Authors: Philip McCutchan
After his official meeting with the brass, Staunton took Shaw along for a private talk with the Governor in The Convent, the historic old building in Main Street used as His Excellency’s official residence. They found General Hammersley, a very worried man, striding up and down in his office; Shaw knew that this distinguished soldier—who could now be the last in a long line of Governors of Gibraltar —faced the biggest crisis in the Rock’s long fortress-story.
Hammersley’s eyes, oddly gentle though clear and penetrating, were summing Shaw up. He said, “Well, Shaw, I believe you do realize the extent of this thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Total extinction. The place reduced to radioactive rubble,” said Hammersley quietly. His voice shook, just a little. “One of England’s oldest bases” He broke off abruptly, and Shaw could see the emotion in his face. Shaw thought again of those place-names that signposted Gibraltar’s past: Rosia Parade, Ragged Staff, O’Hara’s Battery, Prince Edward’s Gate.
After that Sir Francis Hammersley—a square man with a pugnacious, firm-chinned face and a small, sandy moustache —came straight to the point, and Shaw gathered that the question of immediate evacuation was very much in his mind. There were, Hammersley said, two avenues of total evacuation: one, a large-scale combined air-sea lift involving the wholesale diversion of shipping and aircraft to the Rock; two, an evacuation by land across the Spanish frontier which Whitehall contended wasn’t ‘on’ at all except as a last desperate resort—and that only if the Spanish authorities agreed, which, considering their attitude towards British retention of Gibraltar, was unlikely. And, said Hammersley, London was trying at all costs to avoid any evacuation whatever— without exactly committing themselves to a direct refusal. Which meant, in effect, that the whole onus was being thrown on Hammersley.
“Which,” he said, with a tired smile, “is what we unfortunates who have to govern the Commonwealth learn to expect anyway.”
Hammersley, thought Shaw, looked the kind of man who could take the responsibility, enormous though it was, and cruel too; he was clearly an example of the right man in the right place at the right time. Sir Francis said heavily, “I’ve been almost constantly on the scramble line to Whitehall in the last few hours, and during the meeting to-night I was called up by your chief, Shaw. He tells me you’re the man-on-the-spot with the background hush-hush knowledge and so forth, and he suggests I take your advice. Well, I just thought I’d have a look at you!” He laughed briefly. “I’ve had that look, and I’m quite satisfied. I’ll just tell you this— I won’t say it again, but you can rely upon it—I’m prepared to listen to what you say, and if I take your advice I’ll assume full responsibility afterwards. So just speak your mind, my boy. Right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Shaw gratefully. He thought for a moment, marshalling his arguments. “Well—the first thing is this: I think London’s absolutely right not to want a general evacuation yet—that is, before we’ve had a chance to deal with the trouble. This thing’s too important. Obviously, this Project Sinker can’t be kept a dead secret once it’s fully operational, but every day during which it can be kept secret is a day gained, as it were, in the East-West balance—and you’ll probably agree that time counts in the cold war racket. It’s vital that nothing should come out yet, especially about the fuel-production unit—that’s the main thing. Any big move like an evacuation would bust security wide open in five minutes. You very likely wouldn’t be
able
physically to shift the whole population without the most frightful shindy, sir—I seem to remember in the 1940 evacuation a lot of them had to be moved by force, and that wasn’t by any means a total evacuation.” Shaw leaned forward earnestly. “There’s just one way to handle this, sir, if I may say so, and that’s to concentrate on getting hold of Ackroyd.”
“You don’t believe that body was Ackroyd’s, then?”
“No, sir, I don’t.” Shaw gave his reasons for this belief, and Staunton grunted his agreement.
Staunton said, “I’m perfectly certain it’s not, sir. I may be working only on hunches, but I’m sure that’s not Ackroyd. I’d bet any money. He wouldn’t be likely to go and do himself in just when he was going to achieve his ambition—and there’s no murder motive. It could be accidental—he could have fallen off Windmill Hill, I suppose, but the injuries don’t bear that out. And as Shaw says, if anyone was after what he knew—well, sir, is it likely they’d kill him?”
“No.” Hammersley took up his pipe, thrust a pipe-cleaner through it. He rubbed-out some tobacco. There was a silence until Shaw repeated, “Well, sir—as I said, we’ve got to find Ackroyd. And something he may have with him.”
The more Shaw thought about that young technician’s theory that Ackroyd had taken away a vital part of AFPU ONE, the more he felt convinced it was right; and now he told the Governor and Staunton about that conversation in the power-house, emphasizing that the recovery of the part could be the key to the whole thing. Shaw could see that this theory had rocked them both, badly. Hammersley undertook to pass the information on to the Flag Officer for immediate notification to the Admiralty, and asked Staunton to order a search for this unidentified object as a matter of extreme urgency in case it was still on the beach or elsewhere in Gibraltar. Then the General, rubbing his knuckles across his eyes in a weary gesture, got up. He turned away to the windows looking out into a shady, tree-lined courtyard. Turning back a few moments later, he asked Shaw: “What about incoming tourists? You think the same ‘noevacuation’ principle should apply—let ’em come in as usual?”
Shaw had a dead feeling inside when Hammersley said that. This was one of those times when he would have given anything in the world not to be an agent, not to possess the knowledge which he did. Probably at this moment Debon-nair was packing in the little Albany Street flat, eyes alight with pleasure at having wangled an assignment so that she could be with Shaw. Chucking into the zip-bag the brief scarlet two-piece which set off her tawny colouring so well, looking forward to lazy afternoons at Rosia, lying in the caressing Mediterranean sun.
Shaw swallowed hard.
A few reassuring words to the Governor, an attempt to persuade H.E. that entries of tourists and businessmen could be stopped on some legitimate excuse, might do the trick; might so very easily protect a life that meant everything to Shaw. It would be utterly wrong, of course, to take advantage of his position in this way, utterly wrong too to hide his wrong advice behind the protection of the Governor, the man who would have actually to issue the order. Shaw didn’t need to think for long, but it was in an agony of the spirit that he said, so heavily:
“I think the same principle should apply, sir, yes. Let them come in as usual—don’t disturb the ordinary routines in any direction at all, anyway for the time being. If you put the stopper on visitors you’d have the tourist agencies howling their heads off in righteous indignation and demanding inquiries and so on. My advice would be—sit tight and do absolutely nothing just yet. That will make the job of finding Ackroyd the easier. I know it’s a lot to ask—but I’d like it left to me for a bit.” Shaw hesitated. “And I’d be grateful if you’d let it be widely known that the body that’s been found is
definitely that of Mr Ackroyd
.”
Both men stared at him.
Staunton said angrily, “But look here! That body isn’t Ackroyd’s. I’m absolutely positive about that. What’s more, you agreed. So it’s a police job to find out whose the body is. We can’t interfere with justice, you know.”
Tight-lipped now, Shaw said, “Look, we can. And this time we must.”
As Staunton seemed about to interrupt Hammersley said pacifically, “We’ll hear the reasons, Major, no harm in that.”
Shaw went on, “It’s vital, sir.” He looked appealingly at Hammersley. “I want the other side to think we believe implicitly that that body is Ackroyd’s, and also that we don’t realize the danger from that fuel unit. Lull ’em to sleep. If we believe Ackroyd is dead we won’t be looking for him, or for the people who’ve got him.”
“Go on, Shaw.” Hammersley was sucking noisily at his pipe.
“You probably know by now that my chief has reason to believe that a foreign Power is after Ackroyd in order to make use of his knowledge, and that’s why I was sent here. Well, they’ve beaten me to it. But I’m sure he’s in Spain right now, and we don’t want to scare these people too far off before we’ve got a lead, sir.” He hesitated. “Does the name Karina Czercov mean anything to you, sir?” Hammersley looked blank. “Nothing.”
“Major?”
“Not a thing.”
Shaw said grimly, “I think it’s going to mean quite a lot very soon. She’s dangerous. She’s—almost—the most attractive woman I’ve ever met, certainly the sexiest, and that’s not her only danger. She’s clever, and she’s a killer.” Shaw knew that in the early years of the War Karina had been trained as a saboteur and
agent provocateur
, and before she’d been (according to Shaw’s estimate) eighteen she’d been involved in a score of killings; this and much else he told Hammersley and Staunton now, and in the end they agreed that it would be better to hold back on the identity of that body in the mortuary.
After further discussion Hammersley asked Shaw what his first move would be.
Shaw took a deep breath. “I’ll be going into Spain as soon as I’ve had a talk with Major Staunton—”
Staunton broke in: “Soon as you like. I can fix you up with any documents you want.”
Shaw grinned. “Thanks, but I’ve already got them; all I need in that way is an up-to-date rubber stamp!” He mentioned the letter of invitation from Don Jaime de Castro; and then, after talking for a minute or two about his brother-in-law, Hammersley accompanied the two men to the door. Just before they left the Governor said, “Well, Shaw, it’s largely up to you, then. I’ll give you all the help you need.” He took the agent’s hand in a hard grip. “We’ll all be relying on you.”
Shaw felt wretched again, sick to the stomach. He’d be quite all right as soon as he’d crossed the frontier; but now he was so conscious of his limitations. He said self-consciously, diffidently, “I can’t work miracles, but I’ll do my best.”
Shaw had a long session with Staunton after that in the latter’s house in Governor’s Lane, during which, among other things, he arranged for the D.S.O. to keep an eye open for Debonnair when she arrived, and Staunton commiser-atingly promised to do anything he could for her whenever he had the time. Then Shaw walked back through Secretary’s Lane and past the Cathedral, under the dark arch of the Mediterranean night sky, towards his hotel. But when he reached the Bristol some impulse took him on past it, made him go along Main Street, and he walked on through the carefree crowds thronging the roads, overflowing the Universal Bar where the sailors from the
Cambridge
chi-iked the Spanish girls in the band, beerily sang suggestive songs, or poured out to the late-closing shops to select their small offerings for Mum and the girl-friend back home in England. The
Cambridge
, Shaw thought, might be lucky, might sail before the expiry of the supposed time-limit—or she might not. Shaw knew that her orders were uncertain. He found the air of happy gaiety, the complete unknowingness of the crowds, almost unnerving—tragic. Life was going on just as usual, no one realizing anything except those in high authority and a handful of men who tended AFPU ONE under the Official Secrets Act’s gag. As Shaw made his way along, diffidently stepping out of the way of dark, buxom Gibraltarian girls and their escorts, he wondered what those crowds would think if they could see into his mind, see the picture which he was carrying with him of the utter annihilation of a community—but no one looked twice at the tall, thin figure in the now rumpled tropic-weight suit, the figure with the worried, lined face and greying hair. They were far too intent upon their present pleasures.
Shaw had got down as far as the Post Office when he thought: To-morrow Debbie will be here. But he couldn’t cable her now. That was a matter of security—and conscience. He’d be using his knowledge in exactly the same way as if he’d advised H.E. to ban all entries to the Rock; and if he sent a cable he could, however carefully he might word it, so easily alert the keen Intelligence Services on the other side—Karina would have her ear to the ether, and she’d be waiting for just such a move to show her which way the wind blew, and she had to be lulled until Shaw picked up that lead. No—a cable was much too risky, and anyhow, as he’d told himself earlier, Debbie wouldn’t take any notice. And there was that matter of his conscience: whatever happened, he couldn’t go against his own advice to Hammersley, take advantage of his position like that.
His mind in a welter of confused thoughts, Shaw turned back for the Bristol. There were things to do before he crossed into Spain.
Physically, Mr Ackroyd was not so very far from Shaw—and, since he seemed to be tied down, he couldn’t have moved farther had he wished to; but mentally the little physicist had travelled a very long way in a short time.
Mr Ackroyd was in dreadful pain, for the woman, who’d seen his terrible agitation when she’d taken away that vital part of AFPU ONE, had tried flogging him into some explanation of it. And he seemed to be quite naked. And he was thinking of Liverpool (not that there was any connexion). He’d spent some time thinking of Pocklington, in the East Riding of Yorkshire, too, for he’d been born there nearly fifty years ago. Something had come to his aid in the last few hours and, though he was certainly getting things confused, his memory, while remaining bright, even sharpened, for things long gone, had become stagnant for the very immediate past. So he thought of Pocklington for a while; though mostly it was Liverpool, for that was where Mrs Ackroyd lived with their girl Annie, a thin, bespectacled, and lanky-weed of sixteen who was the apple of her dad’s eye. There was a chap courting her already, a certain Ernie Spinner whom Mr Ackroyd didn’t greatly take to. Apart from the matter of Annie’s age, his main objection was that young Spinner was a bit of a teddy boy, and Mrs Ackroyd’s recent letters had bewailed the fact that Annie looked like becoming somewhat beatnik-like, what with her too tight black jeans and untidy hair and general air of not having washed for a week. And she’d given up wearing her glasses, preferring to blink like an owl instead. It had worried Mr Ackroyd a lot. And the mere fact that he was worried had the effect in itself of making him even more worried; for Mr Ackroyd was the worrying sort, and once it started it became a kind of vicious circle from which there was no escape. That in turn interfered with his concentration on his work and he hated anything, even Annie, to come between him and his beloved atoms. And, in particular, AFPU ONE.