, I think. She was murdered by the F.L.N. and it had a big effect on him. He was badly wounded a day or two later.”

There followed a picture of Guyon half raised on a stretcher, his chest heavily bandaged, blood soaking through. The face was sunken, beyond pain, the eyes stared into an abyss of loneliness.

“There’s a lad who’s been through the fire,” Mallory said.

“And then some. Commander of the Legion of Honour, Croix de la Valeur Militaire and half a dozen mentions in dispatches. On top of that, he paints like an angel.”

“A man to be reckoned with.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

For the next twenty minutes they continued to sit there, discussing questions of time and place, some important technical data and various other items, all of which were relevant to the success of the operation. When they finally returned to the office Adams sat behind his desk and nodded at a large and well-filled in-tray.

“Look at that lot,” he said with an expression of disgust. “God in heaven, but I’d trade places with you, Neil.”

Mallory grinned. “I wonder? Is there anything else?”

Adams shook his head. “Call in at the technical branch. They’ve got a rather neat line in transmitters for you. They’ll give you a call-sign, suitable code and so on. Come back in half an hour. I’ll have some identity papers and things ready, plus a rough outline of my little scheme to bring you and Mrs. Grant together.”

“Now that I look forward to,” Mallory said.

And the strange thing was that he really did. As he went along the corridor and descended the stairs to the technical branch the memory of her haunted him. Those strange eyes searching, looking for something.

He sighed heavily. Taking it all in all, it looked as if this whole affair could become really complicated.

“Foxhunter! Ahoy! Ahoy! Foxhunter!”

The boat lay at anchor fifty yards out from the beach, her cream and yellow hull a vivid splash of colour against the white cliffs of the cove. A small wind moved in from the sea, lifting the water across the shingle, and darkness was falling fast.

Anne Grant shivered slightly as a light drizzle drifted across her face. She was tired and hungry and her ankle had started to ache again. She opened her mouth to hail the boat a second time and Neil Mallory appeared on deck. He dropped over the stern into the dinghy and rowed towards her.

He was wearing knee-length rubber boots and when the prow of the fibre-glass dinghy ground on the wet shingle he stepped into the shallows and swung it round so that the stern was beached.

He held out his hand for the girl’s suitcase and smiled. “How do you feel?”

“All the better for being here,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I had a lot of running around to do.”

She was wearing a tweed suit with a narrow skirt and a sheepskin coat. He helped her into the stern seat, pushed off and rowed for the boat.

Anne took in the flared, raking bow and long, sloping deckhouse of Foxhunter with a conscious pleasure. As she breathed deeply of the good sea air she smiled at Mallory.

“What do you think of her?”

“Foxhunter?” He nodded. “She’s a thoroughbred all right, but that’s still an awful lot of boat for two women to handle as a regular thing. How old is your sister-in-law?”

“Fiona is eighteen, whatever that proves. I think you underrate us.”

“What about the engines?” he said. “They’ll need looking after.”

“We’ve no worries there. Owen Morgan, who runs the hotel on the island, is a retired ship’s engineer. He’ll give us any help we need and there’s always Jagbir.”

“Who’s he?” Mallory said quickly, remembering that he wasn’t supposed to know.

“The General’s orderly. He was a naik in a Gurkha regiment. They’ve been together since the early days of the war. He hasn’t had what you would call a formal education, but he’s still the best cook I’ve ever come across, and he has an astonishing aptitude for anything mechanical.”

“Sounds like a good man to have around the house,” Mallory said.

They bumped against the side of Foxhunter and he handed her up the short ladder and followed with her suitcase. “What time would you like to leave?”

She took the case from him. “As soon as you like. Have you eaten?”

“Not since noon.”

Til change and make some supper. We can leave afterwards.”

“When she had gone Mallory pulled the dinghy round to the stern and hoisted it over the rail. By now darkness was falling fast and he turned on the red and green navigation lights and went below.

He found her working at the stove in the galley, wearing old denims and a polo-necked sweater that somehow made her look more feminine than ever. She looked over her shoulder and smiled.

“Bacon and eggs all right?”

“Suits me,” he said.

“When it was ready they sat opposite each other at the saloon table and ate in companionable silence As she poured coffee a sudden flurry of rain drummed against the roof.

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “That doesn’t sound too good. What’s the forecast?”

“Three-to-four wind – rain squalls. Nothing to get worked up about. Are you worried?”

“Not in the slightest.” She smiled slightly. “I always like to know what I’m getting into, that’s all.”

“Don’t we all, Mrs. Grant?” He got to his feet. “I think we ought to get started.”

When he went on deck the wind Tiad increased, scattering the drizzle in silver cobwebs through the navigation lights. He went into the wheelhouse, pulled on his reefer jacket and spent a couple of minutes looking at the chart.

The door swung open, a flurry of wind lifting the chart like a sail, and Anne Grant appeared at his elbow. She was wearing her sheepskin coat and a scarf was tied around her head, peasant-fashion.

“All set?” he said.

She nodded, her eyes gleaming with excitement in the light from the chart table. He pressed the starter. The engines coughed once asthmatically, then roared into life. He took Foxhunter round in a long, sweeping curve and out through the entrance of the cove into the Channel.

The masthead light swung rhythmically from side to side as the swell started to roll beneath them and spray scattered against the window. A couple of points to starboard the red and green navigation lights of a steamer were clearly visible a mile out to sea. Mallory reduced speed to ten knots and they ploughed forward into the darkness, the sound of the engines a muted throbbing on the night air.

He grinned at her. “Nothing much wrong there. With any kind of luck we should have a clear run.”

“When do you want me to take over?”

He shrugged. “No rush. Get some sleep. I’ll call you when I feel tired.”