Gibraltar Road

by Philip McCutchan

  She cried out, “Esmonde—the boat. It’s pulling out!”

  It was the girl who’d fired that shot. . . . Shaw twisted round in alarm, saw that the boat, with Ackroyd half sitting, half lying in the sternsheets, was moving out fast. Debonnair, at the water’s edge now, fired again, hit the gunwale of the boat, put off her stroke by the need to aim clear of Ackroyd. Shaw started to lift himself, and at once Karina’s knee came up and smashed into his groin. There was a moment of excruciating agony, and a whole spectrum of coloured lights flashed in his head; he doubled up. Karina wriggled away, rolled clear, and then was on her feet and running fast into the darkness of the roadway. Quickly, anxiously, Debonnair came back up the beach towards Shaw, bent over him.

  His face was green and he was in great pain, but he forced himself to action, brought the heavy gun up, aimed to put a burst over Karina’s head. But when his fingers pressed the trigger nothing happened. The magazine was empty. Maybe that was why he’d got Garcia before Garcia got him. A mocking laugh floated back as he reached for his own gun. He swore, turned, saw Ackroyd’s distance increasing.

  Debonnair asked, “Esmonde, do you want me to fire—or not?”

  Shaw snapped, “Leave her for now—she can’t get far.”

  “She can get our car.”

  Shaw cursed, savagely. “Well, she’ll just have to, that’s all. Ackroyd is the important thing now.”

  The sweat of agony poured off Shaw as he struggled to his feet and stumbled for the water. He just set his teeth and carried on. He plunged in, struck out for the boat, and the coolness of the water eased the burning pain a little.

  A terrible dread gripping her heart, Debonnair watched him go.

  Her revolver was up, and she was ready to give him covering fire the moment she was able to sight without fear of hitting Ackroyd. Shaw seemed to her to be gaining a little on the boat—the man in it was pulling very badly, catching one crab after another under the stress of his hurry. But it didn’t look as though Shaw would close the distance before the boat reached the parent vessel; and soon he would come under the fire from that fishing-boat, for surely there would be guns aboard.

  The girl’s heart thudded and she sent up a prayer. . . .

  Then she saw the rowing-boat turn to make its approach to the side of the larger vessel, and that gave her her chance and she took it. The angle of the turn had brought the solitary rower clear of Ackroyd, so that she could sight on him without being in danger of hitting the little physicist.

  Icily calm, Debonnair sighted. She fired three times.

  The first shot seemed to zip into the boat’s woodwork, but the second and third shots got the man fair and square; the boat swung, the oars jammed in the rowlocks. The man hung head down in the water, canting the boat over and bringing it right round to circle to a stop before he flopped over into the sea. Debonnair waded in then, started swimming out to help Shaw, who soon had an arm over the gunwale. Ackroyd was lying flat in the bottom of the boat now, moaning to himself and shivering, water slopping about over him. Shaw grabbed at a rope lying in the boat and made fast to a ring-bolt in the bows; bringing the rope’s-end out with him, he dropped back into the water as the girl swam up.

  They both heard then the sound of the fishing-vessel’s motor starting up. Shaw said urgently, “Deb, we’ll tow him inshore . . . keep your head down, for God’s sake, old girl. They’ll be bound to start shooting any moment now—unless they catch up with us first.”

  They each took a grip on the rope, put their heads down, and went forward in a one-armed crawl. They didn’t make much speed, but there was no shooting, and Shaw wondered if that was because they were right out of the moonlight, in a big, spreading patch of pitch-darkness under the lee of a jut of land. A moment later Debonnair, who had noticed that the boat’s engine was getting fainter instead of louder, rolled over and looked back. Then she spluttered, “They’re pulling out—going to sea! Wonder what that’s in aid of?”

  “What!”

  Shaw’s head came clear of the sea and he eased down. He blinked the water from his eyes, looked ahead. Then he swore softly. “That’s what,” he said. “Back water, Debbie . . . look at the beach.”

  Debonnair looked. Two men of the Civil Guard were coming down to the water’s edge and were staring out across the sea towards the now fast-retreating fishing-vessel. One of them cupped his hands and shouted out across the sea; a moment later a couple of shots were fired. Another guardia was kneeling by the bodies on the beach. None of them seemed to have seen the rowing-boat in its deep shadow, a shadow made blacker by the bright moonlight elsewhere, and Shaw whispered to Debonnair to keep very, very still and quiet. He said, “We don’t want to meet those chaps any more than our pals back there do. If they get hold of us it’s all up with Gibraltar. They’ll never believe our story—and three dead Spaniards, one of ’em a guardia, are going to take an awful lot of explaining away.”

  “What do we do, then?”

  “We stay at sea for a bit. It’s all we can do, Debbie.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Miserably, she shivered. She knew she hadn’t sounded very enthusiastic, but she knew Shaw was perfectly right. Shaw swung round and very slowly, imperceptibly, keeping well in the dark, he edged the boat away from the land, his own breathing sounding loud in his ears. As they went they heard a car’s engine starting up ashore, and then the sound of furious driving along the road to Algeciras. Shaw said, “That’ll be Karina—in our car.”

  Looking back, he saw the Civil Guards rushing up the beach.

  The fishing-vessel was almost out of sight by now, heading flat out for the North African coast—Tangier was Shaw’s guess. Well, that was all right—they evidently didn’t realize that Shaw’s boat was coming out again. Shaw went on heading slowly out to sea, and the beach dwindled.

  A little later he was able to speed up and, well clear to seaward, they passed Tarifa Point.

  Very soon Shaw would have to head back in or risk being run down by the shipping in the Straits—he had no navigation lights, and wouldn’t have dared to use them if he had—or be picked up again if the skipper of that fishing-vessel should take it into his head to return.

  Shaw had helped Debonnair over the gunwale as soon as it seemed safe to do so, and followed himself. They sat there shivering in the cool night air. Mr Ackroyd’s teeth chattered away, and he stared up at the two apathetically while they did what they could to make him comfortable. Shaw searched through the little man’s clothing, bringing a cry from him as he jolted the bruised arm. He didn’t find anything during that search.

  A little later Debonnair asked, “Where do we head for?” She snuggled back into the comparative warmth of Shaw’s body. “Could we cross Algeciras Bay in this, d’you think, and enter Gib by sea?”

  “We could, Debbie—it’s only about five miles by sea from Carnero Point—if it wasn’t for something I was trying to find on Ackroyd when I was going through his clothing a little while ago.” Briefly he told her about the technician’s theory, the theory that Ackroyd had removed a piece of AFPU ONE’s starting mechanism—told her in such a way that he didn’t have to divulge much, though he made her realize the vital importance of what he was saying. When he’d finished she lay back and looked up at him sideways and said, “Oh, my God,” very softly.

  Shaw said, “We’ll have to try and get something out of Ackroyd about it as soon as he’s in a fit state. If it really is missing—and I do feel sure he did take it—then ten to one Karina’s got it now. So—we’ve got to find Karina.” Bitterly now he reproached himself for not having immobilized his own car. “That means we’ve got to try to land—I’d say, somewhere near Carnero—and walk into Algeciras itself. We’d look a bit suspicious, entering the port by sea after what’s happened to-night.”

  She nodded. “And when we get ashore—what then?”

  He said wearily, “Debbie my dear, God may possibly know, but I certainly don’t. Let’s get to Carnero first.”

&
nbsp; She moved closer into his arms. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’ll stop asking silly questions, darling.”

  “They’re not silly questions,” said Shaw gently, stroking her wet hair. “It’s my fault for not having the answers ready, that’s all!” So near Gibraltar and yet so damn far, he thought miserably, and until we cross that little strip of neutral ground beyond La Linea every man’s hand—practically—is against us.

  Shaw took up the oars, sculled the boat along to the eastward, still keeping well clear of the land. The girl drew away from him, to give him more freedom of movement, but he pulled her back to lean against his chest. She was shivering so . . . God, but he should never have allowed her to come with him on this job. . . .

  Mr Ackroyd was humming again, and Shaw clamped his teeth down hard.

  Dum-da, dum-da, dum-da. . . .

  That was going to drive him mad soon. And he still had to get this little lunatic to talk.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Hammersley hadn’t so very much to do himself in these final stages, with the evacuation organized and timed to begin at noon—less than twelve hours to go now.

  He had made the decisions, and he would stand or fall by those decisions—not that it made much difference to his own position either way, because he didn’t intend to leave his command. So he wasn’t likely to be called to account in any way. They could say anything they liked after he was gone and he wouldn’t care. All he could hope for now was to do the best he could for the people who depended on him. And now the donkey-work was being carried out by the staff and by the regimental officers and the men under their command.

  But Hammersley couldn’t sit around in The Convent and do nothing—nothing but wait, and count the hours—the hours at first, and then it would become, as the time drew nearer, the minutes and the seconds. During the morning—so long, long ago—after he’d seen Forbes and then sent the hastening signal to the evacuation fleet, Hammersley had driven round the town and had gone up the Rock to the out-stations for a word with the troops. And everywhere it had been the same; the routine going on, yes, but the strain, the frightening air of expectancy, the worried faces of those who suspected that this was more than just the exercise which Hammersley had announced recently in the Gibraltar Chronicle. A few of the locals, smelling danger despite the security muzzle, had got out under their own steam already—the rich ones, or those with connexions across the frontier or in Tangier. He couldn’t stop them; wouldn’t if he could. They had a right to protect their own lives—he couldn’t even blame them morally. The rest waited, on the whole dumbly, not knowing what was going on but neither wishing nor able to leave the Rock that was the only home they knew. All Hammersley wished, so fervently, was that he’d been able to advise them—order them—all to get out while the going was good.

  Was this whole damn nuclear set-up in the present-day world worth while? If security demanded that for the sake of England Gibraltar’s unconsulted people should die was it, in the last analysis, worth it? Hadn’t the times and men’s morals degenerated so far that nothing was worth while saving-—saving only for the universal holocaust to come?

  All these thoughts had gone through Hammersley’s mind as he’d sat with his driver and his A.D.C. in that truck during the morning, glum and not speaking, driving along Gibraltar’s narrow, noisy, crowded streets. The only conclusion he could come to as some salve for his own conscience was the obvious one: it wasn’t just England. Narrow concepts of nationalism didn’t wash these days, couldn’t wash, mustn’t wash. It was the free world’s way of life that was at stake; perhaps these people wouldn’t die—those of them who would have to—in vain. Or not quite in vain.

  And he told himself that the people he had seen that morning had been pretty good. He knew that to-morrow, as the evacuation fleet began to enter Algeciras Bay, the seawalls would be crammed with people watching, wondering . . . would they go on believing that this movement of shipping and the disposal of the troops who were now moving to their stations along the streets was due to an exercise? Hammersley was still, in accordance with orders, keeping as much as possible dark until the very last moment, the moment when he would make that final broadcast, the moment when the evacuation itself would actually begin. He hadn’t told even his own family the full, awful truth, though he sensed that behind his wife’s admirably controlled front was hidden some blame, which she couldn’t altogether conceal, for the fact that he’d allowed their sons to come out to Gibraltar. He hoped that before the end came he’d have time to put that right with her, to explain things. It wouldn’t be long now, of course, but there was still that slim chance that either the Cambridge would find Ackroyd aboard the Ostrowiec or that Shaw would have something concrete to report.

  And now it was night again—the time that seemed the worst of all. It was after midnight; to-morrow, in fact, had come.

  Hammersley had had a direct line laid on, from his own office in The Convent to the power-house; and he had only to lift the receiver to get the latest information immediately. But mostly when it was answered the first thing he got was that racking dum-da, dum-da sound. . . . He didn’t know quite why—perhaps it was on account of some morbid curiosity that made him unable to leave the receiver alone—but he stretched out a hand now and put the thing to his ear.

  A weary voice said, “Hullo, yes?”

  Hammersley asked, “Is there any change? This is the Governor speaking.”

  The awful strain under which those men were working was fully evident in the technician’s voice. He said heavily, almost sarcastically, “Yes, sir, I know who it is. There’s no change.”

  Hammersley flushed; the man was right in his implication—he must resist the temptation, mustn’t get them flustered and irritated. They’d let him know at once. . . . Quietly he said, “Very well.”

  The call was cut off then; but not before Hammersley had heard the note of AFPU ONE in the background—dum-da, dum-da, dum-da, dum-da. . . .

  He rammed the receiver back on its stand and stood up. He was breaking out in a light sweat which wasn’t entirely due to the night’s stuffiness. Tugging at his sticky collar, Hammersley went over and pressed a bell.

  Three minutes later he was driving along Main Street again with his A.D.C.

  Debonnair was shivering badly as she sat with Shaw’s thin wet coat round her shoulders, in the open boat with the sea slopping over every time Mr Ackroyd wriggled about in the bottom-boards. Shaw noticed her distress. He said, “Sorry, darling. It won’t be all that long now.”

  “I know. Don’t worry about me, you’ve got enough on your plate.” She looked away to port, where the land reared up high and bleak. She said, “Sheer cliff.”

  Shaw nodded. “It’s like that all the way from Tarifa right round to Carnero, I fancy—just over ten miles.” He sighed. “We’ll be ashore as soon as we can.”

  He looked down as Mr Ackroyd knocked against his foot. He was about to tell him, succinctly, to keep still if he didn’t want to upset the ruddy boat and throw them all into the sea when he realized that the little man was trying to say something. In spite of the cold, Ackroyd’s face was all sticky with sweat, and his straggly moustache clung wispily to his upper lip, drooping over his mouth like oily hair on a bald man’s head. A thin stream of saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth, which was slack and drooly. But his eyes were fixed, pathetically, in a stare at the girl’s face.

  Mr Ackroyd spoke then. He said, perfectly clearly and distinctly, “I never did like him, lass, tha knaws that. Bloody teddy-boy, that’s what ’e is. . . .”

  Shaw almost stopped breathing; obviously Ackroyd was wandering, but if only he could get him to talk for a little, to talk rationally, he might get some information out of him about the existence or otherwise of that supposedly missing part, and if it was missing the little man might be able to give him some lead to Karina’s whereabouts—he could have overheard something about her plans, possibly. And if Ackroyd was allowed to talk it might do him a powe
r of good, might release something from his system before they reached Gibraltar. If they reached Gibraltar.

  Shaw put out a hand, dropping the oar for a moment, to steady Ackroyd’s shoulder. Ackroyd gave a little cry as his injured arm caught him, and then he turned his attention to Shaw and said, “Eh, lad, but that other woman’s a bitch.” He gave a shuddering kind of sigh as he said that.

  “I expect she is,” Shaw agreed, with soothing quiet. He took up the oar again, resumed pulling steadily. He said, in a low voice, “Debbie, can you cope—get him to talk—you know?”

  “Leave it to me.” She reached out competently, helped Mr Ackroyd aft over the thwarts—with the boat in danger of capsizing—and pulled him down so that his head was pillowed in her lap. Shaw heard her talking to him gently, soothingly, for some minutes; after a while the physicist began to speak to her, as distinctly as before, though nothing he said made much sense; he seemed, so far as Shaw could gather, to be telling the girl all about his home life. But after a little he began to ramble on about Gibraltar, and that was Debonnair’s chance.

  She took it.

  She said, “Now look, Mr Ackroyd. Gibraltar’s awfully important to you, isn’t it—I mean, you work there, don’t you?”

  Her glance flicked up to Shaw, and he nodded.

  Ackroyd said—a little doubtfully, but as though it had got home, “Ah, lass, ah do.”

  “Do you . . . remember much about it?”

  Still uncertainly, he said, “Ah, it’s a reet nice place.”

  Shaw put in, “What about the tunnel, Mr Ackroyd? Do you like working down there?” He leaned forward urgently. “Do you?”

  Ackroyd looked up at him and frowned. After a moment something seemed to click and he asked suspiciously, “Now look ’ere, lad, what does tha knaw about toonel? That’s what t’bloody bitch kept on about, but ah didn’t tell her nowt.”

  Shaw had caught the unmistakable note of truth. He said carefully, “I don’t know a thing about the tunnel, Mr Ackroyd. It’s not my line, that sort of thing.” He hesitated, then plunged. “But—when you left Gib—did you have anything with you? A sort of—of fitting, anything of that sort? A bit of machinery, I expect it was, from that power unit of yours —AFPU ONE,” he added off-handedly. “D’you remember at all?”