Gibraltar Road

by Philip McCutchan

  Anxiously she watched Karina’s face, the dark eyes flickering. Had she protested too much? By the Holy Virgin, yes, she had! Karina said indifferently, “Very well, señora, have it your own way.” She stuffed the notes, the precious notes, back into her handbag. Señora Gallego, very bitterly, decided she was no quality after all, and wondered if she could be induced to change her mind. But the old woman wasn’t given a chance of trying, for at once Karina called sharply:

  “Massias!”

  As the old woman’s eyes glittered with rage and disappointment and affront, and as her mouth shaped a hearty curse, Massias detached himself from the door-post. “Señorita?”

  “Take my cousin to the car, you and Garcia. And quickly.” She was all impatience now. “We have wasted much time on these people.”

  Señora Gallego’s eyes smouldered, her crumpled face puckered up. That contemptuous tone, after all her trouble! And the poor mad señor! He was moaning as the men picked him up, so roughly. She looked at him in concern. As he was carried past her his eyes opened and he tried to say something. There was a fleck of foam on his lips, she could have sworn. She never understood what it was he was trying to say; to thank her, perhaps? That must have been it. Her eyes filled with tears as they bore him away, past the guardia, that dolt who was rubbing his hands with glee at having got rid of a problem so easily, and trying to edge nearer the shameless señorita as she swept past without even noticing him. . . .

  As the men pushed Mr Ackroyd into the back of the car at the bottom of the steps of the Calle Salamanca Karina said, “Careful. We don’t want him to die on us, Massias.”

  Massias grunted. Karina got in beside Mr Ackroyd and felt his pulse. It was strong enough—thank God. The car started off; a little farther along Karina gave an abrupt order to stop outside a little shop selling clothing. She sent Massias in to buy some fresh garments for Mr Ackroyd, for he must look reasonably clean and tidy and certainly he must change his bloodstained tatters, in case they should be forced to stop at a control post. When they drove off soon after they had to make their way slowly through thronged streets, the curious crowds peering in at the madman before he was whisked away for good. As soon as they were clear Karina began prying open the fingers of the thin, pale hand that clutched that vital piece of metal— vital to Karina, she felt sure, for what it might tell the scientists of her own country. It was a hard job, and Karina was sweating at the end of it, for there was still toughness in Mr Ackroyd, even in his present trouble (actually he was coming back to life now). But she’d got that little object back, and this time she was going to keep it safe herself. No more trusting to men . . . laughing lightly, she dropped it down between her breasts, tucking it flat beneath them, where it lay caught above the tightly clinging elastic of her brassiere. Quite safe. With wounded, stricken eyes Mr Ackroyd watched his prize possession disappear.

  Back on the Rock, Rear-Admiral Forbes, Flag Officer Gibraltar, who, like Staunton, had been in his office since the crack of dawn, had been worried by that information from the Defence Security Officer that there was still no news of Shaw; and now he was getting certain plans advanced in consultation with the Queen’s Harbour Master and the Port Captain. Wilmott, the Q.H.M., was responsible for the naval side of the berthing and harbour movements while Chambers, the Port Captain, a former sea-going master mariner now employed under the Colonial Office, looked out for the commercial shipping angle.

  Looking at his watch, Forbes said, “I’ve got to see H.E. at The Convent in ten minutes’ time, and I may have some more information after I’ve seen him. Anyway, as things are now I’ll want that berthing plan, and the anchorages detailed in the Bay, by 2200 hours to-night—and that’s at the very latest.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Commander Wilmott rubbed at his eyes, his head swimming—he’d been working on this stupendous berthing and anchorage plan with Chambers for the last few days solidly, without much sleep, and it wasn’t finalized yet. For one thing, the plans seemed to keep altering, and there was no really definite information as to exactly what shipping was going to come in—or when.

  Forbes, a bar of the early sunlight slanting across his grey head, went on, “Now—the orders from The Convent are not to start any panic just yet—that is, not to start people talking too soon. But I want the moles clear and the inner harbour and Waterport closed to all extraneous traffic, including small boats, by first light to-morrow.” The small figure behind the desk was sparrow-like, perky, and the shrewd eyes were bright above a large nose as the Rear-Admiral asked briskly, “That clear, gentlemen?”

  Wilmott stifled a yawn. “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Chambers asked, “Is the big stuff coming in soon, then?” The deep voice was quiet, slow and composed.

  Forbes, with a quick movement of his hand, jerked a

  drawer shut in his desk, got up and reached for his uniform cap, standing on tiptoe to lift it from the stand in a corner of the room. He said:

  “The balloon’s due to go up—I can’t say exactly when, though every one seems to expect me to—soon, anyway. Things are moving at last. H.E. sent signals alerting Exercise Convoy twelve hours ago, I can tell you that now in confidence. The ships start to enter at dusk to-morrow evening as at present planned—mark that, gentlemen—as at present planned.” He added, the sharp eyes searching the officers’ faces through the overhang of thick greying brows, “Somehow we’ve got to beat that confounded machine— and to do so we may have to get the ships in earlier. Hence the rush!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “There’s a woman,” Shaw said carefully. And then he stopped. He didn’t look at Debonnair; his attention was on the San Pedro road rushing into his headlights, and he had to be watchful on those hairpin bends. A blackness lay to one side of him where the road fell sharply away to a sheer drop to the rocks below; the other side was closed in by the mountain walls. All the way along from Torremolinos Shaw—worrying about this and that—had scarcely spoken, and Debonnair, as usual, hadn’t pressed him. Now there was a glint of suppressed laughter in her eyes as they flickered sideways to scan the set face faintly illumined by the light from the dash.

  She dimpled. “Darling, that much I have gathered!” She added mischievously, “Is that why you didn’t want me to come?”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  She dimpled again. “Do go on if you want to. But you don’t have to tell me all your guilty secrets.”

  Disregarding that, he said quietly, “You’re very likely going to meet her before this job ends.” He stopped talking as he took the car round the worst bend they’d met yet, gave a small sound of relief when they’d made it. The San Pedro road in daylight was no doubt fine; at night it was a little wearing on the nerves. He went on, “I’d better tell you now that I knew her pretty well before . . . oh, years ago, when she was working with our lot. I expect you’ve heard of her—Karina Czercov.”

  “My God, of course I’ve heard of her.” Debonnair sat silent then, shifted her legs a little, and they moved against Shaw’s thigh. He felt a tightening in his throat, glanced down momentarily, caught the glint of light on tawny skin, and on the frock’s crisp “Terylene.” He could smell the perfume of her hair. . ..

  He said gruffly, “Well, we were pretty friendly at one time, old thing. I—”

  Debonnair took the opportunity provided by a nice straight stretch to snuggle up a little. She said, “I’ve always heard she was damned good-looking. By pretty friendly, do I take it you mean—what I think you mean, Esmonde?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, hell!” she said determinedly. “What of it? I don’t want to feel the man I marry has never had a woman before—it wouldn’t really be much of a compliment, would it?”

  Shaw didn’t say anything right away. A little farther on his right hand came off the steering-wheel, stole over and squeezed her hand. Then he asked, “When you said ‘marry’ just now, did you mean that?”

  She said crisply, “No statements under duress—th
ey don’t count. If you regard it as a threat for the near future— just relax and forget it.” Then she added, “But that’s not to say I’m never going to—but you always knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Shaw rather savagely. “But it’s not going to be much of a honeymoon on the Old Age Pension.”

  Some half hour later Shaw turned the car left out of the San Pedro road. They had come out near Ronda, and there was some way to go yet, southward for Vercín. They drove in silence mostly for the last lap, with Debonnair’s head down against Shaw’s shoulder, light and comforting. He felt her hair stirring in the wind against his cheek, and he was happy. But some while after they’d made that left-hand turn, he said:

  “From now on we keep our eyes skinned . . . sit to attention!”

  “Okay.” Debonnair sat up. “We keep our eyes skinned for the wreck of that car?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The light was coming up now, the first faint streaks of dawn showing to the eastward, great shoots of green and mauve and crimson across the sky to their left as they went fast for Vercín. They also had to watch out for the turn off for the town, which Shaw knew would not be more than a rough track and a stiffish climb. Later, when under a mounting sun they were nearing their objective, the countryside could be seen clearly, clearly and wonderfully, a sea of mauve, the terrain deep with wild lavender and cistus.

  Then suddenly they saw it—the wreckage, piled against that big cork-oak. Shaw braked; looking out at the mess, he didn’t see the cloud of dust coming for them with a streak of scarlet in its centre, coming down fast from the direction of Vercín, didn’t see it until the girl grabbed his arm and yelled:

  “Look outl”

  After that he reacted quickly. Yanking the wheel over, he scraped the car into the right-hand side of the road, cursing viciously. It was the kind of driving which one grew to expect on the Spanish roads, but still . . . The other car roared up to them, scarlet and silver with a long black bonnet. It was coming fast, looked for a moment, as the driver braked, as though the intention was to block the road; but there was too much impetus behind the big vehicle, and its driver wrenched the wheel over to keep hard to his own side of the road, still braking. And in the moment that the two cars were alongside Shaw caught a glimpse of a little man—a little man with a straggly moustache, with his head falling about slackly and his lips open, looking very much as though something was wrong with his mind, peering out of the window until he was snatched back. And very briefly, alongside the little man, Shaw could see Karina.

  She was sitting well back as though keeping out of sight, but there was no mistaking her, nor the look of triumph which evidently she couldn’t help showing now. Then the cars had disengaged, Karina’s going down the road towards Ronda like a bullet while Shaw shot ahead to look for a turning-place.

  He cursed savagely as he drove on. Karina had won out on this all right. Evidently Don Jaime’s message had never got through—phone-wires cut, probably. There would only be the one shaky line into a little place like Vercín, just the one telephone very likely, in the comisaria. And—Karina must have seen him; why hadn’t she tried to stop him with the guns she must surely have in that car? All this went through his mind in a moment as he looked out for that place to turn—the road was too narrow, too well lined with trees, to turn yet. And Karina’s car undoubtedly had the legs of his. His foot was well down on the accelerator, and the car was shooting forward, tyres whipping up the dust, as he saw his chance half a mile ahead. When he came up to the clear space he put the footbrake on hard, slewed the wheel to the right. There was a nasty bump, and then he’d brought the car off the road neatly between two clumps of trees, reversed her back on to the road again, and turned after that big flashy car, hurtling north. There was no sign of it now.

  El Caballero, that ramrod-straight old man, sat his skinny horse behind the cover of the trees. His men lay behind boulders, rifles ready in their hands. El Caballero had been surprised that the señorita hadn’t stopped, for, if he had not been mistaken, she had seemed earlier to want to meet the man who drove the black car. And it had looked as though she meant to swing her car across the road to block the other one, until that last moment when she scraped, comparatively slowly, past. It had been bad luck, perhaps, that both cars had passed the wreckage together, for El Caballero had been forced to hold his fire for fear of hitting the señorita and her companions. However, the car was coming back and he would have another chance.

  He called, “Aim to hit the tyres, or the petrol-tank. We must not harm the man if we can avoid it. Afterwards, we shall very likely hear from the señorita as to what she wants us to do with him.”

  Bolts snicked, and rifles lined up on the roadway.

  Shaw came back fast towards the wrecked car.

  As he flashed past that cork-oak the window on his driving side suddenly flew into a thousand pieces, a shower of glass spattering over him. He felt the wind of the bullet as it zipped past his face, and he yelled out to Debonnair to duck, to get down on the boards. As she did so he felt the thud of heavy bullets smashing into the back of the car, and another bullet scored along the off-side front wing.

  Keeping his own head low and trusting to luck, Shaw rammed his foot down hard, and the car bounded forward. A moment later they were clear and belting ahead along the Ronda road. Shaw felt his hands shaking on the wheel as he said to Debonnair:

  “All right, darling—you can get up now. That was a near one.”

  “What in hell was it?” Debonnair rubbed her shin— she’d scraped it during her hurried ducking manoeuvre.

  “What was it?” he echoed above the racket of the engine and the whirling grit. “It was a nice little ambush, Debbie, but it didn’t come off!” Now that he knew where Ackroyd was, knew that he had the target, as it were, before him, his voice was almost boyish. “You all right?”

  “Oh, I’m fine.”

  He looked sideways at the girl. She was leaning towards him, staring intent into the driving-mirror, a hair-grip between her teeth, hands busy doing something to her hair. In a moment she was finished, and he saw her face, eager against the wooded background flashing past interspersed with the purplish open spaces, saw her hair come partly adrift again and blow out as the air drove in through the shattered, empty window on his left. She was fine all right—in more ways than one.

  Shaw drove on.

  He had one advantage in this chase, and that was that Karina would be at least half expecting him to have been caught by that ambush, so she might not be as alert as she would otherwise have been; that ambush must have been the reason why she hadn’t tried to stop him herself. Nevertheless, as they pushed on Shaw began to worry as to which way Karina would go; he had to catch up with her before she reached the turning into the San Pedro road—and either turned or kept straight on for Ronda. Except for its rail outlet, Ronda was a dead end, of course, but Karina might still take the precaution of trying to confuse the issue, just in case, before heading for Malaga or some other port. Shaw was still convinced that her ultimate destination must be a port.

  In the car ahead Garcia was driving. Alongside him Massias, perpetually nervous, sat with one hand drooping to his sub-machine-gun. In the back with Karina, Ackroyd was lolling and moaning and crying a little now and then.

  Karina was feeling calm, triumphant, gloating—this was going to be so easy now. She wasn’t in the least worried about Shaw. Once Ackroyd was clear of Spain, and safe, she would go back for Esmonde Shaw. El Caballero would take care of him until she sent instructions. She pushed Shaw from her mind.

  A flicker of annoyance crossed her face as Ackroyd started his humming noise again. It was getting on her nerves. Turning sideways, she slapped the little man’s face viciously, a heavy ring on her finger cutting into his cheek.

  She ordered, “Quiet!”

  Ackroyd sagged, and whimpered a little. But he obeyed. Karina looked at him with contempt. This wretched madman wasn’t going to be worth all the tro
uble—for all the use he’d be, she might just as well throw him out of the car. She shrugged herself out of such thoughts—once Ackroyd was safely aboard the Ostrowiec, she’d have complied with her orders, done her job. It wasn’t her fault he’d proved such a weakling, not her fault that he’d gone crazy. Or was it?

  Suddenly she laughed aloud. He’d probably recover—when he got away from her.

  The two men of the Guardia Civil, walking abreast of each other along the road between Vercm and the San Pedro turning with their heavy carbines slung on their shoulders, their uniforms white with dust, had reached the end of their patrol area, had just turned back towards Ronda. They ambled on beneath the mounting sun and sweated into the thick green material which weighed them down like lead.

  They were bored with life, these two—or rather, such part of life as compelled them to pound this endless beat—this endless hot march—of road patrols. And the corps d’elite of Spain had always to set an example, had always to look (more or less) alert, even though the head ached from the sun and the hard helmet, even though the upright, reinforced collar of the jacket bit into brown necks uncomfortably.

  And the boots!

  Holy Mother of God—the boots.

  Pepe Caravolente, the guardia on the east side of the road—the one with the broad, good-humoured face and the ready, easy smile, who was so well-known to be ever willing to do a good turn or to give help where it was needed, who was the sole support of his old, widowed mother and the delight of her declining years—Pepe Caravolente could feel each individual corn and pad of hard skin aching and burning away like charcoals in a brazier. The stiff, unyielding leather touched up each one of them into a small but relentless volcano of pain which erupted every time his big feet clumped down on to the uneven surface of the Ronda road. Pepe, who had almost hobbled and minced along for the last couple of miles that morning, groaned aloud.