Gibraltar Road

by Philip McCutchan

  Hammersley said abruptly, “That feller Shaw. I liked him. London says he’s first-rate. What did you make of him?”

  Forbes said, “I agree with London. Matter of fact, he served in the same destroyer group with me when he was a midshipman. I was a two-and-a-half-striper, Number One of the leader. I didn’t get to know him personally, but I do know he was well thought of even then. Had guts, and was thoroughly dependable. Why, sir?”

  “He doesn’t seem to have done much so far.” For a moment the nerve-strain showed through, and Hammersley spoke bitterly. Everything hinged on Shaw—that was the terrible thought; London had tied his own hands, except for this infernal, somehow negative and defeatist business of leaving to him the decision, already taken now, to start the evacuation at precisely the right moment. How the devil was he, or anyone else for that matter, to know whether or not his decision was right? All this damnable guesswork . . . Hammersley had an idea it could all have been handled very differently if Whitehall hadn’t been so scared of international complications. He admitted the urgent need for secrecy, but still . . . he had the feeling that if he could have put a couple of battalions of British infantry into Spain things would have started happening a long while ago, and the Spaniards would have got their hands on Ackroyd by now and handed him over. Stupid, of course, to think like that in these days, but sometimes he couldn’t help it.

  Catching Forbes’s glance, he smiled at him. “Sorry,” he said ruefully. “I’m quite confidant Shaw’s doing his best. It’s a hard job. And I don’t suppose he’s got the time or the opportunity to make reports.”

  Wearily he crossed over to his desk again and sat down. From a locked steel-lined drawer he brought out a sheet of paper and pushed it across to the Rear-Admiral. Forbes took it up, scanned it. It was a transcription of a Top Secret cypher from Whitehall, and it contained a warning that a Polish merchantman, the Ostrowiec, was expected to obtain clearance from the port of Malaga within the next few days, and would be bound through the Straits for Gdynia, possibly (though by no means certainly) with Ackroyd aboard; the message went on to say, in guarded terms which the uncharitable might have described as intentionally equivocal, that ‘a situation might arise’ in which the Navy could be furnished with a more or less washable excuse (unspecified) for boarding this ship and carrying out a search. Meanwhile no international situation was to be provoked, no excuse given to the Communist bloc to make propaganda out of the illegal searching of their ships on the high seas, until something more definite was known; and Hammersley’s ‘discretion’ was relied upon absolutely.

  Hammersley, who felt that the message left something unsaid, something in the air, asked, “What d’you make of that, Forbes?”

  “Boils down to Shaw again, doesn’t it?” said Forbes briefly. “I expect he passed this information to London, and it’s up to him to act on it from his end, to get hold of Ackroyd before they put him aboard. Meanwhile we’re not to do anything unless and until it’s established beyond doubt that Shaw’s failed and Ackroyd is in the ship. By which time,” he added bitterly, “it’ll very likely be too late.” Hammersley looked at him sardonically. “That’s all?”

  “Not quite.” Forbes scowled. “London’s passing the buck, I rather fancy!”

  “Forbes, you couldn’t be more right.”

  The Rear-Admiral’s face was hard now. “I’m quite prepared to take a chance on ordering the Cambridge in to intercept as soon as this ship goes to sea, sir. I’d take that on my own responsibility.”

  Hammersley shook his head. “I just wanted to know your opinion—I’m the only one who’s supposed to have seen this signal so far, and the order would come from me. And do you know, Forbes, I believe that’s precisely what London’s after? In the last resort, of course, they’ll act—probably, as you said, too late. Meanwhile I’m liable to take the law into my own hands now I’ve got that information.” He grinned. “I’ll get a barony for doing so, too—if all goes well! Forbes, I know your people mustn’t stop ships at sea, I know it would provoke hell’s delight if Ackroyd isn’t aboard, but personally I’d rather see an international situation blow up than take any chance that the Rock of Gibraltar might blow up first. An international situation can be smoothed out. What we’re up against is . . . rather final. So—I’m going to adopt Whitehall’s unspoken suggestion.” He tapped the signal. “You haven’t seen this, Forbes. You don’t know that London’s passing the buck and prodding me into making a decision so that if things go wrong they’ve got a scapegoat.” He grinned a little bitterly. “A posthumous scapegoat, of course . . . one can’t help seeing their point, too. After all, it does look better to explain things away afterwards by saying that some damfool soldier-govemor was a bit headstrong—doesn’t it?” He took a deep breath, and stood up. All at once he looked younger and more alive. He asked:

  “How soon can the Cambridge go to sea?”

  “She’s at immediate notice, sir.”

  Hammersley nodded. “Very well, Admiral. Of course, there may be nothing in this Polish ship at all, but London seems to know something which we don’t. Anyway—my orders to you are, that the Cambridge is to proceed to sea at once and patrol out of sight of land off Malaga, and close and board the Ostrowiec the moment she’s outside territorial waters—or before, if ordered to do so by signal. Her captain’s to report if the Pole appears likely to hug the coast all the way down. All right?”

  “I’ll see to it at once, sir. And—if I may say so—I think you’re absolutely right. But I hope you’ll bear in mind what I said about hastening the evacuation fleet.” Forbes bounced up, perky once again. Now that there was something definite to be done he too felt better. He also couldn’t help feeling a little twinge of envy for the Cambridge's company. . . . He added, “If I were you, I’d get a little rest. You’ve hardly been away from duty since the flap started.”

  “The Governor’s always on duty! Don’t worry about me.”

  After Forbes left Hammersley sat for a long time, thinking. Then he took up a telephone, rang the Deputy Fortress Commander. Something else had to be done now, the Admiral’s advice followed; seventy-two hours maximum, and Forbes had made that point now about the increasing rate of rise of that fuel unit’s wedged-up overstock and of its temperature, and the fact that no one knew for certain . . . every hour counted now, every hour was an important gain.

  The telephone crackled at him, and he spoke into it. “Morning, Brigadier. Hammersley here . . . now listen, Paton. I want you to make a signal asking for the ships to enter earlier. If possible by noon tomorrow. . . .”

  By the time Shaw slowed for the San Roque control post the signal had been flashed out to the cypher offices of the various commands, the signal hastening Exercise Convoy, which only a few people knew meant that Gibraltar’s plight was growing desperate; the Mediterranean Fleet, which the night before had steamed out from Malta’s Grand Harbour, had increased speed to the westward; other ships, merchantmen, had wrenched a few extra turns of the screw to send them faster along courses previously adjusted in accordance with urgent instructions from the Admiralty which overrode their owners’ normal itineraries. The Queen Elizabeth’s Master had told his Chief Engineer to give him everything he’d got as his ship came out of Plymouth sound.

  If Shaw didn’t succeed some of the people of Gibraltar stood a chance of being saved; but it was touch and go, and it would be the worst blow ever to be suffered by the Commonwealth in peace-time if he failed.

  Shaw stopped at the guardia’s signal, pulled in behind the swaying, back-firing bus from Malaga, stinking in its fumes. As the man came up to his window Shaw snapped, “From Malaga, for Algeciras.” He pushed his documents through; the guardia took them, glanced at them, thumbed them over and passed them back. He was a lean man, surly and hard-looking.

  “The keys of the boot.”

  Shaw seethed angrily. He was jerky with nervous impatience to be on his way. These interminable checks and silly routines. ... He got out, walked rou
nd to the back of the car. The man prodded at the boot, unhurriedly. Shaw wanted to take the oaf by the throat and shake him until he stopped his footling officialdom while Gibraltar’s life ticked to a close. He asked, “Have you seen a car come through here, a big scarlet-and-silver Chevrolet, travelling very fast, with three men and a woman in it?”

  The guardia said, “Yes. They stopped here. They were going to Algeciras too.” That confirmed Shaw’s earlier guess.

  Shaw was looking at the guardia as the man said that almost absently. He saw the flicker in the eyes as the man noticed the holes made by El Caballero’s bullets . . . the guardia closed the boot—and pocketed the key. Then he walked round to the side, looked in at Debonnair. It was all so bloody deliberate, thought Shaw furiously, going cold. He didn’t think they were going to get away with this. The guardia studied the car again, intently, saw the scores on the wing, opened the rear door. He said, “There is blood on the seats.” He looked hard at Shaw. “Can you explain how that blood got there, and the bullet-marks?”

  Shaw glanced in at Debonnair. She was sitting there tense and rigid, very still, waiting for Shaw to give a lead as to what they were to say. He hadn’t expected this; all he could do now was to try his best to bluff it out—he had to avoid any mention of the dead Civil Guards. He cursed the luck which had put an intelligent guardia in their way like this. He said, “We were ambushed, amigo. Bandits, in the hills.” He shrugged, turned away. “It is nothing—we were lucky.”

  He felt the man’s hand on his shoulder and he swung round. The guardia said curtly, “The blood in the car means that it was not nothing. And it cannot be your blood or the woman’s, since neither of you are hurt.” The grip tightened on Shaw’s shoulder. “You will consider yourself under arrest, my friend, you and the woman. I do not believe about the bandits. That you would have reported.”

  Shaw’s face was ugly, as much at his own lack of alertness and forethought as anything else. In a low, hard whisper he said, “Listen to me, amigo. I am telling the truth, but I have no time to argue the point now.” He threw off the guardia’s hand, brought out his revolver, and pressed it close to the man’s stomach. Looking round quickly, he saw that the Malaga bus with its sardine-packed passengers standing in groups by the roadside waiting to be checked, chickens for the market fluttering out after them, was engaging the attention of the carabineros. “You will not utter a word of warning to your comrades and you will get into the back of the car. If anyone questions you, you will say that you are accompanying us to the comisaria in Algeciras. If you do not I swear I will blow your stomach out.”

  There was, in fact, clear naked murder in Shaw’s eyes at that moment. The guardia gave a sound of sheer terror and licked his lips. “In!” Shaw ordered curtly. The man turned his eyes, desperately, in the direction of the control post, and Shaw jabbed the gun in harder. The man obeyed him then; and as he did so Shaw gestured to Debonnair to get into the back with him. She had that revolver of Don Jaime’s, and Shaw said, “Any trouble, shoot him. And don’t hesitate, Debbie. I mean it. I’m sorry, but things are getting a bit too close for my liking now.” He added, “Take his gun away.”

  The girl nodded. She looked white but capable. She’d had the training for this sort of thing, and though Shaw knew she’d always baulked at killing, he also knew that she wouldn’t let him down if it came to the point. Shaw ran round and jumped into the driving-seat and they were off, fast down the road to Algeciras before anyone knew what had happened, even before they saw them go. Shaw felt convinced now that they were nearing the end of the trail, and that it would be very soon that the fun would start. Karina would have her bolt-hole well prepared, and he had to reach her before it opened and closed again behind her.

  It was as they began to come to the outskirts of the town, after seeing Gibraltar looming immense across the Bay to the eastward of the Algeciras road for much of the way, that they picked up Karina’s car. Both Debonnair and Shaw recognized it at once—the long, low black bonnet and the shining silver wings and scarlet hood. Quite likely Karina had been delayed back at San Roque behind a string of cars. The traffic was thicker on the roads now, and Shaw’s car didn’t seem to be recognized—Karina wouldn’t have expected them to guess her route and destination, much less come through that ambush and then catch up. At all events, she wasn’t travelling particularly fast now, and Shaw at once eased down to drop well behind. He didn’t want to overtake, and they hadn’t enough fire-power between them to force Karina (who according to Pepe had had a sub-machine-gun with her) to the side of the road and shoot it out—even if such a policy had been wise on a fairly crowded road. Shaw simply had to wait his time; the main thing was, he’d caught up— he felt a sense of satisfaction and a tingling down his spine at the thought that he was closing in.

  Then, to his surprise, Karina’s car went on past the bullring, taking the road to the right which would head her out of the town. It stopped by a petrol pump, and the driver leaned out and called to a passer-by, who went across. Karina was evidently asking the way. The passer-by was pointing ahead, talking volubly as the car took on petrol—evidently for a longer journey.

  Shaw had stopped too by this time. He called over his shoulder, “Deb, I believe she’s making for Cadiz. There’s nowhere else on that road except Jerez—and that’s not likely to be much use to her. It must be Cadiz—or Huelva, farther along the coast.” He spoke in Spanish to the guardia who was sitting surlily under Debonnair’s gun-mouth. “Are there any control posts on the Jerez road?”

  “None.”

  Then the idea came to Shaw. Speaking to the guardia again, he asked him if he knew of any back way through the town which would bring him out on to the main road again, but ahead of Karina’s car instead of behind it.

  The guardia growled, “I cannot help you.”

  Shaw snapped, “Give him thirty seconds, Debbie.” Then he put that into Spanish for the man’s benefit; the gun bored harder into the guardia's side. He squirmed, gasped out, “Take the turning to the left. I will direct you from there.”

  “Fine! And if you direct me wrong—to a Policia Municipal post or anything like that,” said Shaw genially, “the lady will oblige me by finishing you off.”

  He started up and swung left into the town behind Karina’s car, which was still stopped at the petrol-station, went as fast as he dared round the bull-ring, driving on his horn and gathering a full supply of vociferous curses and shaken fists as he went. He found himself in a maze of dirty streets, but with the guardia directing him sullenly he was soon into the main road again and travelling fast. He said, “Let me know when you see ’em behind, Debbie. I’ll keep a good distance ahead—they won’t be expecting us anyway, let alone to be in front of ’em—and it’s as good a way of following as any other! Something tells me Karina’s going to get the biggest shock of her life before long.”

  It was just three minutes later when Debonnair reported that the Chevrolet was behind them.

  Karina didn’t appear to suspect a thing.

  She or her companions must have caught at least occasional sights of Shaw’s car ahead of them all the way, but there was nothing distinctive about it, and it wasn’t by any means the only car travelling to Jerez that day; and, as Shaw had remarked, there was nothing about a car running ahead to arouse anyone’s suspicions, especially as he didn’t maintain any set distance, never allowed himself to get close. Shaw had an idea that Karina was killing time for some reason or other, for she travelled at no more than normal speed. Shaw had been wondering if he ought to follow Karina’s example and try an ambush of his own—swing the car across the road beyond a turning and shoot it out. But he’d rejected that idea; for one thing, their captive guardia would take his chance, which would mean Debonnair would be fully employed covering him, and come to that both of them together wouldn’t be much use against a sub-machine-gun. They wouldn’t stand a chance, and Ackroyd could easily get shot in the process. Besides, there were those other cars on the road.
This wasn’t the Vercín district.

  They just had to go on and see what happened.

  It was a relief to Shaw not to have to bolt along the road as he had been doing earlier; as it was, his head ached with the glare of the sun and the concentrated effort of handling a big car on foul roads, and he’d had no sleep all last night. Karina stopped once, presumably for a snack or a call of nature; and this gave Shaw and Debonnair an opportunity of stopping farther along, where they could watch Karina’s car without being seen, and of having some sandwiches and the brandy-laced coffee in a vacuum jug that Don Jaime had provided. After that Shaw felt a good deal better. Though Debonnair offered to drive, he refused; he wanted to be handling the car himself if anything should develop suddenly.

  Dusk had fallen, and was already merging into that quick nightfall that comes with little twilight in Southern Spain, when Debonnair reported that she couldn’t see the following car any longer.

  Shaw’s foot came off the accelerator; half a minute later he asked, “Any sign now?”

  Debonnair was looking back. “No—o . . ."

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He stopped then; they remained on the alert, but nothing came behind. Shaw said, “I’ll drop back on ’em and have a discreet look. They may be up to something. I won’t take the car—you keep an eye on our long, thin pal here,” he added, as he got out, jerking a thumb towards the guardia, who was slouched in a corner.

  Debonnair said, “Okay, but I want a breath of air, darling.”

  Shaw nodded. They were fairly well inland just here, about twenty miles from the coast, but there was a breeze from the direction of the water, while it was wicked in that stuffy car superheated even now from the day’s sun. Debonnair, holding the guardia's carbine, which had been down beside her, pushed her door open, and Shaw watched appreciatively as long, bare legs came out from the car, the frock rucking up above her knees. They stood there for a moment, the two of them sniffing the fresh night air, feeling that light wind off the distant sea ruffling their hair, the scent of gorse and broom and wild lavender strong in their nostrils, and all the small flowers that were sending their perfumes into the night.