by W E Johns
Finding that a B.O.A.C. Comet was due to leave for London almost at once, he had taken a passage on it rather than fly himself home, and then back again. As he told the others frankly, he was beginning to feel the strain of so much flying. Someone else could fly him for a change. It would give him an opportunity to relax.
Robinson solved the problem of his disposal by practically refusing to fly. He was in no hurry, and in spite of all that he had said, he preferred the sea. He went off, and was soon back to say that he had found a berth on a collier, then unloading, but would be returning to London in about a week. Biggles gave him a little money and, at parting, warned him to say nothing about the submarine he had seen, or the German who, until his death, had shared his lonely isle. Later he was to regret that he did not charge him to remain silent on the whole business, but he felt that he could hardly do that without arousing the man’s curiosity. It did not seem altogether necessary, anyway.
Rather than leave the others merely killing time against his return, he suggested that, after they had had a couple of days rest, they might employ themselves usefully, provided the weather remained calm, by thoroughly exploring Hog Island for signs of recent occupation. Indeed, they might as well make an air reconnaissance of all the islands while they were at it. This would save time, as it would have to be done sooner or later.
Actually, as much as anything he was thinking of Robinson’s shipmates, some of whom might have got ashore. Meanwhile, much as he hated wasting the unusually fine weather, he would have to go home for instructions. He would, he said, get back as quickly as possible. A couple of hours with the Air-Commodore should be sufficient for his purpose.
“Well, what’s the news?” greeted the Air-Commodore when he walked in.
“The news is, whoever got that brilliant idea of a potential enemy exploiting unoccupied islands, should be promoted right away,” answered Biggles seriously. “He was dead right.”
“Ah! As a matter of fact, it was Major Charles, of Security Intelligence.”
Biggles nodded. “I suspected it.”
“Sit down. He’s coming round. This will interest him.”
“He’ll be more than interested. He’ll be worried when I tell him what I know,” averred Biggles.
By the time he had pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette Major Charles had walked in. Looking at Biggles inquiringly, without preamble he asked: “Well, what’s the position? Raymond told me you were coming so I could only conclude that you’d tumbled on to something awkward.”
Biggles nodded. “It’s all that. The position is, at least one Russian submarine has been surveying the Crozets and the islands in the Magellan Strait. That’s as much as I know for certain. When I say surveying I mean they’ve actually been ashore.”
Major Charles was staring. “Magellan Strait! What do they want there?”
“As things stand, probably nothing—beyond the fact that the Straits are within easy striking distance of our base at the Falklands. But if it came to war, and anything went wrong with the Panama Canal, it would be a different cup of tea. The American fleet would be stuck either in the Pacific or the Atlantic, wherever it happened to be at the time. The only way it could get from one ocean to the other would be by running thousands of miles round the tip of South America, and that would be a nasty business if there happened to be a secret enemy base in the Straits.”
There was a brief silence. “How did you learn of this?” Major Charles asked Biggles. “The Magellan Straits weren’t in your itinerary.”
“I haven’t been there,” replied Biggles. “What I know is hearsay, but I’ve no reason to doubt its veracity.” He went on to tell of the finding of the castaway and what he had learned from him. “As I said just now, I’ll grant that most of this is hearsay; but I’d stand guarantee that every word of it is true,” he concluded. “I thought you’d better hear about it before I did anything else.”
There was another silence, longer than before. Major Charles toyed with a cigarette. “This mustn’t go beyond these four walls,” he said slowly. “It’s all very difficult. If the matter is reported officially the government could only send a note of protest to the offending country.”
“Which would, following usual Soviet practice, be met with a categorical denial,” stated Biggles cynically. “Of course.”
“Such a note would merely tell the Russians that we know what’s going on,” put in the Air-Commodore. “It would be better, for the time being at any rate, until we’re more sure of our ground, to pretend we know nothing.” Looking at Biggles he questioned: “What are your views about it?”
“I’d better go back and investigate further,” replied Biggles. “The next step is to find out how far the thing has gone. If it seems to be well advanced then I imagine we shall be forced to take counter-action. Somehow I don’t think the thing has gone very far yet. It’s mostly been a matter of surveying. The Russians have certainly been ashore at Hog Island, in the Crozets. I’ll go and have a look at it. In fact, my fellows are looking it over now. If we find nothing there I think it would be safe to assume that the scheme hasn’t gone very far.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” answered Major Charles. “Just now you mentioned counter-action. What exactly did you mean by that?”
“Well, we might be able to queer their pitch by putting—er—obstacles in the way.”
“That would raise a scream.”
“From whom?”
“Russia and the satellite countries.”
“I don’t see how they could scream without admitting liability for what’s going on. I wasn’t thinking of official action, though.”
Major Charles looked worried. “Don’t let us overlook the fact that we’re not dealing with our own property—at any rate so far. The Crozets belong to France.”
“I don’t think you need lose any sleep on that account,” rejoined Biggles. “Marcel Brissac, of the French Security Police, is co-operating with me.”
“What about the Magellan Straits? That’s Chilean territory.”
Biggles shrugged. “You might as well say what about the United States? They’re going to find themselves the meat in the sandwich one day if this plot isn’t scotched. I’d say nothing to anybody. If you do, as sure as fate the big ears behind the Iron Curtain will get to hear of it. I’m not suggesting that we keep the soft pedal on the thing indefinitely. There’s a danger in that. If the Russians think they’re getting away with it they may extend their programme to a point where it gets too big for us to handle. Let’s get our evidence for a start. When they realise that we’ve rumbled the racket they might call the whole thing off without any fuss. That would suit everybody.”
Major Charles shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of you putting foot on Chilean soil.”
“Neither do I. But it may not come to that. Whether it does or not, I can’t imagine that you’re prepared to do nothing while a potential enemy establishes bases that would cut the lines of communication of ourselves and our allies. If you are, then I’ve been wasting my time.”
Major Charles looked at the Air-Commodore. “What d’you think we’d better do?”
“Why not establish bases ourselves on the islands in question?”
The Security Officer looked pained. “But think of the cost, man! We’ve got enough calls on our resources as it is.”
“That would simply line up with Russia’s avowed policy of breaking Western Europe financially,” put in Biggles.
“All right. The alternative is to let Russia spend the money,” stated the Air-Commodore. “Then we could blow the story and ask them to get out.”
“And if they refused?” inquired Biggles blandly. “To try to throw them out would invite another war. Why not let the Navy lay some practice minefields round the threatened islands? That would queer the pitch of enemy submarines.”
“If we did that shipping would have to be warned, and that would tell the Russians we know what’s going on,” said Major Charles. �
�What they would do in that case would be to switch to a fresh lot of islands.”
“All right, sir. You tell me,” requested Biggles. “I’m here to take your orders.” He reached for another cigarette.
“Maybe it would be better if we didn’t give him any orders,” said the Air-Commodore, looking at Major Charles. “I say leave it to Bigglesworth. He’ll think of something.”
“Have it that way if you like,” agreed Biggles. He smiled. “After all, if you don’t give me any orders, I can’t break them, can I? That would be a load off my mind, if not yours.”
From Major Charles’ expression he was not impressed.
“You need know nothing,” went on Biggles. “I don’t mind taking a rap if I overstep my duties. But things may not come to anything drastic. I suggest that for the moment I go back to try to find out just how far the scheme has gone. Don’t ask me how I’m going to do that because, frankly, I don’t know. But there may be a way. If it turns out that the thing is too big for me to handle, I’ll get in touch with you, when you may wish to get a decision at a higher level. Actually, as I said just now, I don’t think that the scheme has gone very far. It’s mostly been a matter of surveying. The installation of equipment will follow in due course, no doubt. Robinson, the man I picked up, assumed that the submarine had departed for good and I didn’t argue about it. Personally, I’m pretty sure it’ll come back—either that or some other craft—with the equipment they intend to use.”
The Air-Commodore looked at Major Charles. “Shall we leave it like that?”
“I feel we shall be skating on thin ice, but I can’t think of anything better,” confirmed Major Charles. “I’d like Bigglesworth, though, to be a bit more explicit about what he calls putting obstacles in the enemy’s way.”
“How can I answer that until I know what I’m faced with?” protested Biggles. “You’ll have to leave that to me.”
“Don’t make it too drastic.”
“I won’t be more drastic than the circumstances demand,” promised Biggles curtly. “Let’s remember that there’s a war on. Some people call it a Cold War, but those involved in it have discovered that the only difference between a Cold War and a Hot one is in the name. The muzzle velocity of a bullet is precisely the same in each case.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” conceded Major Charles sadly.
“Is that all?” asked Biggles. “If it is, I’ll push along. I want to get the evening plane back.”
“I’ve nothing more to say,” returned Major Charles.
“Nor I,” said the Air-Commodore.
“In that case I’ll pick up one or two little things I may need and get back to see what my fellows are doing,” said Biggles getting up.
He had actually reached the door when the Air-Commodore called him back; and there was something in the tone of voice that sent his eyebrows up questioningly.
“You should have told that man Robinson to keep his mouth shut,” adjured the Air-Commodore crisply.
Biggles came slowly back into the room. “I did. At least I told him to say nothing about the submarine, or the German who was marooned.”
“Well, it looks as if he’s done some talking, and wasted no time about it, either,” asserted the Air-Commodore grimly.
“Surely not?”
“The Cape Argus has got hold of the story anyway. Here’s the clipping. It’s been staring me in the face all the time. I haven’t had a chance to look at these papers before. They must have travelled up on the same plane that you did.”
Biggles’ expression was hard. “What does it say?”
“Not much, but the headline itself is enough to cause mischief. ‘Castaway picked up by plane from the Crozets.’ Here, read it yourself.” The Air-Commodore flicked the newspaper clipping across the desk.
Biggles picked it up and stared at it. It didn’t take him long to read the paragraph.
Robinson hadn’t said a lot, but he had told the reporter that he was a survivor from the Kittiwake and had been picked up on the Crozets. That, Biggles thought, did not matter very much. The unfortunate part of the story was, Robinson said that he had been rescued by an aircraft. There was no mention of the submarine, or the German; so, strictly speaking, he had kept his word.
“A pity. My fault,” admitted Biggles simply. “I should have been more explicit and told him to clamp down on the whole story. But I was afraid that if I did he would naturally want to know why, and I couldn’t tell him without revealing what we ourselves were doing there. I was relieved that it didn’t occur to him to ask me, for it would have been an awkward question to answer. I suppose I should have foreseen that he was bound to report the loss of the Kittiwake, and that that would lead to questions as to how and where it happened, and what had become of the rest of the crew. Robinson must have spoken to someone as soon as I lost sight of him, possibly someone on the ship that was going to bring him home. The Cape papers, being the nearest land to the Crozets, would naturally make a feature of it. Well, there it is.”
“It will be known by now, by the people who we were hoping wouldn’t know that we had been to the Crozets,” said the Air-Commodore pensively.
Major Charles spoke. “What may be even worse, certain of the enemy, remembering the German sailor who was put ashore, will almost certainly wonder if Robinson found him, and if so, how much talking they did together. They might well wonder at the same time if the plane that picked up Robinson also picked up the German. And they won’t just stop at wondering. Enemy agents will be after Robinson hot foot to find out. They’ll want to know all about the plane, too. If your name is mentioned...” The Security Officer broke off as if there was no need to say any more.
“I’ll get after Robinson as soon as I get back,” said Biggles, trying not to show his chagrin at what he felt was a bad slip on his part. “I’ll warn him. I might just catch him. The Lady Alice—that was his ship—wasn’t due to leave for a week.”
“Tell him for heaven’s sake to be careful.”
“He won’t have a clue to what it’s all about,” said Biggles. “I’ll tell you what I can do. Rather than wait until I get back I’ll send a cable to Algy asking him to see Robinson and warn him to keep clear of strangers. He’ll know what I mean by that.”
Biggles walked again towards the door. “Good-bye for the present, I’ll be back when I’ve got the thing unfolded a little further.”
He went out.
V
UNPLEASANT CONSEQUENCES
As Biggles sped southwards on the regular B.O.A.C. service to the Cape it was the unexpected development of the embarrassing newspaper publicity about Robinson that was chiefly on his mind. The complications that might arise from this concerned him more than the conduct of the original operation; for the time being at any rate. And the more he thought about it—and he had three days to ponder possible consequences—the less he liked the look of it. The fact that he felt it was all due to a blunder on his part, in not warning Robinson to be silent, did nothing to soothe his concern; a concern that was not far short of alarm, for he perceived that he might have put the man in a position of some danger, should enemy agents get on his track. His hope was that Algy had interpreted his cablegram correctly and put Robinson on his guard.
Such was his apprehension on this score that the moment he landed at his destination, before doing anything else, he jumped into a taxi and drove to the dock where the Lady Alice was berthed. To his great relief he saw that the grimy coal boat was still there, so telling his driver to wait, he walked quickly towards the gangway, where a sailor who looked like the skipper was standing talking to one of his officers.
“Do you mind if I have a word with one of your crew—a fellow named Robinson?” began Biggles
The two men studied him with what Biggles thought was an unnecessary amount of attention. Then it was the captain who spoke. “You’d like a word with him, eh?”
“I would.”
“So would I,” was the curt rejoinder.
It was Biggles’ turn to stare. “What d’you mean by that?”
“Just what I said.” The skipper was blunt to the point of rudeness.
“You mean he isn’t here?”
“That’s it. That’s just what I do mean. Who are you, anyway? Another one of these reporters?”
Biggles showed his Scotland Yard badge, which brought about a change of atmosphere. “I’m looking for Robinson,” he said again. “Will you tell me what you know about him?”
“That won’t take long,” answered the skipper. “The young devil came to me with that hard luck story about being cast away on the Crozets and asked me to take him on so that he could get home, which I did.”
“Yes, I knew that,” acknowledged Biggles.
“Last Tuesday, I think it was, he came to me and said that as he was short of money could I let him have an advance of five quid. I don’t know how many he told that yarn to, but like a mug I fell for it and gave him the money.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?”
“I ain’t seen him since. He’s skipped.”
Biggles bit his lip when he realised what this implied. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said in a low voice. “There’s nothing wrong with Robinson. If he isn’t here, it’s because he couldn’t get here. I’m afraid he’s run into trouble. Have you heard nothing of him at all?”
“He was seen at the pub over there, one evening, having a drink with a couple of loafers who didn’t look like seamen. That’s all I know. I didn’t see him myself.”
“Who did see him?”
The skipper indicated his companion with a short-stemmed pipe. “My mate.”
Biggles looked at the man. “When was this?”
“It’d be Wednesday about half-past nine. I dropped in to have a pint.”