Gibraltar Road

by Philip McCutchan

  “Perhaps.”

  “Anno domini, hijo. It is many years since I met Commander Esmonde Shaw.” There was a tinge of regret in her voice now; regret for the years that had gone beyond recall, for the excitements of those early days . . . and yet there was a note of eagerness as she went on, “But we shall meet again very soon. He will come to me. I shall see to that, for I wish to see him once more as soon as it is safe for me to do so, and you shall help.” She raised her arm, sniffed the perfume which was called Je reviens. “Away with you now, Pablo,” she added abruptly. A small handful of peseta notes fluttered over the screen. “You know your orders meanwhile, and I shall have fresh ones for you later.”

  “Si, señorita.”

  “A moment, Pablo . . . has Madame, the keeper of this house, questioned you about why you come here?”

  “No, señorita.” A frown appeared between the boy’s eyes, and his voice held a note of query when he added, “She has seemed curious, that is all.”

  “Remember, she is to know nothing.”

  “Si.” For a moment the boy hesitated, licking his lips. The voice came sharply then, commandingly: “Pablo, go now.”

  When the boy had slipped away Karina came out from behind the screen and walked slowly over to a long wall glass where she studied her body intently. She was quite naked.

  Esmonde Shaw when younger had been susceptible, and more than susceptible. He had appreciated the slim lines of that body which, as Karina now saw, was just as seductive as ever. Critically she looked at the long flanks, the beautiful flat stomach, and the full, rounded breasts which were as firm as a bride’s; she caressed the soft gold of her skin, the narrow strips of whiteness where her sun-suit had covered her. The cloud of hair set off the pale face; the lips were still full and red, the mouth was wide, eyes clear, and the flesh tight, teeth showing small and good when the lips parted slightly.

  The years had been kind enough.

  Karina turned slowly, lifted her arms, saw the sharp angle of the breasts. She took a backward glance as she twisted away farther, and was satisfied. Pivoting slowly back, her mind went on to the job ahead. There was a reckoning to come with Esmonde Shaw, and for a moment the glass showed spots of red in the cheeks, sharp lines between the eyes, and a mouth turned downward into a thin line which gave away the latent cruelty below the veneer. Something told her that this encounter to come, an encounter after so long, was going to be a fight to the finish. It wasn’t going to be her finish.

  A few miles away, in Gibraltar, Shaw came down the stairs from his bedroom in the Bristol Hotel holding a newly arrived cable in his hand. That cable read:

  Flying Gibraltar on business to-morrow will be at Rock Hotel love Debbie.

  Shaw didn’t know what to make of that. He knew Debon-nair well enough to guess that she’d wangled it, wangled that business trip from her firm, and he wasn’t quite pleased at having a girl around when he was on a job. Maybe he’d cable her to use some sense and keep away . . . maybe. He knew she wouldn’t take any notice if he did. Probably couldn’t, now she’d fixed it with her office.

  Shaw went into the bar, frowning.

  He looked casually over the customers having a late lunchtime session. As he drank a long gin-and-lime, with ice floating in it to turn the tumbler to frosted crystal, he asked the barman off-handedly if a Mr Ackroyd was in the crowd.

  The man was fat, cheery, with a brisk voice. He said, “No, sir.” He polished a glass carefully. “May be along yet. He does come in quite often, though come to think of it I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

  “Uh-huh.” Shaw flicked his lighter, slid a white cuff up his lean brown arm and looked at his watch. “I won’t wait.”

  “If he comes in shall I say you were inquiring?”

  Shaw shook his head. “Thanks, but it’s not important. I believe I met him some years ago, and I thought we might have a drink if it’s the same Mr Ackroyd. I’ll run into him some time or other.”

  “Righto, sir.”

  Shaw wandered away from the bar, sat down in a corner. The job hadn’t begun yet, and he felt nervy, strung-up, had that old damnable sensation in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of nausea which the gin didn’t help. He ought to have had brandy . . . hell, that damned pain. He felt his features tightening up, knew he looked ill. Once he started it would be all right. Well, the first thing to do was to make his number with Humphreys, the Superintending Naval Armament Supply Officer, and establish his cover-story to satisfy any flapping ears and prying eyes which may have noted his arrival that morning. His appointment with Humphreys had already been fixed by signal from the Cambridge before he’d disembarked, and now, leaving his gin, he got up abruptly, feeling sweat in the palms of his hands. He decided to walk along to S.N.A.S.O.’s office, even though the sun was at its hottest, for he wanted to get the feel of Gibraltar again, and after the two days at sea he felt the need to stretch his legs.

  When his preliminary business with S.N.A.S.O. was concluded Shaw asked, just as casually as he’d asked the barman at the Bristol, if S.N.A.S.O. could tell him where he’d be most likely to meet a man called Ackroyd.

  “Ackroyd?” Humphreys frowned. “Admiralty Ackroyd, d’you mean?”

  “That’ll probably be him—I believe he’s with the Admiralty,” Shaw murmured off-handedly.

  Humphreys grinned. “He’s a curious little cove, works underground or something.” He seemed about to add something more, and then thought better of it. “I should think you’d most likely find him in the bar of the Bristol or the Yacht Club.”

  Shaw looked quizzical, and Humphreys hastened to explain, “It’s not that he drinks much more than most, really. Er . . . how well d’you know him, Commander?”

  “Hardly at all.” Shaw repeated what he’d said to the barman.

  “Well, d’you see, it’s companionship he feels in need of, I think, boosts him a bit to be with what he’d call the ‘nobs,’ and that’s why he’s there such a lot, mostly in the evenings . . . matter of fact, though, now I come to think of it, I haven’t seen him for a day or so.”

  The Alameda Gardens were a blaze of colour—scarlets and reds and blues and yellows; shady beneath the dark green of the trees, the little paths ran between rock. Fairly high up even here, you could look over the tops of the hivelike flats of the Government rehousing scheme, built on what once had been Red Sands, where the military columns had formed up for a great attack on the Spanish lines during the siege of some hundred and eighty years before to write a page into British history. Beyond the flats were the dockyard, the harbour, and the blue water of Algeciras Bay, beyond again the jagged Andalusian mountains. Behind, almost overhead, the great Rock towered, looming over the town sheltering beneath. It came to Shaw that Gibraltar had been lucky in the War not to have had more bombs dropped on it; a few biggish ones, blowing out chunks of that stupendous, rearing Rock, would have done quite a lot of damage in the town as the boulders fell on the flat, water-catching roofs of the sand-coloured houses bordering the narrow streets— streets so steep that many of them were cut into steps. Shaw would have liked more time to look round Gibraltar again. There was romance and colour in the very place-names of the Rock—names that had their origins in history, names that commemorated the regiments and the men who had served the Rock through her long years as a British fortress-outpost: Chatham Counterguard, Cornwall’s Parade, Forbes’s Battery, Hesse’s Demi-Bastion, Green’s Lodge. . . .

  Later that day Shaw discovered that Ackroyd hadn’t been in the Yacht Club either for the last twenty-four hours; further discreet inquiries told him that this could be considered somewhat unusual. It was then that Shaw, in the circumstances, began to feel a little natural concern—a concern which became real worry when he got back to the Bristol and found a coded cable waiting for him. Quickly he broke it down. The cable read:

  Contact Defence Security Officer soonest possible.

  It was from the Old Man himself.

  The security policem
an at the desk in the D.S.O.’s outer office was sorting forms. He said, “I’m sorry, sir, Major Staunton is out with the Chief of Police and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “All right,” said Shaw. “I’ll wait, if that’s in order.”

  “Right-ho, sir, that’ll be quite O.K.” The policeman gave him a seat and Shaw lit a cigarette. He hadn’t finished it when a car stopped outside and a dark, rather saturnine man with a soldierly bearing, whom Shaw guessed was Major Staunton, hurried in with another man—a man in police uniform, evidently the Chief of Police.

  Staunton spoke to the security man at the desk. “If anyone wants me I’m not here.” The voice was clipped, brusque. “Meeting in half an hour with H.E. in The Convent, and I don’t know when I’ll be finished. Admiral and Air Officer Commanding will be there too, and the Brigadier—” He broke off as Shaw caught his eye. “Who’re you, may I ask?”

  “The name is Shaw—Admiralty Inspector of Arament—”

  “Ah, yes, I heard you were coming.” The tone was short and impatient. “Sorry. Can’t see you now.”

  “It’s by way of being important—”

  Staunton’s dark eyes flashed; even the tight black moustache seemed to stick out straighten “My dear sir,” he snapped tartly, “there’s something vastly more important than Armament Inspection going on. We’ll have to make it another time. Good day to you.”

  Staunton swept into his private office, followed by the Chief of Police, and the door was slammed shut.

  Shaw’s teeth clamped together and he felt the familiar pain in his guts. He moved swiftly over to the door before the security policeman could stop him. He jerked it open.

  “What the—” Major Staunton stared angrily, his whole face seeming to hackle up. The dark eyes, level and steady over a hawk-like nose, had gone stony. “Will you kindly get to hell out of here?”

  Shaw said quietly, “I’m sorry.” Shaw had been given absolute discretion to handle this job in his own way, and though that cable had not told him specifically to make his department known to the Defence Security Officer he knew that Staunton and the Chief of Police would be two of the most trusted men, men in whom he could confide without any qualms at all when circumstances made it necessary. Those circumstances had clearly come. Shaw reached into his pocket and produced the red-and-green-panelled Identity Card, which he passed to Staunton. He said, “I’m instructed to contact you, Major.”

  Staunton looked at Shaw, took up the card, and examined it. “I see,” he said, raising his thick eyebrows a little. He glanced across at the police chief. “Naval Intelligence,” he said quietly. “Makes rather a difference, that.” He swung back to Shaw. “Now, Commander. I’ve not been told anything about you—in this connexion.” He tapped the card. “What do you want?”

  “I want to find a man called Ackroyd.”

  Staunton looked at him keenly and grunted. He sat back for a moment. Then he said, “Excuse me just a minute, won’t you?” He reached out for a telephone, said, “Scramble line to Whitehall.” When he got through he explained briefly about Shaw, and after that his conversation consisted mainly of grunts. Then slamming back the receiver he gave Shaw another shrewd, appraising look and said, “You appear to have considerable priority, you know. Well—I’m at your disposal and I’ll help in any way I can—and it sounds as though you can help us a lot, too.” He smiled a little then, tightly, anxiously. “You were asking about Ackroyd.”

  “It’d help if I could know where he is.”

  Staunton leaned forward, shoulders hunched. “Suppose I told you he was dead?”

  Shaw felt very cold suddenly. He asked, “Is he?”

  “My dear chap, that’s what we all want to know.” Staunton gave a sidelong glance at the Chief of Police, and Shaw, following that glance, noticed the dubious look which crossed the policeman’s face. Staunton went on deliberately, “A body was found this morning above Europa Point. Just below Windmill Hill. And Ackroyd hasn’t been seen since last night. There was no alarm till the body was found. Owing to the injuries it was totally unrecognizable, but it carried papers belonging to Ackroyd, and the general physical build and so on tallies. All the same, and in spite of the fact that the Chief of Police here disagrees, I don’t believe it’s Ackroyd’s body.” Again he looked over at the other man, and then went on, “But I can tell you this much, after a fairly exhausting day’s work: Ackroyd is no longer in Gibraltar, whether or not he’s in the next world. We’ve gone through the place with a tooth-comb.” He hesitated for a moment. “I can tell you something else, too: if we don’t find him pretty damn quick there’s going to be trouble. For one thing—and London says you know the details already and you’ll understand—I’ve heard that that blasted fuel unit of his has developed a defect again, and now they can’t stop it to find out what’s wrong. Ackroyd seems to be the only one who knows anything—and we’re expecting a planeload of distinguished senior officers from N.A.T.O., plus Cabinet Ministers, who’re coming to watch the thing in operation!”

  Shaw had gone very white. He said, “So that’s happened again, has it? Why can’t they switch off?”

  Staunton snapped, “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the damn’ thing. All I know is the bare fact that they can’t put it right, and they can’t switch it off.” He added, “I’m more concerned about Ackroyd himself.”

  That phrase—London says you know the details already— had shaken Shaw because of what Carberry had told him. He said, “Major, is the thing . . . overheating? Is that it?”

  Staunton’s searching glance ran over his face. “I believe it is. I gather the report from the technicians said something like that. Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Major,” said Shaw quietly, “I shouldn’t start worrying just because the high-ups are due. If they can’t switch off soon there’s going to be more than mere trouble.” Earnestly he leaned forward, feeling the sweat sticky on his face. “Don’t you realize the Rock’s likely to go sky-high? Right now we’re sitting on what could be the biggest atomic blast since Hiroshima.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The night before Shaw arrived the seedy-looking little man with the timid eyes had been happier than he’d ever been in his life. Happier and more important-feeling.

  The huge power-production unit, even its lead casing seeming to pulse with controlled energy, had been running quite satisfactorily in the close, stuffy power-house, the enormous cavern which the Admiralty had allocated to it below Gibraltar’s rock. It seemed almost to speak to him, to respond to his caresses as he put out a skinny arm and patted the metal fondly, revealing the dark sweat-stains under the armpits of his open-necked white shirt. Dum-da, dum-da, it went, in its slow, emphatic way . . . dum-da, dum-da, dum-da, dum-da. . . .

  That machine—Autopowered Fuel Production Unit (AGL Six), Mark One, to give it the full designation, or AFPU ONE for short—was Mr Ackroyd’s whole life, almost of itself the culmination of years and years of grinding work and study which had really started when he was just a kid at the grammar school in the East Riding, taking a keen interest in the science lessons—even in those days, he thought, they’d taunted him with being half barmy. Well, in just under three days’ time he’d show them all, he’d just ruddy well show them. He’d been told that there was a possibility that even the Defence Minister was coming with the top brass.

  Mr Ackroyd had started up AFPU ONE an hour or so ago because she took two full days to work up before she began to produce results—and when he’d run her through some days earlier for test she really hadn’t behaved very well, hadn’t been herself at all, and he’d had to send in a long, highly secret report about his brain-child’s irregularities. Of course, he’d worked on her since then, but still . . .

  And now he’d started her, and watched her, and made some adjustments, and watched her again like a proud father —and he’d found her running beautifully. Mr Ackroyd peered round, squinting into powerful electric light. He looked suspicious, furtive almos
t. The senior technician on watch was reading the dials on the main remote-control panel set in the rock wall of the power-house and he wasn’t taking any notice of Mr Ackroyd. Quickly, deftly, the little man did what he always did when he left the machine running, and opened up the primary starting-panel in the side of AFPU ONE herself, the starting-panel which could also be remote-controlled from that main control-panel; he took a screwdriver from his pocket and, after undoing some screws, dismantling some of the mechanism, and fiddling with a few knobs, he removed a steel plate set fairly deeply inside. Inserting his fingers gently, he probed for perhaps half a minute, while his eyes roved the workshop; at the end of that time he brought out a small piece of metal shaped rather like a spanner—a very-thin, flat spanner with a hole at one end and at the other a semicircular convex head cut into very fine teeth. Then, whistling a little to himself, and drawing the back of his hand across his nose, he slipped the piece of metal into a pocket and replaced the steel plate, reassembled the remaining mechanism, and closed the panel. After that he patted the power unit again—alarmed, in a funny sort of way, at his own suspicious instincts. The truth was, as he admitted to himself, he’d always been like that; it wasn’t quite his own fault, for even as a kiddy he’d always found that every one— grown-ups and other children alike—had seemed to be in some vast conspiracy to mess up anything he’d set his heart on, to wreck his plans and ambitions and his poor, fragile hopes. And no one was going to have the opportunity to do anything like that this time of all times.

  AFPU ONE meant a tremendous lot to Gibraltar. For that matter it meant life or death to the whole Western defence programme. But it also meant everything to Mr Ackroyd himself. It was his vindication. It was his machine —all his. His technicians—all very decent lads, as he freely admitted—knew the routine maintenance and how to start and stop the machine and all that; but they hadn’t his intimacy with her, hadn’t worked on her from the word go, right from the first airy-fairy dream and the roughed-out drawings before even the blue-prints had been thought of as a likelihood; and if anything went wrong, Mr Ackroyd used to say to himself, with a certain guilty satisfaction, they’d be ‘proper stumped.’ And now that he’d taken that vital part out of the innards of the starting mechanism no one would be able to stop her when he wasn’t there and muck her about and perhaps spoil his big moment, when (he hoped) the Minister of Defence himself stood beside AFPU ONE and murmured words of praise and congratulation into his willing ear. So that was that. They’d be much too scared to mess about with the innards if they couldn’t stop her.