Werewolf (Commander Shaw Book 16)

by Philip McCutchan

  He would have to be found here in Portsmouth, no mean task.

  I spent the next couple of hours driving around the city, mostly emptied now with the night, familiarising myself with urban redevelopment: the place had changed almost out of all recognition since my own naval days. The northern end had been flattened and where it hadn’t been rebuilt a great motorway system clove down towards a new crosschannel ferry terminal. The Guildhall Square was a different place, only the Guildhall itself left to remind me of the past. Edinburgh Road had been shattered by something called the Tricorn, a shopping precinct; and Queen Street, once the haven of roistering sailors from the Fleet, was a different thoroughfare as it ran sedately past the naval barracks towards the main gate of the dockyard. A lot of the pubs had gone, and probably all the brothels. I could only hope that by this time tomorrow everything else hadn’t gone too.

  In the early hours I went to bed: tomorrow was going to be a long, long day even if it ended for me and a lot of others half way through.

  *

  How would Jason Clutch come south to Portsmouth? Train or car? Or even coach, if he could fix it, disguised as a fervent supporter of Leeds United? It was a toss-up, really; but I opted for private road transport since that way he was more likely to remain anonymous. The coaches had those plain-clothes men aboard and Portsmouth police would have very close eyes on the railway stations; there was not a copper among them who hadn’t got a detailed picture of Jason Clutch in his mind. And the Met would be watching Waterloo and the stations from the north.

  So I would be watching for a car: some hope of finding it! They would be flooding in all morning by the thousand. Pompey might be low on the Cup list as Max had said, but the surrounding areas would disgorge their fans to watch their team meet Leeds. Hope never died in the fan breast and miracles could happen. A miracle was just what I needed, too. A minor one arrived while I was having breakfast in the wardroom, but it wasn’t quite the sort I’d been thinking of: Miss Mandrake was brought in. I stared at her in much surprise. She was supposed to be still in West Berlin.

  “What does this mean?” I asked.

  She sat down; a steward hovered and she ordered breakfast. When the man had gone she said, “I was withdrawn on Max’s order. I’m to join you.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “But is West Germany closing down on this?”

  “No,” she answered. “Willi Waldstein can cope, though. It’s all set to go, we believe — there’s been enough evidence — but without the brain, it’s going to be a monumental Hop.”

  “But if it shows here — ”

  She interrupted. “It hasn’t got to. It just hasn’t got to. If it does, then West Germany blows as well.” She paused. “Before I left, word had come through from Brigadier Trotton. He’s had the Neckarburg gas chamber under distant surveillance. He thinks it’s been reactivated already. The gas has been delivered in containers, like CO2.” She leaned close across the table; her face showed distress. She said, “It can’t all happen again. It can’t!”

  I said, “Find Jason Clutch. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Find him,” she said amendingly, “before the West Germans find him first.” And I took her point; it had been on my mind too. The whole thing was touch and go now. Portsmouth would be beginning to fill up already, and the crowds wouldn’t all be concentrating on Fratton Park just yet. There were things to see elsewhere, and the dockyard might well be one. The old Victory, Nelson’s flagship, was open to the public; and the public had limited access as far as the dry-dock where she lay. I felt my best bet would be to join the sightseers. If Jason Clutch meant to infiltrate, the public-access area might be his easiest starting-off point.

  I said, “As soon as you’ve finished your breakfast, we’ll go.”

  “Where?”

  I told her; Clutch, she said, wouldn’t risk passing the MOD police on the main gate.

  “We’re going in anyway,” I said. “Agreed he might not risk the gate, but there are other ways in. Boats.” There were always small boats moving about on official business around the harbour, some from Fort Blockhouse, some from Gosport and so on, while the upper reaches of the harbour were wide open to all manner of local craft. He could get away with it in spite of the security precautions. We got up to take the Jensen into the dockyard and just as we were leaving a steward caught us up and said I was wanted on the phone.

  It was the central police station; a superintendent speaking. “Commander Shaw? Something interesting. A party of Germans, West Germans, have arrived by train from Waterloo.”

  “I’m coming in,” I said.

  I was told in the police station that the West Germans had been identified by a chance overheard remark and an alert police inspector at the Town Station had put a man on to tail them. They could be entirely innocent, genuine tourists, but they were not part of the British football scene; and a report had just come in that the West German party was bound for the naval base.

  It could tie up.

  Felicity and I drove for the main gate off The Hard. Private cars, other than those of dockyard personnel, were not normally allowed in, but my 6D2 pass got me a wave through. I drove past the boatyard towards the Victory and just short of the dry-dock I took the Jensen off to the right and parked alongside a disused warehouse. We got out and went into the warehouse and through to the other side — the place was empty, awaiting demolition by the look of it, and no doors were locked. From cover I watched the Victory’s gangway; it was thronged and there was a long queue. It was impossible to identify Germans in that vast throng. Chinese might have been different. I grew restless; I could be wasting my time while Jason Clutch made tracks for the vicinity of the Royal Yacht, farther up the harbour. Then something happened. Away to the left of the warehouse was a gents’ lavatory. A group of men was staring across at it from the queue. Nothing unusual in that. But then the men began to drift across singly, with a gap between each, towards the lavatory. They didn’t go into it. They went round the other side. I put a hand on Felicity’s arm and drew her out through the doorway inside which we had been standing. From the open I watched the door on the other side of the warehouse, the door we’d entered by, which was still open.

  The men went past.

  Felicity asked, “Well?” She sounded puzzled.

  I said, “They shouldn’t be there. They’ve detached from the sightseers.”

  “Are they the West Germans?”

  “I think so. I reckon they’re going to head for the Royal Yacht, expecting to pick up Jason Clutch. We’ll get there first.”

  “Hopefully!”

  “No,” I said. “Positively. I happen to know the short cuts!”

  *

  Work was going on around the rocket missile store but there was one hell of a lot of explosive around yet. So far there was no sign of Clutch. I didn’t like any of it; there was the Britannia, smart as ever, freshly painted, her three raked masts pointing to a clear blue sky. My blood boiled when I thought of the tugmen and their ossified procedures that wouldn’t permit a strike to be called off before Monday. Anger took a grip on me and I said, “I’m going to stick my neck out. And so is the Flag Officer. Come on!”

  I took Felicity’s arm and rushed her along the jetty towards a frigate berthed well ahead of Britannia s bows. I went up the gangway at the double, to be stopped by the quartermaster. I showed my pass and demanded to speak to the Commanding Officer. I was given some bleak looks when I was taken to him, but he knew the score and was co-operative.

  I asked, “What notice are you for steam, Captain?”

  He said he was at immediate notice. At this stage, I’d guessed as much. I asked if he could take Britannia in tow.

  His eyebrow’s went up. “That’s been expressly turned down — ”

  “I know. Can you?”

  “Of course, but — ”

  “Let me talk to the Flag Officer,” I said. The frigate was connected, as I knew it would be, to the shore telephone. I spoke to
the Flag Officer, who was a vice-admiral. I gave it to him strong. There were Germans already in the dockyard and I believed they were moving towards the Royal Yacht. The risk was far too great. The rocket missiles were there in abundance still, which he knew. I said my considered advice, advice that would be made known to Whitehall after the event if I was still alive, was to take advantage of the frigate’s engines and haul Britannia off as fast and as far as possible and to hell with the tug crews. I said that if the truth was spelled out to the tugmen they would rally round; they and their union representatives were not unpatriotic men and half the fault lay with Whitehall, but there was no time to shout for a major policy shift now. The sands were running out fast and Britain’s prestige ship stood in terrible danger. I felt a waver along the line and I pressed on it. This, I said, was a time for the Nelson touch. Then I let him ponder. He didn’t take long, not as long as I’d expected. He was an admiral, after all. He spoke to the frigate’s captain. The order was given and a messenger was sent hot-foot to the Royal Yacht. And the bosun’s calls began blowing through the frigate’s tannoy system.

  I went down the gangway with Felicity, keeping my eyes wide for the West Germans. There was no sign of them; maybe they had been nabbed by the patrolling MOD police or CID men from Scotland Yard; maybe they had just got themselves lost around the sheds and docks. I decided to melt into one of the buildings and watch out for Jason Clutch. With commendable despatch the frigate got under way and went astern to pass the tow, while Britannia’s seamen tumbled out and doubled to the eyes of the ship to take the towing wires. All this took a little time and as soon as the tow was secure the frigate moved slow7 ahead to take up the slack. As the strain came on and Britannia’s shoreside lines were let go, and the Royal Yacht inched forward, coming off the wall in defiance of the union, God help us all, I felt like cheering. The two ships headed out into the fairway to turn for the harbour entrance past Fort Blockhouse and I breathed a sigh of relief over some progress made; but there was still no sign of Jason Clutch and him I knew to be the doom figure. I said, “Come on, Felicity. We’re shifting berth ourselves.”

  “So what do we do now?” she asked.

  I said savagely, “I don’t bloody well know!”

  “Contact the police, and see if they have anything more?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I’ve already thought of that, thank you very much, and — ”

  “Don’t sound so bitter. You’ve saved the Royal Yacht — ”

  “No, I haven’t,” I said. “She won’t be safe till she’s a damn sight farther out.” We went back at the rush towards the Victory and the road down to the main gate. When we came up to the Victory the crowds were still moving aboard. Round the other side they were pouring off again, having had their vicarious experiences of past valour and lower-deck squalor in the din and Fire of battle. They were a mixed bag of football fans from Leeds, men, women and children.

  “Christ!” I said. I pointed. Right in among those fans was Jason Clutch. Felicity saw him and grabbed my arm as if for comfort. He was moving down the gangway, slow because of the crush, and he was carrying something that looked like one of those cases that records are kept in, only squarer.

  I brought my revolver out.

  Someone saw it, and there was a shout, then a loud scream from a woman who had also seen it, and seen, perhaps, the look on my face. That was when Clutch saw us. He stopped on the gangway, his face working with rage, and caused a traffic jam as the fans piled up behind. I don’t know why I’d never thought about the old Victory, far and away Portsmouth’s most prestigious target … I saw Clutch bring out his gun as a naval petty officer pushed through the crowd, trying to get it moving again. As Clutch took aim at us, firing came from behind, and there was a real panic as the crowds scattered, yelling and screaming. Looking back, I saw the Germans, who had come out, it seemed, from the cover of the warehouse in rear of us. Bullets sped around; some of the crowd fell and there was blood. I dragged Felicity down in the lee of a cannon on the dockside and opened fire on Jason Clutch, whose bullets had gone wide. I fired to wing him: he was wanted alive. I succeeded. I hit him in the left arm, the arm that held the case. The case fell, broke open as it hit the stone of the dry-dock wall. Liquid spattered out amid a shower of glass goldfish bowl and Adolf Hitler’s brain, if it really had been that, zoomed downwards, bouncing messily and stickily off the historic dock, then flopped like a meal of tripe-and-onions to lie beneath the keel of Nelson’s flagship. Behind me, the Germans were still in a bunch, sending bullets zipping off the protective cannon; but as a party of seamen grabbed hold of Jason Clutch, I heard the approaching sirens. Seconds later the MOD police turned up in strength, armed to the teeth, and after that it was all over. Or part of it was: I made the point to the police that there might not be too much time left to settle the rest. With the assistance of Jason Clutch, I had better start looking for an explosive device with terrible potential somewhere aboard the Victory; and the ship should be cleared of all visitors immediately.

  Then I went aboard. Felicity took no notice when I told her to get the hell out, fast, and take cover.

  *

  That late afternoon I reported in person to Focal House. Jason Clutch, I said to Max, had refused to talk until after I’d found the explosive device. Once that had been rendered safe, he’d caved in. The idea had been to get himself out of Portsmouth before the naval base and town had been spattered with Big Eye — get himself out with the brain intact. It was to be flaunted before the mass demo in Brighton; from there, Nazism was to have re-emerged in Britain rather as that West German minister had prophesied to me that it might. Klaus Kunze would have had his thunder stolen and Jason Clutch would have emerged as world leader — or something like that. The diagnosis had to be that Clutch, like Hitler himself, was mad. However, up to the point of my finding his explosive, he could have been said to have had guts, however misplaced and stupid. I said, “As it happened, he was backing a dead loser. I located the device by smell.”

  “What?”

  “Formaldehyde,” I said. Hitler had leaked all over it, I said. I might never have found it at all if it hadn’t been for that. It was quite small. I added, “Clutch did say he’d come in by boat, and wasn’t challenged — security slipped up, and he was through before the time set for all boat traffic to be halted. I realised he couldn’t have come through the main gate or he wouldn’t have been allowed to take his case beyond the assembly point for Victory’s visitors. As it was, the gangway staff had the honour of detaining Hitler’s brain while Clutch went round the ship with his explosive in a poacher’s pocket of his anorak. It would have been very highly effective … on the upper deck, in among the port-side netting. Good spread, no containment … if it hadn’t been for that smell!”

  Max said, “Heil Hitler! And full marks to the bomb squad.”

  “Very full marks,” I said. The bomb squad had defused the device just about in time. I added, “By the way, Leeds won. Pompey’s rather downhearted. What about that Brighton demo?”

  “Damp squib when nothing happened in Portsmouth. A lot of aggro and plenty of arrests — town’s suffered a good deal of minor damage.”

  I asked, “And West Berlin?”

  “Shocking anti-climax,” Max answered with a grin. He elaborated: there had been a huge rally of the faithful in a West Berlin park, complete with banners and bands, blowups of the late Fuehrer, and a posse of Nazis dressed in the old-style Gestapo black, and goose-stepping. They had all been waiting for Klaus Kunze to appear with the brain. Before they all dispersed in a bitter frame of mind word had come that Klaus Kunze had committed suicide.

  “Gunshot in the head,” Max said briefly. “The old German way of dealing with failure. And failure it was, by God! Down in Neckarburg … the whole damn lot’s blown up. The infantry went in with the sappers. It’s all over, Shaw.

  Something else isn’t, though, and it’s all your damn fault.” He shook a finger at me, and I asked what I’d done.r />
  “Sent the Royal Yacht to sea, that’s what! You’ve escalated the strike. The tugmen have rejected the week-end offer and now the whole yard’s out. Whitehall won’t reveal the truth, which would have settled it.”

  Jason Clutch had certainly left his mark …

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