Next morning, when Francis drove away with his truck and his men, he still had no news of Shaw. The A.D.C. had been as evasive as ever, and it had begun to look fishy. Francis, as he passed through the main gate and headed back for the Australian post at the outer perimeter, went on worrying it over in his mind and then he decided he would just have a word with the naval authorities in Sydney. Leaving the truck at the post, he got permission to make a telephone call, and he rang Garden Island, spoke to the Duty Officer, and was then put on to the Captain of the Port himself.
Apart from knowing that he had spent a night in the cell Shaw had little idea as to time when he heard the key turning in the lock and he saw the sergeant standing there with the escort.
The sergeant said briskly, “You’re wanted in the Commandant’s office. You will come at once.”
The escort waited outside the door, took his arms again as he came through, and he was marched back past the guard point beyond the steel doors and taken up once again to that large room with the big desk before the wide windows. It was evidently night once again, for those windows were now curtained. Behind the desk, looking furiously angry, Mirskov sat with one hand resting in a drawer. The man’s thick lips were working away and little droplets of saliva bulged from the corners of them. Curtly the Commandant dismissed the guard, brought his hand up from the drawer, and levelled a revolver at Shaw.
When the guard had withdrawn from the room, Mirskov said: “There was a telephone call from Sydney. There will be another. From a Captain James.”
Shaw felt his heart leap.
Mirskov went on, “This Captain James, whom I know to be of the Naval Intelligence, is anxious for news of you. He was expecting you to report. He realizes that you must indeed be Commander Shaw, for there has never been any opportunity for impersonation. James has been in touch with the Captain of the New South Wales. The girl Judith Dangan was able to confirm that the Shaw who left the ship at Fremantle was the Shaw whom she contacted in France and who also boarded the ship at Naples. Major Francis was with you all the way from Fremantle. That has made things difficult for me, but not impossible.”
Shaw laughed, said jeeringly: “You were just a little too clever, Mirskov—”
The gun jerked up. “Silence! It is not that at all. Always I had known the difficulties of keeping this up for long, but I was confident that I could do so for long enough for our purpose. Now that is not so, thanks apparently to the man Francis, who has aroused disbelief. Now. I have apologized to this Captain James. I have told him that I realized I was obviously mistaken about you and that of course you would be released immediately. But he wishes to speak to you himself. It would not have seemed reasonable of me to have refused this request, and I told him to telephone again, when I would have you here to speak to him. Now listen to me carefully. You will tell Captain James when he rings, that you wish to question the man who wrongly informed against you, and that you wish to work on certain investigations here at Bandagong. To our mutual surprise, things are not all as they should be in the station. You will tell him that you will report by telephone immediately you have further news. Is that understood?” His gun nosed towards Shaw, and he added: “I will shoot instantly if you say one word other than this. Your Captain James, he will not hear the shot, for I can disconnect the line whenever I choose.”
“Maybe—but you’re going to have a job explaining afterwards, aren’t you?”
Mirskov snapped, “There will be no afterwards. The time is very close now. And you—you will be very dead in any case. And there is something else. If you do not do exactly as I say, a very special, very prolonged and very painful death will be reserved for two young ladies of your acquaintance—in advance of the world detonations. I have only to send word to London and to the liner.”
Shaw felt his guts draining away, and his hands shook; but he tried to conceal his racing thoughts and his excitement. Tensely he said: “All right. I suppose I haven’t any choice. But you’ll suffer for this one day, Mirskov.”
“I think not. But you are a wise man, Commander Shaw. Make certain you remain so when the telephone rings.” Mirskov relaxed a little, but kept the gun pointing steadily at Shaw. “Sit down.”
For an excruciating half-hour Shaw sat in silence under the muzzle of that revolver, thinking ahead and planning how he was going to get out of this. Slowly, very slowly, the minutes ticked by, the hands creeping over the face of a clock on the wall. Both men were tense and nervy. Shaw jumped when the harsh clamour of the telephone broke into that grim silence.
Mirskov reached out for the receiver.
He said, “Yes . . . yes, this is Commandant Mirskov speaking, Captain James. He is with me now. Ah-ha.” He chuckled. “Yes, certainly . . . but speak to him for yourself.” Mirskov’s hand went tightly over the mouthpiece. He hissed, “Remember now.” He held the gun very steady as he passed the instrument to Shaw, sat close and watchful when Shaw got up and came round the desk to speak.
Shaw’s heart was thudding away painfully, suffocatingly, going like a war-drum as he took the receiver. He said, “Hullo. Shaw here. Oh—yes, sir.” As he spoke, he felt the pressure of Mirskov’s gun in his side, felt the man’s breath on his face. His glance flickered down momentarily, estimating Mirskov’s exact positioning. Into the phone he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get that?”
He leaned forward casually, rested his elbow on Mirskov’s desk, bending, screwing up his eyes as though in a concentration of listening on a bad line. He said, “No, sir, it’s all right—now. No need to worry. That was just a misunderstanding. . . ."
He was utterly relaxed now, his voice normal-sounding and easy; Mirskov appeared satisfied. And then, very suddenly, Shaw went into action.
He brought his elbow back sharply, viciously, putting all his strength into the movement. The elbow took Mirskov’s arm, sent the gun spinning, and in the same instant Shaw’s right hand came down on the heavy telephone base, brought it round, snapping the flex. He sent it crashing square into Mirskov’s face. The man fell back, spitting blood and teeth, his face a pulpy red mask of pain and uncontrollable fury. Then Shaw was on him, battering into the face with his fists.
Mirskov, however, was a fighter too, and he was considerably heavier than Shaw. He came back, fists pumping, came inside Shaw’s long reach and caught him a smashing blow on the jaw which sent the agent reeling backwards. Mirskov leapt for the desk and the bell-push, and Shaw got him just in time by the legs, dragged him back so that his head caught the edge of the desk as he fell. Mirskov kicked himself free and Shaw scrambled up. Mirskov came for him again, face contorted, murderous, breathing like a steam-engine. Stepping aside, Shaw picked up the man’s heavy chair, lifted it high and then smashed it down with bone-crunching force on Mirskov’s head.
It was all over then.
Panting, Shaw looked around for Mirskov’s gun, found it. He was bending to examine the man when he heard the door open. He jumped up. The A.D.C. was coming in, looking startled.
Shaw went forward fast, the gun lined up on the officer’s stomach. He hissed, “Keep still and shut up. Is the escort still out there?”
Dumbly, eyes wide and staring, the A.D.C. nodded. As he opened his mouth Shaw snapped at him:
“Go to the door, but stay inside the room. If you move one step away I swear I’ll kill you and explain later. Just tell the escort they won’t be wanted any more.”
The A.D.C. hesitated, his face flushed and scared. Shaw went nearer. The young man took just one close look into his eyes and then he turned quickly and went to the door. Shaw kept out of sight. When the A.D.C. had dismissed the escort, he turned slowly. Shaw snapped: “The door. Shut it.” When the man had obeyed, he said: “Now listen. Your Commandant’s behind the desk. You probably won’t believe what I’m going to tell you, but you’ll find it’s confirmed before long. Briefly, your Commandant’s in the pay of a power acting against the interests of MAPIACCIND. I am an officer of the British Naval Intelligence acting
on orders from London. You can—”
He broke off as the internal telephone rang, and his heart thumped. That might be the Bandagong private exchange, wondering about the break in the call from Sydney. James would be trying to get through again . . . but the call could be overheard in the exchange, and he couldn’t take the risk of speaking to James now. He pushed the gun into the A.D.C.’s side, snapped: “Answer that. If it’s the exchange, tell ’em the Commandant’s outside line is out of order, but he’s not to be disturbed by workmen until further notice. Stall ’em off.”
The A.D.C. took up the phone, listened. Then he said to Shaw, “There is a Captain James—”
“Say he’s to be told I’m on my way to Sydney and I’ll ring him from the airfield. Go on.” He nudged with the gun. The A.D.C. passed the message and rang off. Shaw said, “Now, where’s Karstad?”
The A.D.C. swallowed. “He has gone. I swear I do not know where.”
“You’re quite sure you don’t?”
The young officer said earnestly, “I know nothing of his movements, except that he has gone.”
Shaw looked into his eyes, nodded. “All right, I’ll accept that. Are you prepared to believe me, and do as I say?”
“I—I cannot believe you, I—”
“You can forget your loyalty to Mirskov. He’ll hang. Anyone else in the racket’ll hang too. That goes for any accessories—you, for instance, if you don’t co-operate. Believe me, I’m telling you God’s truth, laddie! And I don’t think you ever really believed I was an impostor.” Shaw’s face was wet with sweat. “Anyhow, time’s short, so you’re just going to have to do as I say.” He gestured with the gun towards the internal phone. He said, “Ring the hall-porter at the main entrance. Tell him to get transport here immediately.”
When the A.D.C. had done this, Shaw rasped: “Now ring the sergeant of the guard on the cells, tell him I’m in the clear and he’s to hand all my papers and other possessions to the porter for my collection. And that includes my revolver and holster which you took away. They’ve got to be there in . . . two minutes. Orders from the Commandant himself.”
The A.D.C. passed the message, then faced Shaw. He asked, “What do you want of me now?”
“You’ll come with me, laddie, and pass me through the main gate. In the hall here, you’ll leave word that the Commandant’s not to be disturbed on any account whatever.” He added crisply, “I’ll be right behind you with a gun all the time and believe me, I just can’t wait to use it!”
Within the two minutes all Shaw’s possessions were handed back to him by an unsuspecting hall-porter and then they got into a jeep which had pulled up at the bottom of the steps.
They drove down to the floodlit gates, Shaw, in the back, keeping his gun hidden in his pocket but with his hand on it ready to shoot.
At the main gate a guard stepped forward, weapon ready, and the jeep stopped. Shaw held his breath, kept his fingers crossed, though he appeared relaxed and easy. The guard approached the vehicle, asked the A.D.C.
“Where for, sir?”
“On personal duty for the Commandant.”
The sentry gave the A.D.C. a smart salute and stepped back. The jeep’s driver engated his gears and they drove slowly through the gate, out of Bandagong, heading for the R.A.A.F. airfield. Shaw’s heart lightened; there wasn’t far to go now.
They were still heading fast for the airfield when a bright light beamed out along the track behind them and then just a moment later the firing started and they heard the high-pitched scream of a fast vehicle. Evidently somebody had been worried about the Commandant after all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The speed had dropped a little as the startled driver looked into his mirror. Shaw jabbed his gun into the driver’s neck and snapped: “Keep going.” The jeep shot forward again.
Before they had covered more than a further couple of hundred yards there was a loud report from their rear and the jeep staggered to one side, slewed round and ran off the road, bumping and jerking until it shuddered to a stop on hard, baked ground.
Before it had fully stopped Shaw had jumped out and was running hard into the darkness, away from the probing headlight beams and the bullets which snicked across at random in his general direction. He heard men’s hoarse shouts, the sounds of pursuit behind him. He stopped to fire back, then ran on again, fired another burst a minute later. Shortly afterwards he turned a little towards the road ahead of the jeep, in the direction of the R.A.A.F. station. He was panting and dead weary, but he forced himself on. Everything now depended on his getting away clear and reaching the airfield. He could see the landing lights on the long runways, the vague outlines of the planes and buildings ahead . . . so near, he thought, and yet just too far.
He staggered as his foot caught some projection in the ground; he fell flat, pulled himself up, his breath coming in agonizing bursts, his chest tight and heaving. On the road he saw headlights approaching fast from the direction of the airfield. It could be an Australian vehicle, and that thought gave him fresh hope. He put all he had into a burst of extra speed, ran straight for the road now. But the vehicle drove past before he could get there, and then it pulled up with a jerk near the ditched jeep. In the glare of the jeep’s headlights he saw the dark blue of the R.A.A.F. as an officer jumped from the truck.
He heard a ringing shout: “Hey! What the flamin’ hell’s going on around here?”
The shooting stopped, and a voice answered. “Our Commandant has been attacked. We are looking for the man, who was in this jeep. . . .”
Shaw watched from the darkness as a MAPIACCIND man strode across to the Australian. Sounds from close by indicated to Shaw that other men were closing in on him now and he decided he had to take a chance. He thought for a moment of trying to reach the airfield while the talking was going on, but quickly realized, when a sudden renewal of the shooting sent a bullet zipping past his head, that he would never make it. His gun was empty now. He put his hands up, shouted out that he was surrendering, and then walked into the lights.
There was a shout and then two men ran for him, took his arms, marched him up to their officer. The MAPIACCIND man said, “You see, Squadron-Leader? Here is the man.”
The R.A.A.F. officer looked closely at Shaw as he was brought up. “That right?” he demanded. “Did you beat up the Commandant?”
“Yes. But I had a good reason. If you two,” he added to the men holding him, “will let go of my arms, I’ll produce my credentials to the Squadron-Leader—”
“You will not!” The MAPIACCIND official thrust himself between Shaw and the Australian, glowered. “This is a MAPIACCIND affair, and this officer has no authority to interfere.”
“Oh, is that so?” The airman’s rock-like face was flushed and stubborn now, a hard jaw stuck out. He said, “Look, you’re outside your area, in case you don’t know it. This is free Australian ground—”
“Our rights extend to the outer perimeter—”
“Agreed. Rights—but not exclusive territorial rights. You left those behind you, at the gates back there.” He waved a thick-wristed arm down the track, and the headlights glinted on the metal of a revolver in his hand. “You take my advice, you’ll let this bloke show his papers. I’ve just an idea who he is, and if you don’t let him prove it I’ve got blokes here who’ll see you bloody do!” He gestured back at his truck. In it, four Air Force police sat fingering automatic weapons.
The MAPIACCIND man glanced at them, scowled, muttered under his breath and then gave a reluctant order. Shaw was released, but the guns were pointing at him still. Calmly he reached for his wallet, brought out his red-and-green-panelled naval identity card, handed it to the Australian and waited.
The officer examined it, looked keenly at Shaw’s sweaty, dirt-streaked face, and nodded. He said, “Right. That’s what I thought. I reckon you’re just lucky, chum! We were coming to have a yarn with Commandant Mirskov about you, on orders just through from Sydney, but I reckon if we’d got to th
e gates before you beat it out of there, we wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of contacting you.” He turned threateningly on the MAPIACCIND officer. He said brusquely, “Go on, hop it. We’re taking this bloke in.”
“But I—”
“But nothing!” the Australian roared, his bottom lip jutting out. His voice carried strongly into the thin night air. “I told you, you aren’t in charge around here. Look, if you don’t beggar off fast, I’m gonna run you for using offensive weapons in Australian territory. Reckon I’ve had just about enough of you lot since that flamin’ Act was passed,” he added witheringly, “coming out here and acting as though you’re God Almighty. You go to blazes. And think yourselves lucky you haven’t got a bullet in the backside.” He slewed on his heel. “Into the truck, Commander.”
Shaw grinned. “Thanks!” He jumped in as the MAPIACCIND party glared at him impotently, noticed the pale, scared look of the Commandant’s A.D.C. The argument was carried on for a minute or so and then the Squadron-Leader climbed into the truck, which turned short round in the road and headed away for the airfield. Shaw sat back and relaxed. He said, “It’s a good thing you turned up just when you did.”
The airman grunted. “Those blokes, they get my goat. I love ’em just about as much as the devil loves a priest. So don’t thank me. It was a real pleasure.” He gave a great, gusty laugh. “My word, just to see that bastard’s face was worth a year’s pay!”
Five minutes later Shaw was in the Station Commander’s office making his brief and censored report. Shortly after, he was speaking on the phone to Captain James. He said, “I can’t explain the whole thing in detail just now, sir, but I’d like you to get in touch with London and Geneva at once. Tell them it’s vital that all MAPIACCIND countries should be told to throw-off their adaptors, or they’re going sky-high. And Commandant Mirskov should be arrested as soon as possible. Meanwhile I’m being given a plane and I’ll be at Kingsford Smith soon after daybreak.”
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