Authors: Philip McCutchan
Latymer sat back with a peculiar smile, nodded.
Shaw said slowly, “I haven’t heard of her for a good many years now—but I’ll say I remember Karina, sir!”
Latymer brought up a hard brown hand and touched the livid scars which crossed his face, pointing up the pink, mask-like effect of the grafts. “So do I,” he murmured. “Rather too well, really. Now, there’s the other reason why I want you on this job—you’re the only man I’ve got left apart from Carberry—and I must keep him here for the ‘backroom’ side—the only man who’s had personal experience of Karina . . . and she’s back in operation, so I hear.”
“Same old game?”
Gently Latymer nodded. “Same old game, but I expect she plays it with a difference now—she’s a few years older than the Eaton Square days, though at a guess I’d say she hasn’t let
anno domini
worry her all that much!” He gave his sly grin.
Shaw shifted his feet, flushed. Events and physical proximity had aroused plenty of passion between Karina and himself, but that was past, and anyway in those earlier, pre-Eaton Square, days Karina had lent her talents to the Allied side. It had only been later, when hostilities and the uneasy East-West wartime alliance were over, and when Central Europe had been swallowed into the iron stomach of Russia, that she’d gone over to where her sympathies had always lain—the Communist bloc to which she had in fact always belonged, and where her family still lived; it had been a year or so after the war before the British Intelligence services had tumbled to it that Karina was finding out all she could about Western defence projects. Few people knew more about Karina than did Shaw himself; but even he didn’t know for certain what her nationality was. His guess was Hungarian—though by now, he thought, she’d be fairly certain to have taken out Russian papers.
Latymer was continuing, “I hear from various roundabout routes that she’s in Spain, and she’s been seen near Gibraltar—around La Linea way—and I don’t like it.”
Shaw said, “Nor me, sir—as a matter of general policy! But what’s she up to?”
“She’s after a man called Ackroyd.” There was a pause, and then Latymer added, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Project Sinker, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought not. Now just bear with me while I give you what’s, for me, rather a long yam.” He drew on his cigarette. “Very few people have heard of Project Sinker, Shaw. I dare say a lot of intelligent guesses may have been made by the people on the spot—but be that as it may, there’s a very heavy security umbrella over this—in fact, the heaviest I’ve known for years—and we’re pretty confident that nothing’s leaked out. So far.” His gaze held Shaw. “Now then. Project Sinker—and I don’t need to remind you that this is Top Secret—is the code name for a scheme to make Gibraltar into the first link in a world-embracing chain of bases for atom-powered submarines, which will be armed with homing torpedoes until the super -Dreadnoughts capable of mounting the new American nuclear missile are ready. The idea is to have them well dispersed out of the home ports, so that any war can be carried on if England goes under in an H-bomb attack—as she could very easily do. As a matter of fact, Shaw, between you and me, the experts’ view is that the country would be right out of the battle within a week of the first H-bomb being dropped.” He waved a large sinewy hand. “London, the ports, naval and commercial, the military bases and the airfields, all power and industrial production capacity . . . the lot.”
Slowly Shaw nodded. “Sounds only too logical, sir.”
“It not only
sounds
it, it is so logical that it’s what the overall defence system’s going to be based on in future. The general plan involves a gradual dispersal out of England—high mobility of the forces and so on—with the centre of government shifting when war seems imminent to some part of the Commonwealth so that the fight can be carried on. And,” Latymer added, “if I sound melodramatic, just remember what Hiroshima was like, and then multiply by ten thousand or so—and also remember that an atomic war is very much more likely than a conventional one, and it can come so fast that a bit of ahead planning is the only thing that’ll stop us being caught with our pants round our ankles. Right! Now then. You’ll realize that submarine bases can’t be built at the last minute, so the Project Sinker part of the general plan is going right ahead now. Gib’s going to be one of the most important, and certainly the most attack-proof, since the base there will be
under the Rock itself
— the entry channel being cut through the seaward caverns on the east face. It’s also the only one that’s been started yet. Now, one of the essentials in this scheme is to have a nuclear fuel-production unit on the spot—no good relying on a supply from home if England’s knocked out in round one, that’s obvious, and even America’s going to have troubles enough of her own when the inter-continental ballistic missiles start hitting her, and her own power’s likely to fail.”
Shaw nodded, intent.
“Well, now, something brand-new has been devised in that line,” went on Latymer carefully. “A machine, a power-production unit with a heavy security screen round it, which produces an absolutely virgin fuel—it’s called AGL Six, and basically it’s a new product named algalesium. Well, this fuel can be produced more cheaply and efficiently and very much more easily than anything that’s yet been thought up—for one thing, it doesn’t need a unit as big as a power-station—and it’s for use in a special type of boil-ing-water reactor developed by the Admiralty for use in atom-powered submarines. And there’s something else.”
“Yes, sir?”
Latymer tapped the desk-top. “It’s perhaps the most important and revolutionary point. This fuel unit needs no outside power-supply to keep it running once it’s started up. It can keep it up almost indefinitely—thanks to the Americans.”
“Oh?”
“You may have read in the papers some time ago—the States have developed a ‘Buy-your-own-H-bomb’ racket. It’s a power unit, just about the equivalent of an H-bomb . . . it costs a hell of a lot of money, they started off at about £350,000 each, but they’re a damn’ sight more now because they’re bigger, and it’s devilish efficient. Well, they’ve given us a supply of these H-bomb power units, and our backroom boys have got to work on them and carried out some modifications so that they can be used in this fuel-production machine thing. In effect, it’s powered, by the built-in equivalent of a very large H-bomb, so it needs nothing from outside. And if all sources of power-supply fail in an attack this unit not only keeps going but could also supply power to the whole of Gibraltar if necessary.”
Shaw said, “It’s a sort of . . . perpetual motion?”
“The nearest we’re likely to see. And there’s only the one man who really understands it, Shaw, and that’s its inventor and developer—this fellow Ackroyd I spoke of. He thought the whole thing up, and the unit’s been built in Dockyard Tunnel from prefabricated parts, under his personal supervision. He’s an Admiralty civilian, and he’s working with a team of technicians who are no more than just that—technicians. Ackroyd is the only physicist on the job at present. This machine’s still in its hit-or-miss stage, I gather—it’s not perfected yet.” Latymer leaned forward again in that bull-like posture, emphatic, earnest. “If anything happens to Ackroyd the chances are that the whole scheme’ll be bitched right up.” He stubbed out his cigarette, hard. “And as I’ve said, Karina’s after our Mr Ackroyd. She’s got orders to contact and remove him.”
“
Remove
him, sir?”
Latymer shrugged. “Snuff him out, I suppose, if necessary—because, as I told you, the end of Ackroyd may well mean the end of Project Sinker, at least for a long time. But, all things being equal, I’d say she’ll try to get him behind the Iron Curtain. . . . Mind you, he’s a bit of an oddity, not the kind of person you’d expect to find at his level, perhaps. Very ordinary Yorkshire background—father was a miner at one time. But he’s a brainy bird—obviously —and stuffed full of vital information. He could be extremely useful to them—and a nightmare to us if ever he reached a Communist country. Of course, there’s no special security about atomic subs as such, but we don’t want too much to get out about the overseas bases yet, and this fuel unit’s hot. So’s Ackroyd.”
Shaw asked, “This’d be a kidnap job—I mean, his personal loyalty’s not in doubt?”
“Oh, good heavens, no! He’s a first-rate man, and his security record’s absolutely clear. Wouldn’t be on that particular job otherwise. Every one’s hand-picked—there’s none of the usual Spanish labour on this job, either.”
Shaw said, “He’ll be pretty carefully watched in Gib, surely? It sounds rather a tough job for one woman.”
“Not for Karina,” observed Latymer smoothly, “as you should know. Don’t forget she’s damned attractive as well as clever—that counts. She’s worked for us, so she knows something of our methods, and of Admiralty routines. She’s got plenty of friends in high places, and she doesn’t work singlehanded.”
“True enough, sir.” Shaw pulled at a fresh cigarette, frowned. “I still think she’s taking on something pretty big, though.”
Latymer warned, “Don’t underestimate what she can do. Now—if she does succeed a very vital chain of fuel-supply units will almost certainly be dished, unless another Mr Ackroyd turns up providentially, which isn’t likely. There just isn’t anyone else of his calibre at the moment, anyway. As a matter of fact, it’s only since we had this intelligence about Karina that high authority has got slightly upset over the way Ackroyd has managed to keep his knowledge to himself—keep himself as the King Pin, with practically nothing delegated. I gather it’s been a mixture of empire-building on his part and a certain amount of laissez-faire on the part of people who should have known better— that, and the chronic shortage of star-quality physicists like Ackroyd. I can’t emphasize this too much, Shaw: if anything happened to him it would be just about the biggest slice of our defence—or perhaps I’d almost better call it our re-emergence strategy—gone for a burton. It’s as vital as that. The main part of your job would be to see that Karina doesn’t succeed, to watch her and Ackroyd as closely as you can. The other part would be to keep a very careful but discreet general eye on the whole project during a very important test which is due to start soon, and will cover three or four days—but, as I say, Ackroyd himself is your main worry. You see, he’s got to open up other bases after Gibraltar and w
e just can’t do without him.”
Shaw rubbed the side of his nose reflectively. Latymer went on:
‘‘
Officially
, there’s nothing we can do about Karina so long as she remains on the Spanish side of the frontier— for one thing, this project is so hush-hush that the P.M., on Foreign Office advice, won’t sanction any diplomatic representations being made to Franco. But an agent working into Spain from Gibraltar incognito can at least keep his ear to the ground and forestall anything she may be planning. As usual, I’m not going to give you any hard and fast instructions, but Carberry will fill in the details and give you any practical help you think necessary.” The steely eyes gazed hard into Shaw. “Well? What about it?”
A little wearily Shaw said, “All right, sir. I’ll go.”
“Good man!” Latymer’s pleasure was obvious. “And thank you—it’s a load off my mind, though I knew you wouldn’t let me down really. Now—cover.” He sat back again, studied Shaw through smoke. “You know something about naval armament supply.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still
au fait
enough to pass as an Inspector of Establishments?”
Shaw nodded. “That’d be easy enough.”
“Good—I thought so. Well—you’re going on the retired list, temporarily.” Shaw looked startled. Latymer grinned and went on, “I’ll fiddle all that—I’d better back-date it a bit, I think. And anyone who cares to look at the appointments in
The Times
or the
Telegraph
will see you’ve left the Service altogether—with a Golden Bowler, if you like! And you’ve been luck enough to fall into a good job because of your naval contacts . . . you’ve joined the Armament Supply Department as a civilian inspector, and you can go out to Gib on a routine inspecting visit for your first duty.”
“What’s the Superintending Naval Armament Supply Officer out there going to say?”
Latymer chuckled. “He’s already been warned to expect you—that’s how sure I was you’d take this job! He’s only got the cover story, of course. All you’ll have to do is to listen to any complaints, suggestions, and so on and pass ’em on to the right quarter. That, and sound intelligent.”
“Do I use my own identity, sir?”
Latymer looked irritable. “Course you do . . . you know I’m allergic to these unnecessary complications. That woman’ll have her eyes on our movements in any case. Really, it’s just the ‘already unsuspicious’ that we have to lull, and as Commander Shaw, R.N. (Retired), you’ll mean damn-all to them. If you go out as—as a kind of Bearded Basil you’ll attract unwelcome attentions right away. In Gib, I mean.”
Shaw grinned. “Quite, quite! How about getting there— do I fly?”
“No. This full-dress test—which is one of the things we want you there for—isn’t due to begin for a few days. Apart from that, we’re not risking any security break which might follow if we flew you out for what’s ostensibly a mere routine inspection of a store depot—particularly as it happens there’s a cruiser sailing for Gib the day after to-morrow, which is how an inspector would normally be sent—and you’ll need the time to talk to Carberry, and also familiarize yourself with the obscurer workings of the Armament Supply Department!” He paused, then went on:
“You join the
Cambridge
at the South Railway jetty in Portsmouth, just before she sails. On arrival in Gibraltar you’ll put up at the Bristol Hotel off Main Street, and make your number with S.N.A.S.O. From then on the game’s yours to play. No reason why you shouldn’t feel free to hop across the La Linea frontier whenever you want to, but just in case you want to make a long stay without questions being asked in Gib, we’ve provided you with an old friend in Spain who’ll be expecting you whenever you care to look him up. He’s Sefior Don Jaime de Castro, and he has a big villa in Torremolihos, just outside Malaga on the Gibraltar side. You were great friends some years ago, when he was attached to the Spanish Embassy staff in London. Captain Carberry will hand you a letter of invitation from him before you leave. Incidentally, the letter’s quite genuine and so’s Don Jaime—he’s a personal friend of mine, and he happens to be pretty friendly towards the British. Of course, you don’t have to stay with him, but on the other hand you might find it useful to do so . . . his half-sister is Lady Hammersley, by the way,” Latymer added casually. Shaw knew that Sir Francis Hammersley was the Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Gibraltar. “There’s also a contact called Domingo Felipe in Malaga who may be useful—he’s a queer fish, though, and even we don’t know his current whereabouts, but there’ll be ways and means of getting in touch— Carberry’ll tell you all that. That’s one of the reasons—geographically speaking—why we thought Don Jaime’s villa would be a handy
pied-à-terre
for you.”