CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Shaw’s throat went dry as Andersson approached and looked questioningly across at Mirskov after a triumphant glance at the agent. If Mirskov belonged to the other side . . . and yet, how could he?
Andersson sat down and said, “You look pleased, Mirskov. May one inquire—why?”
“But certainly!” Mirskov’s thick lips parted gloatingly. “The man Shaw has brought the signals—the genuine ones!” Andersson’s whole body seemed to tauten. “Do you mean that seriously?”
“I would not joke about such matters. Here they are.” Mirskov opened the drawer, brought out the envelope. Shaw started forward, maddened with rage now. As he moved, Mirskov’s gun came up, levelled at Shaw’s stomach. Mirskov said softly, “Come any nearer and I shall shoot at once. And I can assure you, no questions will ever be asked. Oh yes, I am what you would call a traitor, no doubt, and you will be wondering how this could happen. Let me remind you, in the last resort a man is seldom a traitor to his own conscience—he goes where his true sympathies lie.” Again, the man’s eyes glittered oddly. “The screening . . . yes, it was intensive, very intensive, of course. But so was the preparation by our people. They are not fools, Commander. My background was impeccable, I had been known for years to the men who appointed me to Bandagong.” His voice changed suddenly and he snapped, “Sit down.”
Shaw obeyed, slowly, licking his parched lips. Turning to the other man, he asked: “Are you going to explain, Andersson?”
“Karstad,” the man said gently. “There is no further harm in my admitting straight out that your guess was right after all . . . and now the Commandant will continue. It is quite simple.”
Mirskov said, “Certainly.” He cleared his throat. “Karstad has brought me certain information, information upon which it is my duty to act in my capacity as Commandant of Bandagong. He tells me that you have been conspiring against the interests of MAPIACCIND—that in fact you are impersonating a certain Commander Shaw of the British Navy. Have you anything to say to that?”
Shaw laughed scornfully. “Only that you know perfectly well that that’s a damned he, and you won’t get away with it.”
Mirskov grinned, blinked his eyes rapidly. “Of course it is a he, we may as well admit that amongst ourselves! But— we shall most certainly get away with it, my dear fellow. Karstad, in the name of Andersson, is an accredited agent, and his word will be believed. And think—how many people know that you are Shaw?”
“Plenty. Sir Donald Mackinnon for one. Any amount back in England.”
“Ah—quite! Back in England, yes. But out here in Australia? And as for the liner Captain, he cannot be certain that something has not happened to the real Shaw on his journey, that an impostor has not arrived in Bandagong—unless he is allowed to see you, which he will not be. I assure you, my dear fellow, that is the story we shall stick to, and I, the Commandant of Bandagong and in effect the Ambassador of MAPIACCIND in this self-governing territory, will not be questioned. I have complete power within this area and no one at all enters it without my permission. Moreover, no one nearer than Geneva has the authority to overrule my decisions.”
Shaw bit down on his lip, his face grim and lined. Andersson looked at him, laughed. He said, “Oh, my dear Shaw! How stupid, how very stupid, you have been . . . you knew that I killed Gresham, did you not?”
“I did.”
“The report of my death reached your chief at precisely the right time, I would say. That was neatly contrived, don’t you think? Naturally, all this was planned a very long time ago—”
Shaw asked harshly, “Tell me, Karstad—why did you tip Donovan off? Whose side were you on then?”
“The same side which I have been on all along . . . but it seems there is some misunderstanding. I did not ‘tip Donovan off’ at all. I was seeking his help in what we had to do. You understand, I knew he was discredited in his own country and in France and in Norway—everywhere—for I myself had ‘denounced’ him in the first place—”
“You—” Shaw was half out of his chair.
Karstad lifted a hand and his voice sharpened. “Wait— sit down or Mirskov will shoot.” Karstad waited until Shaw had sunk back, then went on: “You see, Donovan was becoming too successful in the war, and by his very success he was in danger of leading me into disfavour with my superiors—the Germans. In those days he was too clever to allow himself to be killed, therefore it was necessary that he should be discredited. And so I framed him.” Karstad shrugged. “When I found a use for him all those years later, I did not forget that record. I knew he was alive and I thought he would be a willing collaborator, since he had been disgraced—by the West, so far as he knew. And we needed much help, much help. But for once, my friend, I was wrong. Oh, he agreed—yes, he agreed!” Karstad’s face was very ugly. “And then I heard that he intended to contact you and report all I had told him. As a result of that, I had to arrange for Donovan to be killed before he had a chance to speak. It was nearly too late. Nearly—but not quite.”
“You mean you killed Donovan?”
Karstad shook his head. “Not I—I was already aboard the liner. I merely gave the orders.”
“Which makes you just as much his murderer.” Shaw spoke through tight, set lips. His face was deathly white except for two spots of red in his cheeks. “Karstad, I swear you’ll die for that! John Donovan was my friend. He was a good man. You’ll pay all right, if I have to kill you with my own hands . . ."
“Oh, no, no!” Karstad’s eyes narrowed; the gun in Mirskov’s hand was held very steady. “It is you who will die, my friend, not I.”
Shaw forced himself to keep calm, keep his head clear. He said, “You can’t get away with this, Karstad . . . however sanctified this area is, some one’ll get permission to come in, if only to look for me.”
“Ah—possibly. In the end. But not in time to save you, and not in time to harm our plans either. That is quite certain. But now listen, and listen carefully, for you will find this interesting. You knew, I imagine, that Lubin had worked on the construction of REDCAP?”
Shaw nodded.
“And that he was a radio expert as well?”
Radio again! Shaw’s pulse quickened. If it was humanly possible he meant to get out of this place, and he had to learn all he could now, lead the man on. He said cautiously, “That follows, doesn’t it? If he was working on REDCAP.”
Karstad nodded gently. “Exactly, and that, my dear Shaw, is the whole point.” He paused, then went on: “You know the principle on which REDCAP operates, of course?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, Lubin has built himself a radio transmitter, a very neat job which can cause REDCAP to operate. . . .” He broke off as he noticed Shaw’s expression, asked slyly: “Is something the matter, my dear fellow?”
“No. Go on.” Shaw’s face was livid, bitter with self-reproach now. He had begun to suspect this very thing after he had heard about the Tungtai’s transmissions at sea. He should have taken it upon himself to order the neutralization of REDCAP—but, because Lubin, if he had the signals at all, only had the fake set, that had seemed too extreme an act.
Karstad was going on, “REDCAP, as you must be aware, is a receiver as well as a transmitter, so that it can receive the check signals back from the stockpile which is to be blown. Now—when Lubin operates his set, using the signals which you yourself have so kindly brought here,” Karstad said leeringly, “he in fact interrupts the normal mechanism inside REDCAP. His signal is received by the machine just as though it had come from the stockpile concerned. You understand? After REDCAP repeats this transmission, which Lubin’s set will cause it to do, Lubin sends out the second signal, the one which causes the machine to go fully into operation.” Karstad’s penetrating eyes were glittering almost with madness now. “Do you follow? Do you see what power this gives Lubin, and the country for which he works? Do you understand, Commander? Think now, and consider.” Karstad glanced across at Mirskov, a look of
triumphant gloating on his face. “It will be almost world-wide devastation. All the stockpiles blown up instantaneously and together.”
Shaw swallowed, felt his limbs trembling. To hear this threat actually put into words made it almost too big, too sheerly colossal, for the mind to comprehend. But he forced himself to see it all. One by one the countries of the MAPIACCIND Agreement could be picked off, shattered, split asunder by the detonation of their nuclear stocks. England would be only one of the lands which would simply vanish —if and when Lubin touched the key. But Shaw’s mind held fast to England, to the things which England held, the things which he held dear. England, put against the devastation-potential of her stockpiles, was by comparison with other Powers so very small, so overcrowded and so vulnerable. . . .
Karstad, his eyes still filled with that look of nearmadness, seemed to reach into Shaw’s mind. He said softly, “All destroyed, yes . . . and one country left supreme among the nations. Her armies and air striking-forces are making ready. And once REDCAP has been operated, she need no longer fear that an attack on the MAPIACCIND detachments will give the game away, and she will then send in teams of technicians to free her missiles from the adaptors. If it is necessary to back up the operation of REDCAP, the missiles can be sent across the world—into Europe, the Americas, Africa, into Russia too. Everywhere. And behind them will march millions of men to subdue what is left with conventional weapons. There will be nobody left who can stand against the might of the Asian peoples in the end.”
Shaw’s mind was reeling now; the thing was so vast, so truly horrible and wicked that he still could hardly see it whole. But he had to keep his head now. He asked, “If Lubin’s got this set, why hasn’t he used it before?”
“For three reasons. Firstly, until you were kind enough to bring the signals to me—which I confess was a stroke of luck—Lubin would not have known what the signals were. Secondly, all is not even now fully ready. In a day or two— yes. Now—no. Thirdly, and decisively, Lubin’s transmitter has one limiting factor, and that is that it cannot operate on long ranges. It is necessary for it to be sited within three to four miles of REDCAP, which is why Lubin cannot transmit direct to the stockpiles themselves but must go through the control.”
“Why couldn’t you have waited till it got here, then?”
“Because Lubin will transmit on the Australian frequency among the others—and there is a very big nuclear dump close by, under Australian control. It is to be dismantled now that REDCAP is coming here, but it has not been dismantled yet— so Lubin and Mirskov and I, we will need to be a very, very long way from Bandagong when the transmission takes place. Among other things, this explains why your road convoy was attacked last night—you see, thanks presumably to you, the situation had become confused, and despite Mirskov’s assurances that the crate from Fremantle was false—and I had already found out that there was a false one—I decided that you and the Australian authorities might be playing a double-double game, as it were—”
“You’d know all about that kind of thing, of course—”
“—and I wished to take no chances at all. To have allowed the real REDCAP actually to enter Bandagong would not have suited our purpose—it would have looked suspicious to the staff had we removed it again, you see.” He shrugged. “As it is, Lubin will transmit from a place of safety chosen by himself once the order is received—and long before REDCAP reaches here.”
“Where will that be from, then?”
Again Karstad shrugged. “Even I do not know—yet— where it will be. I shall not know until I see him and hand him the signals, which I shall do shortly after I leave here this evening. Neither do I know when, except that it will not be before the liner leaves Melbourne, for to transmit from a town would now be too risky since your people suspect so much. So you have a few more days of life, Commander— but only a few more.” Karstad laughed suddenly. “How beautifully easy it would all have been, had we been able to leave the transmission until REDCAP arrived here! My dear Commander—have you ever seen a nuclear power station blow up? No? Ah—I fancied not. Neither have I. It will be a very, very big bang and when Lubin transmits Bandagong will vanish as though there had never been anything here at all. And so, my dear Shaw, will you.”
Karstad nodded at the Commandant. Once again Mirskov pressed the bell-push beneath his desk. The A.D.C. entered in response, saluted Mirskov, and stood smartly at attention before the desk.
“Sir?”
Mirskov, sitting there squatly and toad-like in sharp contrast to the A.D.C. said: “This man is an impostor, impersonating a certain Commander Shaw of the British Navy. Now then. Did you personally check his papers?”
The A.D.C. looked surprised, shocked. And very alarmed. His thin face flushed and he said, “No, sir—”
“Why not?”
“Sir, they’d been checked at the gates and in the lobby here. It is not usual—I did not think—”
Mirskov snapped, “You are not paid to think, you are paid to know and to act.” He drummed thick, hairy-backed fingers on the desk, staring meanwhile at the young officer. “I shall go into this later,” he said abruptly. “For now, you will see that the guard commander at the main gate is put on a charge. As for this man, he is to be held in close arrest pending further orders. You will see to that.”
“Yes, sir.” The man was pale now.
“I shall hold you personally responsible for his safety, and he is to be held incommunicado. See that you do not slip up again. And remember—this is a security matter. Nothing is to be said to the Australian, Major Francis. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I will call an escort.”
The A.D.C. saluted, about-turned with Guards-like precision and marched out of the room. Within a few minutes he was back, this time with a sergeant and two men of the M.F.F. The A.D.C. gave an order and the men formed up beside Shaw, took his arms. The sergeant then took over and marched the prisoner and escort away with the A.D.C. following, through the ante-room and down the long passage again. From there, they descended below ground-level and came up to a guard-room beside heavy steel doors set in thick concrete walls. The sergeant of the escort spoke briefly to a sentry, who produced keys and swung back the steel doors. An order was given and Shaw was marched through and along a shining, steel-lined corridor off which opened the doors of small cells. He was halted outside one of these while the sergeant unlocked the door and then he was ordered inside. The soldiers came in with him and searched him thoroughly, removed his papers, his tie, shoelaces, money and keys. When they had finished, the A.D.C. came in and Shaw was kept at attention while the officer read a lengthy list of prison regulations and routines.
Then the A.D.C. and the escort left, and the door clanged to behind them. The only ray of hope left to Shaw was that he’d fancied the A.D.C. was half inclined to disbelieve his superior’s charge of impersonation. Mirskov was an obvious bully, while the young man seemed intelligent and sympathetic. Perhaps he’d have a chance of a word with him at a suitable moment—for what it would be worth.
Along with all his personal possessions his watch had been taken away from him and he had no idea of time. His thoughts raced round uselessly, his head felt as though it must burst with the terrible knowledge that was in it, so pointlessly in it unless he could get away from Bandagong.
His mind went back to that note about Ling’s, the restaurant in the Cross . . . he wished now he’d remembered to confront Karstad with that name—he might have found out a little more. Ling’s 4.30. It could be just a note of a date, of course, as Francis had said dismissingly. On the other hand . . . if and when he got to Sydney, Ling’s might be worth a visit.
But he wasn’t ever going to get to Sydney now.
Shaw paced that tiny cell, two steps one way, two the other, until he felt he was going mad. He thought about those yellow-skinned armies standing by to converge on their objectives, thought of England and of Debonnair in London, of the liner and Judith Donovan. His head was a
ching now, a dull mass of pain; the blinding, everlasting, relentless electric light, shadeless, seared his tired, red-rimmed eyes. Men brought in food, but refused his request to be allowed to see the A.D.C. and after he’d made himself eat he went on pacing, pacing until, at last, sleep became a necessity and he flopped down on the mattress on the raised wooden shelf which passed for a bed, and pulled the blanket over his body.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After Major Francis had had a late dinner in the MAPIACCIND Officers’ mess, he inquired, quite casually, for Shaw. The A.D.C. said, “He is still with the Commandant.” Francis whistled. “He’s having a long session, my word! Is he coming along for a meal or anything?”
“No, I do not think so, Major.” The young man seemed stiff, ill at ease. “I understand he will be . . . going on to Sydney very soon.”
Francis nodded. “That’s what he wanted to do, I know. Seemed it was pretty urgent.” He added, “I’d like to have seen him again. Good bloke.”
“Yes, indeed. You will excuse me now?” The A.D.C. finished his coffee and got up. “I have much work to do.”
“Sure, that’s all right.” Francis, frowning in puzzlement, nodded to the officer. He lit a cigarette, went across to a rack and found some magazines. He sat down in an easy chair and tried to read for a while, but found he was too tired to concentrate. Soon after, he went over to the comfortable room which had been provided for him in a block used by visiting officials, and turned in. He went on wondering about Shaw; something, he felt, didn’t quite add up and it puzzled him. That attack on the road convoy, of course, had been shattering proof that things were not as they should be, and the implications of that were endless . . . but Shaw had been worrying, had suspected something, even before that attack had come. He’d even warned them that it might happen. Shaw was in the know about something and he’d been pretty cagey all along. And now it seemed almost as though he’d been spirited away—or maybe that was just fanciful; Francis remembered that Shaw had said he might not see him again before he left for Sydney. But it was still odd that by after dinner he hadn’t in fact left for Sydney, considering his panic to get there.
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