“Did they make good soldiers?”
“In three months they were probably the most formidable jungle troops in Malaya. Within six they’d proved themselves so efficient in the field they’d earned a nickname: "Mallory’s Tigers".”
“What happened in Perak?”
“The climax of the drama, or the tragedy, if you like, because that’s what it was. At that time Perak was rotten with Communist guerrillas, especially on the border with Thailand. The powers-that-be told Mallory to go in and clean them out once and for all.”
“And did he?”
“I think you could say that, but when he’d finished he’d earned himself a new name.”
“The Butcher of Perak?”
That’s right. A man who’d ordered the shooting of many prisoners, who had interrogated and tortured captives in custody. A man who was proved to have acted with a single-minded and quite cold-blooded ferocity.”
“And he was cashiered?”
The General shook his head. “I should imagine that would have involved others. No, they simply retired him. Gave the usual sort of story to the newspapers. Took the line that he’d never really recovered from his experiences in Chinese hands and so on. Nobody could argue with that and the whole thing simply faded away.”
She sat staring into the fire for several moments, then shook her head. “The man you describe must have been a monster, and Neil Mallory isn’t that, I’m sure.”
He stretched out a hand and covered hers. "You’re attracted to him, aren’t you?” She made no reply and he sighed. “God knows it was bound to happen. A long time since Angus went, Anne. A long, long time.”
The door opened and Jagbir appeared, Mallory at his shoulder. “Mr. Mallory is here, General.”
Hamish Grant straightened in his chair, shoulders squared, and said calmly, “Show Colonel Mallory in, Jagbir.”
Mallory paused just inside the room, his face very white in the soft light, the strange dark eyes showing nothing. “Who told you?”
“De Beaumont,” the General said. “When he was head of French Military Intelligence in Algiers in “59 they had a general file on people like you. I understand you were running guns out of Tangiers to the F.L.N. Is that correct?”
For the moment Mallory was aware only of a feeling of profound relief. That de Beaumont should recognise him from the North African days was unfortunate, but at least the front he had used in Tangiers had obviously been accepted and that was the main thing.
“Does it matter?” he said. “My past, I mean?”
“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.”
CHAPTER NINE
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.