Rollerball (Commander Shaw Book 17)

by Philip McCutchan

  I said, “Bear up, Miss Mandrake. Just think of Max.”

  “Yes, Commander Shaw. Thinking on … all that luxury. All that dryness.”

  “It’s winter in London.”

  “Yes,” she said bitterly. “Aren’t we lucky?”

  “Tell what you are saying,” the gun-bearing Jap said. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

  I said, “Oh, nothing, we’re talking balls.”

  I don’t believe he got the subtle reference. He nudged me with the gun-barrel and hissed at me not to say anything more about balls. That set me thinking that maybe, just maybe, Captain Jeffs wasn’t in on the real dirt. He could have had a yarn spun to him. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. This was no small thing; it had already linked UK with the great Australian continent, Barrier Reef and all. The Jap brothers wouldn’t be giving too much away to those they made use of en route.

  It took us until noon by the sun’s position to raise the mainland. Captain Jeffs looked round and said, “Cape Manifold’s ahead now. That’s where I’m heading.”

  By this time the Japs had obviously accepted the inevitable. All the close hissing between them had perhaps resolved something, thrown up a plan, but if so they didn’t communicate it. However, they issued an order: Jeffs was to stop engines and remain where he was until dark. The low-freeboard boat was unlikely to be seen from the shore, being still a long way off, and if it was it wouldn’t be too remarkable. So we lingered around all the rest of that day and my mind roved over the possibilities that lay ahead when we beached. Tropical Queensland wasn’t easy country and was sparsely populated away from the towns, and they were few and far between. Brisbane, Rockhampton, Marlborough and points north … Marlborough wasn’t far off, nor was St Lawrence. There was a railway connecting with Sydney, but who was I to think about railways until I’d dealt with that flaming sub-machine-gun? All our fixes were there still, and I went on wondering how the Japs meant to resolve theirs. I doubted if they would be heading for any railway station, at any rate not in company with us beneath the gun.

  At full dark we moved on, taking it dead slow once we had closed Cape Manifold. When we were round into sheltered water and, so far as could be seen in the intermittent light from a clouded moon, off a deserted shore-line, one of the brothers gave his further orders to Captain Jeffs.

  “Boat to approach safe place on shore, safe for landing.” Jeffs gave a grunt. “One spot’s as good as another. You’re going to get your bloody feet wet anyway.”

  “Not important. When close to shore, all persons leave boat and remain together for next order. All except two from Britain.”

  I gave Felicity a squeeze. I knew what was to come, and I might need those seamen kept alive. I whispered into her ear, no more than a breath fanning through her hair. “Pass it on. They’re all for the chop if they bunch.”

  Without moving, she informed the man hard alongside her. Jeffs might well have guessed already but if so he gave no sign. He took the boat in and stopped engines. She wallowed a little, touching bottom now and again till she grounded and lay still. “Now,” the Jap said.

  Jeffs came away from the helm. “Look,” he said. “If you want help, you’re going to have to tell me what you want, what the bloody plan is, right?”

  “Obey order. Leave boat. All ship’s crew. Remain together.” Jeffs hesitated. The Jap moved the sub-machine-gun. I saw the moonlight glinting on the metal. The snout was aimed at Captain Jeffs. I heard his heavy breathing, saw the truculent set of his mouth. He’d had about enough. He started shoving his seamen aside, trying to move through the packed bodies. I looked at the Japs. They were both watching Jeffs. I brought my hands down hard on the gun, forcing the snout to the bottom boards as the Jap squeezed the trigger. The boat began to fill. In the excitement Jeffs lost his balance and came crashing down. We were all knocked sideways like a line of dominoes, and the Jap regained control of his gun. Before I could do anything to stop him, he’d sprayed bullets up and down and sideways, colandering the seamen, all of them. The tightly packed bodies didn’t have a chance. The moon showed blood everywhere. Only Felicity and I had escaped it, and that, of course, by intent. I was impeded by Felicity’s limbs, and there was a man, a dead one, on top of her. I didn’t get another chance.

  The Japs jumped out of the boat and the gun was pointed towards us as we extricated ourselves. One of the brothers was carrying the brief-case.

  “Out now,” the brief-case carrier said. “Taking much care not to exacerbate.”

  5.

  No option: we did as we were told. The gun was very steady as we went over the side and waded the short distance to the beach, leaving the dead to lie. The Japs were impatient to get away. Someone might have heard the racket but more likely hadn’t. The place was lonely, desolate, anyway at night. I don’t know what it might have been like in the daytime, maybe swarming with sun-worshippers.

  Trying to delay, I asked, “What about the bodies? They’re going to be found.”

  “Take chance. Move up beach.”

  It was one hell of a chance for them but I could see their point. Distance was now the imperative factor. We moved up the beach, the brothers keeping close behind us. Somewhere there would be a road and come the day there would be traffic, but we would make a weird bunch with our thumbs in the air. On the other hand, if the terrain was right, the Japs could get away with it. A clump of trees to hide in, near the road, gun ready, while Felicity or I stopped a car. Then the rush and the pounce and we would be away. And another non-involved person would die. Too many had died already, not necessarily non-involved, but murder is murder.

  It wasn’t going to happen again if I could help it.

  As it turned out it was simple, even if the result wasn’t quite what I would have wished. But first things have to come first and number one was to gain control of a nasty situation. I put on speed as we cleared the beach and the Japs puffed on behind, legs going nineteen to the dozen.

  “Too fast,” one of them said, sounding annoyed.

  “Sorry,” I said, and stopped very suddenly, stock still. The leading brother banged right into me, and as I bent in two the snout of the sub-machine-gun came over my shoulder and I grabbed it and heaved hard. The Jap hung on my back like a hump. I dislodged him and twisted the gun free. As I swung it, the Japs retreated and separated. I reckon they had even this worked out. I lost sight of them in the darkness, the moon having chosen that moment to go behind cloud cover. When I saw them again they were coming in from both sides, bent low, with knives in their bands. I didn’t see that till they were close, but I assumed something of the sort, and I didn’t linger. I swung the gun and got them both. They went down with the death rattle in their throats.

  I took a deep breath and said, “That was one they didn’t work out.”

  Felicity squatted and examined them. She looked up. “Dead,” she said. The moon came out; she looked pale even allowing for the moon’s greenish light. She’d seen quite a lot of death just recently. “What now?”

  I said, “Retrieve that brief-case, my love, and go through their pockets. Then we trudge for the nearest town.”

  *

  There was nothing of interest on the bodies and we left them. We picked up a lift for Rockhampton, eventually, a young fruit farmer commuting between his parcels of land. Like any Australian he was inquisitive and inclined to be suspicious of poms, especially dishevelled, dirty ones with bloodstains and a brief-case. I spun him a half true yarn about our boat having come to grief and us having struggled ashore, braving reefs and sharks, but he didn’t believe us and drove us mendaciously but helpfully straight to the police station in Rockhampton, stopping so suddenly that we almost went through the windscreen as he yelled out for the cops. That caused delay; there was loud laughter when I referred to 6D2 but when I mentioned Sergeant Dix of the Sydney police they agreed to call him. After that, more respectfully, they called 6D2 and spoke to Halloran. That put us right, but not without a bollo
cking.

  “You poms, you’re a bloody pain in the arse, too bloody right you are. I don’t bloody know all that’s bloody going on, but trust a bloody pom to bloody stir things up … ” That and a lot more. It was all said with a grin, and in Australian eyes could have been intended as friendly, like when they call you a bastard, but I had an idea it was heartfelt all the same. Poms, limeys, Brits, no-one loves us anymore. They gave us a lift to the railway station; we were in time for the train, and ‘the train’ was about right: it didn’t run all that often. I’d angled for other means of transport but the Rockhampton police weren’t cooperative. Before we left the station the officer in charge had gone through the contents of the brief-case with me; along with a load of Australian money there were four sheets of Japanese characters which were Greek to all of us. I was going to need an interpreter and I reckoned his time would be well spent. It was scarcely likely that the Japs had been concerned only with the cash. It amounted to a little over five thousand pounds sterling equivalent, mostly in Australian 50-dollar bills.

  *

  In Sydney, Halloran had no fresh news to offer, nor had Sergeant Dix. They had nothing on anyone in the passenger list and I’d been banking on it that they would have. Even the fingerprints proved a blank and the assumption was, as indeed I’d assumed already, that a cat’s paw had been used to kill Railton. Sure thing, they would look for him and they might be lucky but it would take a long, long time. After I’d made my full report and heard what Halloran and Dix had to say, I called Max in London and reported again. I sensed that he couldn’t wait for me to finish so he could start yacking himself.

  When he did, he was terse. “Come back,” he said. “Both of you. First available flight.”

  I said, “That brief-case — ”

  “Contents not translated, you said.”

  “Not yet. There’s — ”

  “Bring it back with you. There’s been a development. Don’t waste time, Shaw.” Slam.

  So that was that. There was a flight out at 1630 from Kingsford Smith. Halloran fixed it and Felicity and I just made it. I waved Australia goodbye with mixed feelings. One day, I said to Felicity, we might come back. Really on holiday. She made a rude noise. She’d lost faith in Max. I spent much of the flight scanning the faces of the passengers, on the off-chance of recognising one that had been outward bound with us. Not having taken that close look originally, I was working half blind as I plodded conscientiously between my seat and the lavatory. I don’t know what the cabin staff made of my frequency. Then at the Singapore touchdown a man joined the flight and I vaguely recognised him. One of the Pakistanis from the outward flight. There could have been time enough for him to get from Sydney to Singapore. To British eyes one Pakistani, briefly seen, can look much like another and I could have been mistaken, but I had a strong feeling not only that I was being tailed but also that some persons as yet unknown knew a good deal about my movements and that their communications were very good indeed.

  *

  I was right about the Pakistani. He tailed the 6D2 car that had been sent to take us to Focal House. I was watching out for just that at Heathrow and I saw him get into a Volvo, chauffeur driven and parked, obviously with intent, not far from the 6D2 car whose number might well have been known to evil-minded men. I saw no point in telling my driver to throw him off; in the circumstances he would know I’d be likely to go right to Focal House on arrival and the tail, so I thought, was just on the off-chance that I didn’t and might lead him somewhere interesting to him. That showed just how wrong I could be: the Pakistani wasn’t exactly a tail. He kept about three cars behind and then, when we reached a gap in the oncoming traffic, the Volvo surged ahead, jammed itself in between the car ahead and my own car, and slammed on its brakes. The moment was nicely judged: the opposite stream of traffic came on again inexorably and the road was narrow. My driver was hemmed in. The near-side doors of the Volvo opened and three men, including the Pakistani, ran towards us. They all had revolvers with silencers. I had the doors locked in a flash: I guessed they were after the brief-case. I’d kept it hidden in a grip provided by Halloran back in Sydney but there was a strong possibility the Pakistani knew I’d got it. However, if that was his mission, it aborted. My driver took his chance as another gap came in the stream of traffic and moved out. Before he had got away one of the gunmen had fired, smashing a hole in the near-side rear window, by which time I’d thrown Felicity to the floor. The gunman clung fast to the door handle but managed to drop his revolver as we jerked ahead. I operated the electric wind-down of the window, reached out and grabbed an arm. As we gathered speed his body dragged along the roadway.

  “Where’s the Volvo?” I shouted at Felicity. She had risen from the floor now, and she looked back. She reported no sign of the Volvo. The gunman was yelling obscenities as his feet bounced along the road. I told my driver to pull in for a brief halt. He did so, and ran round to assist. We lugged the man inside and Felicity brought out a small automatic, handbag size but effective at close range. Within half a minute we had pulled out again, into the traffic. There was no further pursuit; for now, the Pakistani had given up. I didn’t imagine I’d seen the last of him, but at least I had something to show for it all. We drove on for the underground parking lot at Focal House and Felicity and I went up in the lift to The Suite, with chummy. When we were admitted to Max’s presence he was pacing his carpet like an admiral on his bridge. He swung round, stared at our villain fora moment, then snapped, “Who’s that?”

  I said, “I aim to find out.” I told Max what had happened.

  He stared at chummy again. “Name?” he demanded.

  “I’m not saying anything,” the man answered. He was stocky and swarthy and he had a squint and was wearing one of those cheap camel-coloured overcoats that pretend to be British Warms. It was dirty and threadbare. Chummy wasn’t in the big league. Max sniffed and said, “You will.” He pressed his intercom and spoke to Mrs Dodge, his confidential secretary. Within a minute two of our strong-arm boys had come in and had taken chummy by the arms.

  “You can’t do this,” he said. “You’re not the fuzz.”

  Max took no notice. He nodded at the guards. “Interrogation room,” he said. “Commander Shaw will be down shortly.” When the trio had gone, he turned to me. He asked “You have that brief-case with you?”

  I brought it out from my grip and placed it on his desk. He said, “While you interview your friend down below, I’ll be getting a translator onto its contents. In the meantime, I have something to tell you. On the surface there’s no connexion, but I’ve a feeling something will link up before long.”

  I looked expectant.

  “A phone call,” Max said. “Not to me, not to Focal House at all. To Number Ten. A man’s voice, not English, could be Japanese but this is far from established. He spoke to an aide — asked for the PM in person but wasn’t passed through. He said that the government was to be prepared to make available a sum of money by means of internationally negotiable drafts and credits and that further contact would be made shortly.” “That’s all?”

  Max nodded. “That’s all apart from the amount.” He paused. “Ten thousand million sterling.”

  I wasn’t altogether surprised at a financial demand — after all, I’d put that very thing to the Jap brothers — but I was staggered by the amount. “You’re joking,” I said.

  Max disregarded that. He said, “It’s obvious it won’t be met and never mind what they use as a lever.”

  “It could be a joker,” I said. “You get all sorts of nutters these days.”

  Max nodded. “That’s been thought of. It could be. We now await another call. That may tell us whether or not it’s a nutter.”

  “But you see a connexion with the heavy balls?”

  “I suggest it as a possibility, no more than that. I may be jumping the gun. In any case, the PM’s taking it seriously. So is the Yard, though in fact it’s being passed to us from the start — the Yard doe
sn’t like that but they’ll co-operate.”

  “And the balls?” I asked. “Have you released the information about them to the Yard?”

  “They knew already,” Max said shortly. “Those other finds, remember? In the north.”

  I nodded. “Any more tetradoxin?”

  “No. To answer what I imagine will be your next question, I’ve passed my opinion to the Yard — my suggestion that the balls may be connected.”

  I grinned. “And their reaction?”

  Max became brusque. “Get down and talk to that gunman. Miss Mandrake, I’d be obliged if you’d stay.” He pressed his intercom button for Mrs Dodge and I went down to the interrogation room in the basement, thinking hard about ten thousand million pounds sterling. Quite aside from the obvious fact that no government could concede, that amount of money could put heavy pressure on our fragile economy. But big sums pre-suppose big threats, and the threat, when it emerged — if this was no nutter — might be enough to give the cabinet the jitters and twist a few of the weaker arms.

  *

  Chummy wouldn’t utter. Not a syllable beyond the iniquity of Max’s action in detaining him. We had no authority, he said. I told him he’d be surprised what authority we had and even if we hadn’t, we’d got him, there was nothing he could do about it, and he’d committed a provable assault and had used a firearm in the execution of it.

  “You’re in deep,” I said, “and you’re not going to get out. In certain circumstances you could go down for treason.”

  No reaction.

  I pointed it up a little. “If you’re acting against the state, that’ll be the charge, and Scotland Yard will make it.” I didn’t elaborate, sensing that Max would wish to hold onto the information about the phone call for a while. Chummy was very composed and sure of himself. I said, “Let’s leave you for a moment. That Pakistani, who tailed me — all the way from Singapore. Who is he?”