Panic! (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  Rogerson stopped abruptly, and glanced at his watch.

  ‘Seven—seven o’clock, wasn’t it? You will read the ultimatum, my friend.’ He indicated the short man, who saw that it wanted ten minutes to the hour.

  * * *

  A voice from Rome said:

  ‘Are you sure? Would it not be wiser to strike now?’

  A voice from Berlin said:

  ‘Wait! Wait until they have control in England—then we can move.’

  ‘You are sure they will get control?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘Your arrangements are made?’

  ‘I can land a quarter of a million men in twelve hours.’

  ‘I will wait,’ said the voice from Rome.

  Simultaneously, two receivers were replaced and the speakers sat back, brooding yet satisfied.

  * * *

  ‘Obviously,’ Bill Loftus was saying, ‘the ultimatum will be broadcast, so we’ll find where it comes from by tracing the transmitting station—that’s all been arranged.’

  ‘Every available man is waiting for seven o’clock.’ Craigie shrugged dispiritedly. ‘But what can we do? I have never felt defeatist before, but this time …!’

  Loftus pursed his lips.

  ‘We can keep trying, Gordon. God knows there isn’t much chance of getting through in time, but odd things happen. At least we’ve breathing space.’

  ‘Yes …’

  The Government had been persuaded—correctly—that there was no direct intervention from Foreign Powers. It had decided that the disturbance was internal, and had expressed—through Jonathan Bryce-Scott, speaking for the Prime Minister—the Government’s view that the revolt, if it could be given so high-sounding a term, would be over within twenty-four hours. The Government, Bryce-Scott had said so convincingly that at least half his listeners believed it, knew exactly when and where to find the perpetrators of the outrages.

  And the House had adjourned.

  Lord Dryton had made a similar statement to the House of Lords, with similar effect. The Lords, too, had adjourned …

  The newspapers brought out special editions with two-inch headlines, reiterating the Government’s complete control, and the radio blazed forth statements that there need be no alarm …

  And the country waited for seven o’clock.

  Craigie, Loftus and the others remained in Craigie’s office. No word had come from the agents who had followed the men named by Anson—and it was beginning to look as though they had been prevented from sending information. The Cabinet, meeting in secret and not at Number 10, waited for the ultimatum with almost equal despondency.

  Both the Cabinet and Craigie’s men knew that their bluff would be called, and they could take no decisive steps—unless the transmitting station was located in time.

  Tension, awful and unbearable, increased as the seconds ticked by.

  18

  Ultimatum

  The effort to follow the ‘planes which had dropped the leaflets over England failed, for the ‘planes used had been faster than any of the squadrons sent up belatedly in pursuit. The state of mind of the public would be better estimated after seven o’clock, but Loftus and Craigie had faith in the steadiness of the people. If this was an attempt at invasion, the people were likely to rally strongly behind the Government.

  But it was an interval of fear and apprehension.

  Of dread …

  At one minute to seven, Craigie began to twirl the wavelength control of the set in his office. The British stations, except one in Scotland, had closed down at six-fifty-five, ‘to enable listeners to hear an announcement of general interest.’ Nothing, it seemed, could perturb the equaunimity of the B.B.C. announcers.

  Seven o’clock …

  Ten seconds past …

  Craigie got the station at last, picking up a slow, measured voice using perfect English. Loftus wondered for a moment whether he should be with one of the vans trying to locate the ‘pirate’ station. But now he listened, fascinated by that steady voice with its outrageous demands—a pistol being held to the head of the British Government with a matter-of-factness quite as disconcerting as the B.B.C. announcer’s aplomb.

  ‘I will repeat that. The League which has been instituted to replace the present Government of this country has only the good of the nation at heart. The British Government has for years possessed the powers of a dictator: the so-called democratic constitution has for a long time been a thing of the past.’

  There was a pause. Then, emotionlessly, the voice went on:

  ‘The League will continue to operate all civil and military services, but will completely eradicate the wastage, the muddle and the hypocrisy which has been typical of the present Government.

  ‘The Government will signify its acceptance of the authority of the League by a unanimous vote in the House of Commons—and must sit at Westminster and not at Oxford, as arranged. Representatives of the League will take over, and for the present, will govern the country from unspecified headquarters.

  ‘Let there be no misunderstanding.

  ‘Owing to the stubbornness of the present Government, it was necessary to reveal the strength of the League. But the incidents of last night were mild in comparison with others which can occur—and will occur—unless the national Government and the people of Great Britain accept without conditions the change of constitution, and the control of the country by the League.

  ‘This statement will be broadcast again at nine o’clock and eleven o’clock.

  ‘The House will meet by noon tomorrow. Or else …’

  The voice stopped. There was a hush in Craigie’s office, until Loftus drew a deep breath, easing the tension.

  * * *

  In millions of private homes, in thousands of cafés and cinemas throughout the land, the quiet, unemotional voice of the man who had made that audacious statement had been heard. In millions of hearts, there was a contraction of fear—a dread of what might come. The tension which had broken in Craigie’s office lasted longer almost everywhere else.

  Political meetings had been called to listen to that message.

  Officials of all parties had heard it—and their reaction was in all cases the same. For the first time for fifty years there was not a voice raised against the ruling Government of Great Britain. From the extreme right to the extreme left, leaders and party members were united.

  The man in the street, afraid though he might be, on the verge of a panic which had threatened to engulf the country, felt the same surge of indignation, the same spirit of outrage and defiance.

  They were being told what to do …

  Dictatorship—here!

  There was a change over the face of the country, a change Loftus had hoped for, even prayed for—yet had hardly expected to see in so sweeping a fashion. Within an hour, it was obvious which way the tide was going. The Militia, of course, was already at full strength. The Territorial Army, far short of the million men appealed for, months before, had a rush of volunteers unrivalled even by the rush during the early days of the First World War. Thousands besieged recruiting offices, A.R.P. and National Defence headquarters …

  The news trickled through to Craigie and Loftus: to the Cabinet; to other officials. The ultimatum had hardened the spirit of the British people as nothing else could have done. The threat of force had to be resisted, would be resisted, was being resisted. The Territorial and the Regular Armies would, at that rate of increase, pass the million total before the day was out. Other services, more than fully-manned, would have no need to appeal for personnel.

  But …

  There was nothing for the Army to fight. Nor the Navy. Nor the Air Force.

  There was no knowing whether the next attack would come from the air, or from the ground.

  The only information that did come through was from Post Office radio officials, concerning the location of the ‘pirate’ transmission station.

  The ultimatum had been broadcast from an aerop
lane flying over the Channel.

  * * *

  ‘Anti-climax,’ murmured Loftus, with a wry grimace. ‘Our friends of the League have their wits about them. It’ll be interesting to see who are with them.’

  ‘Interesting!’ snorted Mike Errol.

  ‘The new recruits getting out of hand again,’ Loftus said lightly. ‘Everything considered, we can call ourselves lucky, my friend. By the time you’ve finished, you’ll probably wish you’d never heard of Department Z.’

  ‘Here—’ Mark frowned in puzzlement: ‘You had an idea of what would happen last night, didn’t you? How come?’

  ‘I used my thinking-cap,’ Loftus grinned.

  Craigie was at the telephone, waiting for a call from Berlin. One from Paris and another from Rome had already been through, but the Z men abroad had, so far, no worthwhile information.

  Mark Errol was still puzzling.

  ‘Odd, just the same. He did know …’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Davidson wearily.

  ‘Let them alone,’ Loftus reproved him, genially. ‘They’ll wake up, one long-distant day.’ His lips were smiling, but his eyes were alert. ‘Here’s another prophecy. The next step from our League friends is gas—and if you think that’s imagination …’ He shrugged. ‘Did Myra or Rogerson see you yesterday?’

  ‘No,’ said Mark, firmly.

  ‘They might have had a glimpse of me as I jumped into the room at Bournemouth,’ Mike offered. ‘But it’s not likely. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering,’ Loftus was frowning, now: ‘whether Dora and Letty might be useful …’

  Craigie spoke quietly into the telephone, then replaced the receiver and said flatly:

  ‘The Führer and the Duce had a personal talk at seven o’clock, or just afterwards. That might be interesting. It …’

  Another telephone rang.

  Another and another.

  Craigie had seven on his desk, and within three minutes Loftus, Craigie, Davidson and Carruthers were talking into one apiece. Which at least meant that certain cables damaged during the night had been repaired, and junction lines were in order again.

  Agents came through one after the other, with long-awaited news.

  Lord Hubert Lore had disappeared.

  Frazer-Campbell and Tiarney were missing.

  Dora and Benjamin Morely were in conference at Dora’s flat.

  Letty had been traced to the Naveling Hotel, Bloomsbury—which was already being watched by Craigie’s men.

  ‘On the whole, pretty useful,’ Loftus summed up, when the influx of messages was over. ‘McKenzie is the only one of Anson’s friends who remains at large—or more accurately, under surveillance. Are you going to have a show-down with him, Gordon?’

  ‘He’s due here at eight o’clock,’ said Craigie.

  ‘Right. Well, the next item is the Naveling: we’ve decided it’s time it was raided. Not that we’ll get anything more than the small fry, but even they’ll be useful. Mike, I’m going to be unkind, and separate you from your cousin and friend …’

  ‘Just separate me—there’s no need to apologise,’ Mike assured him.

  ‘I’ll pay you for the service,’ Mark offered.

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Loftus, but his own brighter spirits seemed to have infected everyone present. It was—although they could not have defined it—the fact that there had been a reprieve. ‘Mike will come with the rest of us to the Naveling. We’ll let Letty get out, and you’ll do the Sir Galahad act, Michael. The strong silent man and these wicked policemen. She’ll ask you to take her to somewhere unknown, and you’ll let Craigie know, as soon as you can. Failing him, any policeman—but be sure you tell him the message must go to Miller, at Scotland Yard, at once. All clear?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ beamed Mike.

  ‘Damn it!’ protested Mark. ‘What do I …?’

  ‘You have a far more delicate task,’ said Loftus, cheerfully. ‘You fall on to Dora’s neck when Morely is arrested— and arrested he’s going to be. All right?’

  Mark smoothed his hair.

  ‘This is getting places. Why didn’t you think of it before?’

  ‘We had to play it canny, then—but it’s time for the battering-ram, now,’ Loftus told him. ‘We’ve a dozen men at Naveling—Gordon, you said we’d better have some policemen, to make it look more official?’

  Craigie nodded.

  ‘Yes, I’ll ‘phone Miller.’ He and Loftus had worked out this new plan of attack earlier in the afternoon. But everything had been held back until after the ultimatum.

  ‘Then,’ added Loftus, ‘Morely, after questioning, is released. You think Diana …?’

  ‘She’d better try,’ Craigie agreed.

  ‘Right—I’ll leave you to arrange it with her. Give her my love! Does Fay come in?’

  ‘McKenzie?’ suggested Carruthers.

  Loftus grimaced doubtfully.

  ‘Too hard-headed and hearted, I’m afraid. And a man with a wife like that probably wouldn’t believe in Fay if he saw her. Still …’

  ‘I’ll arrange for Fay to meet him after he leaves here,’ said Craigie. ‘I can’t see anything else that we can do, yet.’

  ‘No … Right, then—Wally, you come to the Naveling with me. And you, Carrie. All fit?’ He glanced at Craigie, and the chief of Department Z—who, a short while before, had looked all in—nodded. The tiredness, the near hopelessness, seemed to have dropped from him like a cloak.

  The Errols secretly marvelled at the change in him. They did not know how long and how bitterly Craigie had fought to get at the League, did not realise the heart-breaking effect of months of work without results, followed by the disasters and devastation which had come.

  ‘On with the dance, then,’ Loftus announced. ‘Out, knaves!’

  Craigie pressed a button beneath his desk, and the sliding door opened. Loftus and the others saw the men standing outside. A dozen men in all; three of them carrying tommy-guns—and slightly ahead of them, his shoulders hunched, was Mr Andrew McKenzie.

  * * *

  Loftus recovered first from the shock.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘You’re a bit early, Mac!’

  ‘Early for what?’ snapped McKenzie.

  ‘My dear man—you did have an appointment.’

  McKenzie grinned, not pleasantly: ‘I’m always early, Loftus. Get back by Craigie’s desk! All of you …’

  ‘More massacre?’ murmured Loftus, ‘I should be very careful, McKenzie. We …’

  ‘Stop your blether, damn you, or …’

  ‘Supposing I speak for him,’ said Craigie, in his softest voice. ‘I expected you, of course, McKenzie—but hardly like this. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can keep your mouth shut, for one thing!’ snarled McKenzie. ‘I told you all—get back! If one of you goes for his pocket, he’ll be shot out of hand. I want,’ he added. ‘to talk to you. Craigie—first. Never mind what comes next. Now …’

  He took a wary pace forward, obviously afraid of a trick. The odds seemed heavily on his side, but the activities of Department Z had a cautionary effect—too many attempts on Craigie’s men had failed.

  Loftus was smiling, apparently unconcerned, and Craigie seemed in complete control of himself. The Errols were more affected than Davidson or Carruthers and Wally actually contrived a convincing yawn.

  ‘If you try—’ McKenzie was advancing cautiously into the room, while the men on the far side of the sliding door moved slowly in his wake. ‘If you—’ he began again, warningly.

  Then heard the single, united gasp from behind him, and swung round—to see the machine-guns and automatics clattering to the floor, and the rigid horror on the faces of his men.

  ‘Simple electricity,’ murmured Craigie. ‘Won’t you come further in?’

  19

  Mike and Letty

  As the steel guns met the steel-lined floor, there were a series of sharp cracks—and one man collapsed. A moment later, the lot went down, crumpling u
p as though they had been shot, and Wally said easily:

  ‘I’ll leave our Scottish chum to you, Gordon—come on, Errols.’

  ‘But—!’ Mike was staring at those prostrate figures.

  ‘The current’s off,’ said Craigie, drily. Loftus, too, was smiling with real humour for the first time that day.

  He gripped McKenzie’s arm, and found it rigid. Offhandedly, he told the Errols:

  ‘We hoped for this, but whether friend Mac, here, is a little fish or a big one, we don’t yet know. Those fellows have had enough juice to keep them quiet while you get them to a police-station.’

  ‘Have them sent to Wandsworth,’ Craigie added.

  ‘Right …’

  Dazedly, the cousins followed Carruthers and Davidson out, and as they began to move the men from the landing, the door slid to behind them.

  Wally chuckled.

  ‘Don’t look so daft, you two! We knew there was a crowd outside—each man that trod on the top stair lit a red light on the mantelpiece, You don’t know the half of Craigie, yet!’

  ‘It seems not,’ murmured Mark Errol. ‘Oh, well …’