Shard at Bay

by Philip McCutchan

“Yes, sir, and —”

  “What’s happened, Orwin, just tell me!”

  “Yes, sir.” Orwin had been trying to do just that. “Faslane reports an explosion in the water, alongside one of the nuclear submarines —”

  “Oh, my God. Damage?”

  “Surprisingly little, sir. But whoever did it, got away. Could have been frogmen, the Commodore thinks. The whole of the Gareloch’s being put under search. Defence Ministry expects positive news any time, sir.”

  “I suppose this is Detachment X?”

  “Yes, sir,” Orwin said. “There was another plastic notice.”

  “Oh, if only Shard was here!” Hedge said frenziedly.

  “Yes, sir. Meanwhile that’s not all —”

  “Not all!”

  “The U.S. base, sir. On the Holy Loch, the Poseidon —”

  “The Americans!” Hedge was out of bed now, toes groping for his slippers.

  “Yes, sir. Similar occurrence.”

  Similar occurrence, Hedge thought. The police never had any imagination. Nothing that affected the Americans could be called similar. This would be a diplomatic furore and the whole of NATO would fall upon his neck. Bees’ knees … that, when Hedge had been a young man, was what the Americans had thought they were, hot as mustard and moved fast. This time they would move in his direction, unless he could off-load them onto Defence Ministry — which, having got involved, he probably couldn’t entirely. Hedge began issuing orders: they tumbled rapidly into his closed line, into Orwin’s ear. Orwin was to go north to Faslane at once; he was to go by air, the first available flight —

  “Strike’s still on, sir.”

  “Have you never heard of the RAF, Orwin?” Hedge had one arm into his dressing-gown. “Defence Ministry — tell them to provide air transport. Or a helicopter,” he added, inferring that helicopters didn’t rate as air transport like proper aeroplanes. “And keep me informed — I shall leave for the Foreign Office immediately.”

  8

  There was, of course, no knowing how long Tim and his companion might be gone. But the fact they were currently off the premises was of some help, or might be if only Shard could take advantage of it. If he could, it would have to be done fast.

  There was just one way: he had to get someone into the room. There was no prospect of himself getting out of it. He did the only thing he could do: he yelled and went on yelling. He shouted out that he was in great pain, feeling desperately ill too, a very sick man.

  After a while the door was unlocked and a light switched on — it was dark outside now.

  “What’s the matter?” The girl’s voice. Shard, who had shut his eyes since to do so might add colour to his deception, opened them and squinted as though the effort was torture.

  “I don’t know … the injection. I feel bad.”

  He heard whispers: he’d been right about the yellow-skinned man being left behind. He believed they were agitated. He’d banked on them not wanting him to die — there had never once been any threat to his life. Tim and the grey-suited man might react if they returned to a corpse. Shard gave a convincing groan, and made a retching sound. He said in a fading-away voice, “My stomach … I need to be on my back … it’s cramp.” He didn’t add anything to that; he didn’t want to mention the handcuffs specifically and it should be obvious to anyone who thought about it that he couldn’t lie flat with his hands gripped behind his back.

  He began to breathe rapidly, gasping for air.

  He sensed consternation; the girl was asking the yellow man what was in the injected drug. He didn’t know but seemed to think they shouldn’t take chances. On the other hand, they obviously couldn’t get a doctor. He suggested ringing Tim. The girl said, “He’s gone to Tack’s. Tack isn’t on the phone. Uses a call box.”

  “Is he going to be long?”

  “I reckon he is. He said —” The girl broke off; Shard opened an eye fractionally. She was biting her lip and looking almost desperate. Shard gave a cry, and jerked his body rigid two or three times, hoping the rigidity might bring rigor mortis to her mind. Perhaps it did. She came forward and squatted by his side, put a hand tentatively on his forehead. “Stomach, you said?”

  “Yes. Griping … cramp. For God’s sake … lay me out flat.”

  Breath hissed through her teeth and she straightened. Then she said, “Listen. I’m going to unlock the cuffs, all right? Just remember you’re covered.”

  Shard had already seen the heavy revolver, with silencer, in the yellow man’s hand. If it was used it wouldn’t be used to kill, he was sure enough of that. Just to inhibit. He added a further touch: delirium. He talked nonsense, about Beth and babies and mothers-in-law.

  “Oh, Jesus,” the girl said, and bent again and pushed Shard over so she could get at the cuffs. The key went into the lock and she pulled the metal from his wrists and then he reacted with the speed of light. He got the girl round the neck, almost breaking it, then jerked both her and himself to his feet lifting her by the neck. She screamed loudly, mouth wide open, eyes staring at the yellow-skinned man, who had brought up his revolver and was trying to find a point of aim clear of the girl. As the man teetered about, Shard flung the girl at him bodily, with every ounce of his strength. They crashed in the doorway and the gun came free and skidded away into the hall, and just as it did so the lie was given to the girl’s belief that Tim wouldn’t be back. Shard heard the car driving into the garage.

  *

  On the wings of the dawn Detective Inspector Orwin’s helicopter put down inside the Clyde Submarine Base, to be met by Commodore Rushcroft in person.

  Orwin identified himself, showed his FO pass. “Any luck, sir?”

  “With the search?” Rushcroft swept an arm around the Gareloch. “Not a damn thing so far.”

  “Getting a little late now,” Orwin remarked.

  “Yes, you can say that, Inspector. I’d have expected some result.” He pointed out to Orwin the visible points of the search: patrol boats, inshore craft, diving boats, naval motor-cutters and whalers with armed seamen embarked, helicopters, asdics in use, all that could be done, and, distantly on the farther shore of the loch, army and police in large numbers, from opposite Helensburgh to Garelochhead. “Either they got away to sea, or …”

  “Or, sir?”

  Rushcroft faced Orwin squarely. “Or they came from inside.”

  “Inside the base, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t believe they did.”

  “No, I don’t. We’re not that lax, we’re not lax at all. But it has to be considered. There’ll be an inquiry this morning, Inspector.”

  Orwin coughed. “Mind if I attend, sir?”

  “It’s your job, I suppose. No, I don’t mind.”

  They walked together, towards the lochside and the nuclear submarine berths. Rushcroft confirmed that the damage had been negligible, perhaps just a foretaste of what might be done in the future, something to hasten the nuclear missiles away from the Clyde, away from Britain altogether. Orwin asked about the Americans in the Holy Loch.

  “They’re not pleased,” Rushcroft said. “I didn’t think they would be. But there’s no need for them to lift the bloody Pentagon and drop it on my head.” They walked on. “Are you intending to visit them?”

  “I’ve no orders to do that, sir.”

  Rushcroft grinned. “Then take your luck in both hands and thank your God, Inspector. You’d very likely have been lynched.”

  Detective Inspector Orwin spared a thought for Hedge. He was close enough to Grosvenor Square to have the US Embassy thundering at his door by this time.

  *

  Which, metaphorically, was what was happening. Hedge had hastened to the Foreign Office in his own car, speeding along an almost deserted Victoria Street past Scotland Yard and wondering if Hesseltine too had been alerted. Possibly not: it wasn’t the Yard’s pigeon. Defence Ministry, of course, that wretched fellow Hocking, he’d be busying himself and getting nowhere at much s
peed.

  But within moments, literally, of Hedge dumping himself down in his swivel chair he was telephoned by his opposite number in the US Embassy, a man named Taft, no descendant of the one-time President of the United States but the mantle had been handed down as if with a pedigree and Taft wore it most of the time, by proxy.

  “Now see here.”

  Hedge groaned: why couldn’t they speak English? He said, “It’s being investigated. At this moment I can’t say more.”

  “Can’t say more?” came the tones of sheer astonishment. “Why, see here, Hedge, you’ve said nothing yet, nothing at all, and my Ambass —”

  “Yes, yes. I quite understand your position, of course. But so far as I’m aware very little damage, actual structural damage, has been —”

  “That’s not the point —”

  “And no casualties,” Hedge said loudly, “either to your naval personnel or ours. It could prove a storm in a teacup.”

  “Of all the stupid things to say. A penetration’s been made in water guarded by your own British Navy. That shouts aloud. And all you do is call it a storm in a teacup!”

  Hedge said desperately, “Oh, really, I never meant to imply —”

  “Listen, Hedge.” It was better than see here, but Hedge gave a groan of dismay. He knew just what was coming. It did. Taft’s ambassador had been dug out from bed and was awaiting firm reports and apologies and real assurances. But in fact he hadn’t waited for long. Already he had been in touch with Downing Street — Number Ten direct and to hell with protocol. Hedge’s heart went down into his boots: the PM was the hardest of nuts. Then Taft came out with it, flat. “All this business in the press, Mr Hedge.”

  “What?”

  “Your man Shard. Need I say more? Well, maybe I should be plain. I —”

  “I can’t discuss that,” Hedge said at once. “It’s all rumour and I have positively no comment.”

  “Now see —”

  “Positively no comment. Goodbye, Mr Taft.” Hedge replaced his receiver, fuming and now very anxious indeed. If only Shard would materialise — Hedge couldn’t fail to see something of the American viewpoint. Alleged bribery of a top security man, and the top security man vanished. That wretched girl Ho Suzy’s pregnancy. The Americans were everlastingly on about the slackness of British security, and Hedge had to admit there had been too many lapses, not on his part of course or that of the Foreign Office, and now this, perhaps the last straw for the Americans who saw their Poseidon fleet at risk. This was possibly why Shard had been framed, a stupid attempt to break the Atlantic alliance, shatter trust, shatter NATO. Far fetched? Not really. The Americans were so touchy. Anything could happen.

  Hedge waited in sick dread for the Permanent Under-secretary to arrive.

  *

  Shard had gone after the revolver, butting the yellow-skinned man in the stomach as he too made a dive for it. Shard won out. The yellow man, small and skinny, skidded along the hall’s cheap linoleum and lay winded at the foot of a flight of stairs. Shard got the girl before she had recovered from being thrown, wrapped an arm around her, lugged her to the front door and reached it before the men had come through into the back of the house from the garage. The back door opened just as Shard had slammed the front one and was heading with the girl down a short path for a gate. The area, he saw, was residential but there was still some traffic even though the hour was late. He was probably on a main through route somewhere. As he reached the gate there was a phutting sound and bullets came close enough to be noticed. Shard rushed the girl through the gate and then, from the cover of a low brick wall, he waited and watched.

  The yellow-skinned man seemed to have recovered: now rearmed, it was he who came through, incautiously, taking a risk: he would be dead worried. He saw Shard in the same instant that Shard saw him and they both fired together. Slivers of brick burst into flight above Shard’s head and the little weasly man clutched at his chest, spun twice, and collapsed. A passing couple on the other side of the road — out late, girl being taken home — stared for a moment through the traffic, then took to their heels, probably to find a policeman. Shard hoped they would find one, that he would use his loaf and not approach unarmed but instead report by radio, asking for police marksmen. The traffic rolled past unheeding, going fast at this hour along night-clear roads, concentrating on getting out of town — Shard didn’t recognise his surroundings but there was the feel of London — and these days people didn’t stop if they saw trouble, they didn’t want to get involved.

  He waited for the next attack. The grey-suited man and the bearded one, Tim, were still inside, presumably. The yellow man lay still; there was a lot of blood welling from a hole in the chest and he looked to be as dead as mutton. Shard dragged the girl towards the spreadeagled body and felt for a heart-beat with his free hand: nothing.

  Silence from the house: a getaway, via the back? The car hadn’t come out, not surprisingly, perhaps, since it would have come out into Shard’s gun range.

  Time for a risk: Shard got to his feet. Another couple was coming into sight, beneath a street lamp, coming towards him on his side of the road. Useful cover, perhaps: probably the men in the house wouldn’t risk more shots in full public view. He shoved the girl’s body against the gate, pushing it open, told her to get down in the lee of the wall and keep quiet or else. Shaking like a leaf, she did as she was told. Shard grabbed for the yellow man’s right leg and dragged him through. The legs spread and the left one tangled with the gate post. Shard freed it. Legs together, the body came past the gate. The couple outside, having seen something nasty, were beating it back the way they had come. Shard shut the gate, rolled the body into shadow against the wall, and retrieved the girl.

  “Into the house,” he said.

  She was fully compliant. Maybe she knew he was walking into danger. Shard knew that risk too; knew also that he could leave now with the girl, report in, have the house cordoned and then, after a shoot-out, searched. But that wouldn’t do. If the two men hadn’t gone already, they would go the moment he left the scene but before they went they would remove anything that might be of interest to the police.

  He went slow up the path, all senses alert, gun ready.

  No movement anywhere, no sound. The front door stood open as the dead man had left it and the hall light was on still.

  He went in cautiously, shut the door, went through to the kitchen. No-one. He was certain now that they’d gone and probably wouldn’t have had time to destroy all evidence; that was when he began to smell burning outside — paper, unmistakably. He pushed the revolver hard into the girl’s body. “Save me time,” he said. “I take it there’s a back way out?”

  She nodded. “Other side of the garage leads to the back garden —”

  “And a service alley?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the burning?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Maybe she didn’t, maybe she was playing for time, knowing what was burning. But the smell was coming through from outside, and she’d said there was a garden. Shard propelled her ahead of his gun, through the door, through the garage which had another door on its far side, out through this into the back garden, an overgrown area of brambles and long, unkempt grass that had once been a lawn. At the far end, a dull red glow and a low flicker of flames. Shard went fast for it, overturned a dustbin with holes in it, a makeshift incinerator. Very makeshift. Shard stamped on the flames. Burned paper swirled. However, something had been salvaged and it might be useful. No point whatever in going in search of the two men. They’d gone by now. Shard, however, could give an excellent description of them.

  He had just about put the fire out when he heard cars pull up in front of the house and orders being given as doors slammed. That couple had done their duty nobly.

  Still holding the girl, Shard went back into the house and was in the hall when the door came open and he saw uniformed men. A sergeant, armed, a police marksman, asked, “Who are you
and what’s going on?”

  Shard grinned. “A certain amount of mayhem, Sergeant. And I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Shard of —”

  “Pull the other one,” the sergeant said.

  The men hadn’t removed his Foreign Office identification. He produced it. The sergeant looked at it in some astonishment and said, “I’ve heard about you, sir.”

  Shard felt himself react. He said, “I hope you don’t believe all you hear, Sergeant, or all you read in the newspapers.” He looked past the sergeant at police officers crowding the doorway. “I’m taking charge. I want a toothcomb run through the house, every inch. Even if it takes all night. And there’s something to be collected from the back garden. Carefully.”

  *

  Before the Permanent Under-Secretary had reached his office Hedge, still sitting nervously awaiting the summons but taking pains to appear nonchalant in the eyes of Miss Fleece, had the shock of his life when Miss Fleece, returned to her own office to fetch a document for study by Hedge, came back looking both flustered and overjoyed.

  She said, “Oh, Mr Hedge, the internal phone.”

  “Yes?”

  “The security section, Mr Hedge —”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “It’s Mr Shard, Mr Hedge!”

  Hedge looked up sharply. “News? What is it?”

  Miss Fleece’s bosom trembled. “He’s back! He’s here in person. He asks shall he come up?”

  Strange emotions shook Hedge. The news was good, of course. But how was he to react to Shard? All the fuss and scandal … it was going to be so embarrassing. Could Shard just step back into his official role, just like that? And if and when he did … a discreditable rat gnawed away at Hedge’s mind. Shard always seemed to put him in the shade and he’d been doing well on his own … he recalled that on several occasions lately he’d said aloud that he wished to goodness Shard was back, but … oh well, anyway, he was. Hedge set his teeth a little and said, “Yes, of course, what’s he waiting for?”

  Miss Fleece went away and within the next minute Shard came in. He looked dead tired, Hedge thought, and not overclean, as though he’d slept many nights in his rumpled clothing, and he was unshaven. Hedge said, “My dear fellow! I’m so relieved you’ve come back.”