“Perfectly, Lord Edo.”
“Very well. Then you’ll carry on exactly as you’ve been told except for the change in timing. You’ll now make your entry to the station one hour after the sun has gone below the western hills, and I shall be with you. That is all.”
The inspector gave a smart military salute and turned about. He passed some orders to his patrol. Shortly after, the party moved away in two police cars and an armoured-car section which had been drawn up in the shelter of the trees. Wiley stood for a moment and watched them go; then he gave a signal, and the headman and his villagers formed up around him and they went off, making for the village from which they had come before the dawn. One of them stayed behind, on Wiley’s order, concealed in the trees.
Shortly after Wiley’s party had reached their village the drums had started up, beating out monotonously. Their message, the message telling of the change of plan, was picked up in other villages and was passed on, and isolated Africans at work in the fields and jungle heard it, and they stopped their labours for a space and listened . . . while in the far-off places men already began to lay down their tools and put on ceremonial dress, and as the day went on they began moving in from those more distant villages, making towards the rendezvous, with tom-toms at their waists but moving in uncanny silence up the valleys and over the hills. In time those men would reach the area of the Bluebolt station, and with their innate skill at bushcraft they would lie low, unseen, unheard, keeping their distance until the word was given and the great god Edo was ready to make the white man discharge his wicked, circling weapon harmlessly into the sea.
Earlier their hopes had been dashed when the flames of Edo’s signal had failed to materialize. Now all was well again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Shaw whispered, “It’s all right. He doesn’t know how to handle that thing. The first burst was sheer luck. And do you know___I’ve just an idea he thinks we’re unarmed. He’s not being particularly careful about cover, anyhow.”
Coldly, steadily he brought his gun up, sighting on the corner of the building where he had seen the man. He waited. Then, as the black figure moved out for another burst from the Sten, Shaw squeezed the trigger of his own gun. He sensed the girl’s sudden nervy jump beside him as the Webley roared out, and then he saw the man fall to the wet earth without a sound.
The smoke from Shaw’s gun trailed upward into the rain, through the branches of the tree. He said quietly, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder, “We’ll just hang on a little. Perhaps he wasn’t alone. We’ve got to make sure before we move.”
They waited fifteen minutes, and then Shaw helped Gillian up and with his revolver ready in his hand he ran, crouching low and keeping ahead of the girl, across the short open space to the corner of the building. They were both ready to drop flat in an instant if they had to; but nothing moved except the rain and they heard nothing but their own squelching footsteps and an occasional animal cry from the bush.
Shaw knelt down by the African’s still body.
He lifted the shattered head, saw the widening pool of blood dark on the muddy ground, welling out from the skull, running with the rainwater. After that he reached for the right forearm and examined it. Just below the bend of the elbow he saw the mark burnt into the flesh: the Black Widow.
He let the arm drop slack again and said, “We’re on the right road anyway, Gillian. Recognize that mark?”
She nodded whitely. “Sam Wiley had it. So had the others.”
“I bet they had. . . it’s the trademark—the mark of the Cult.”
“I know that—now. It’s the same. . . as Pat had.”
Something in the way she spoke made him look at her quickly. He asked, “You know about Pat?”
“I know all right.” She spoke bitterly. “Wiley told me.”
He said with a great gentleness, “Gillian, my dear—I’m sorry.” Then he changed the subject quickly. “This bloke’s had it. Now we’ve got to find out what he was doing here. I mean, it’s pretty obvious he was guarding this place—what I want to know is why.” He got up. “I’m going to take a look round.”
“But what are you going to look for?”
“I don’t know, to be honest! But there’s got to be some good reason why that chap was left here. Keep close to me, Gillian—and keep your eyes skinned.” He touched her hand. “All right?”
“Yes.”
He passed his Webley over to her. He asked, “Know how to use this?”
“Well. . . I’ve never used one before, but I’ll manage if I have to. I know how they work.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Good girl—so long as you know which end is which!” Picking up the Sten from the dead man’s side, he led the way along the wall of the tin-roofed building, and found a door. It was unlocked, and he jerked it open, standing aside with the Sten ready for action. Nothing happened. He pushed it wide with a sweep of his arm, his finger on the Sten’s trigger, his mouth tight and hard; the door creaked on ancient hinges. He went in, with the girl close at his back. The place was dark, dirty, long disused. The windows were thick with grime, with mud splashed up by the rains of many wet seasons. He saw an electric-light switch, reached out for it almost without thinking, and depressed it. The light went on overhead and it was only then that he realized what he’d done; that he’d switched on an electric light—in an abandoned mine.
He murmured, “That’s just a shade odd.”
The room looked as though it had been an office; around the walls were filing-cabinets and cupboards, their woodwork rotting badly, and a couple of mildewed desks stood empty of everything except insect life and one or two time-stained typewritten sheets of what appeared to be general maintenance orders. There was no telephone, nor even any evidence that there had been one.
“Nothing here. Let’s move on.”
They went into other buildings; all were empty except one. In this Shaw found what he had expected to find before long: the power unit which gave the old mine its private electricity supply.
This was in perfect order, well maintained, functioning as though the mine had never been closed down.
An electric supply, and a man left on guard with a Sten. . . .
There was something here worth investigating, that was obvious now. Shaw said, “Gillian, we’ll have to go through the actual workings. I still don’t know what I’m looking for—unless it’s Wiley himself. He must have come this way—as far as where we left the road, anyhow. If he’s got this far, there’d be any amount of hideaways in the old tunnels and galleries. Come along with me—and stick close. It’ll be a risk, but I’m not leaving you alone. All right?”
Her rain-wet face looked suddenly very young and appealing and forlorn; but she said quietly, “Oh, I’ll manage. Don’t worry about me.”
“That’s the spirit!”
He led the way towards the big scar of open-cast workings cut into the earth’s surface, walking with difficulty over rough, broken ground soft with the rains. They came to the same rough-hewn, cave-like entrance which Wiley had entered that morning, went into the black tunnel leading into the earth below the working-face, feeling their way cautiously. Shaw had noted the electric cable running into the tunnel; now he felt along it and found the big power switch. He pulled it down. A line of lights came on at the tunnel roof, leading a little way into the far, dark distances of the earth. There was a dead, flat silence, an eerie, brooding quietness. The light showed up the rotting, slimy planks lining the walls, and the narrow-gauge track leading inward to the gloom. This place hadn’t been used for years; it smelt of neglect and decay. Shaw walked along for a little way. To the left a series of doors led off, probably to overseers’ offices or workshops. He opened each of these doors, carried out a thorough check, but found nothing beyond piles of rusty metal, old pieces of mine machinery, and tools of outdated patterns. There was a film of undisturbed dust over everything, and the air was fusty and tired, used up.
He came out from the l
ast of the store rooms, stared down at the metal rails of the track, frowning, biting his lip. Like the power-house, that track was in a good state of maintenance, and the rails themselves were not as rusty as Shaw would have expected to find if they had remained unused for as long as the rest of the old mine appeared to have been.
Funny. . . .
He ran a hand along his jaw and said, “Gillian, we’ll have to go right along, that’s all. Wiley could have gone this way. If he did, then it seems at least a possibility that it comes out somewhere in the area of the control-station.” He took her arm and they went forward, went beyond the line of overhead lights into the gloom. Soon they couldn’t see anything, simply went ahead by feel through total blackness, their scalps tingling. They clung together, the girl fearful of losing Shaw. They edged forward, hands reaching out for the sides of the tunnel, feet stumbling on the rails. Small animals slithered across their feet. There could, Shaw supposed, be snakes down here too—or spiders. He urged the girl on as fast as she could go, always conscious of the lack of time and of the dreadful thing that was going to happen if he didn’t reach the station before Hartog was ready to go into operation. It was not far off dusk now. It was a long, tricky walk, but in time their groping hands noted the widening of the tunnel, and soon after that they stumbled up against the trolley which Wiley had left there earlier. And then, a little later, they saw the faint glimmer of the fading daylight ahead and they went on faster, able soon to make out the tunnel walls and then the overgrown entrance.
Shaw whispered, “Dead quiet now, Gillian. There could be some one else on guard this end, just as an extra precaution.”
They edged forward—very slowly, very carefully and silently.
There seemed to be no one there after all.
Shaw halted again just inside the entrance, pressed his body close to the wall and kept in the lee of the thick green vegetation which overhung the tunnel-mouth. He looked all around, then beckoned Gillian to follow him. He went ahead carefully, his fingers on the trigger of the Sten.
He’d just caught a quick glimpse of the man in the tree when he heard Gillian’s shout:
“Look out—get down—”
He dropped at once, felt Gillian doing the same behind him. As he fell he fired a burst into the tree, heard a stifled scream, and then saw the black body crashing from a branch.
Shaw felt a slight tugging sensation in his shirt-sleeve and when he looked down at it he saw the small barbed arrow. Drawing in his breah sharply, he picked the barb out, held it up and looked at it. He said “Poisoned—I suppose.” He threw it away. They waited five minutes after that, and when no further attack came Shaw said, “All right, let’s go. Looks as if it was just the one at each end.”
He helped the girl to her feet, and they walked out into the overgrown clearing. Away to their right, down in the valley and just visible in the trees through the gathering dark, they saw the complicated antennae on the beaming-mast over the Bluebolt station’s control-tower.
The mast was turning slowly, seeking, listening . . . waiting for Bluebolt.
Shaw took a deep breath, found that his hands were shaking. He said, “Well—there she is. I only hope Geisler’s there.”
“You’re going to make direct for the station?”
“Yes, surely. We may be in time—or we may not. It’s too late now to get hold of troops from Manalati or anything like that. We’ve got to move fast now—damn fast, and by ourselves.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Taking his direction from the mast, Shaw quickly found the track leading to the road, and then he turned along to the right. It was still a goodish way and the going was hard, up sloping ground and through deep, muddy ruts left behind by service transport, and the rain was still teeming down on them. By the time they had made the station some half an hour later the last remnant of the daylight had gone from the sky, and the barred gateway was illuminated by floodlights.
Shaw and Gillian were covered with oozy, clinging mud. They were tired and filthy and almost unrecognizable. A naval sentry stopped them at the entrance with a wicked-looking sub-machine-gun aimed through the gateway at Shaw’s stomach. He said, “Okay, fella, that’s close enough. Drop those guns.”
“Like hell I’m going to——”
“I said drop ’em.” The man’s eyes were hard, narrowed to slits. His finger was moving on the trigger of his own weapon.
Shaw seethed, but obeyed, nodded curtly at Gillian to do the same. The Sten and the revolver were laid on the ground. The sentry relaxed a little, asked, “Who are you and what d’ya want?”
“The name’s Shaw. I’ve lost my identification, but I’m Commander Shaw of the British Navy—"
The man grinned, his jaws moving on a stick of gum. "Yeah? Guess yu're a Limey all right—a Limey bum."
Shaw snapped, "Cut it out, laddie. I'm an officer of Naval Intelligence and—"
"Well, whaddya know!" The gun was prodded forward, the man's hand caressing the trigger again. "Say, isn't this just like a goddam Limey to —"
“Now just you shut up and listen.” Shaw’s voice was a rasp of fury now; he was shaken with a terrible, consuming dread that he was going to be too late after all. “I’ve told you who I am, and I demand to see Commander Geisler immediately. The matter’s vital—and I mean vital—and if you hold me up here with any more fool wisecracks I’ll personally see to it that you’re chucked into cells once I do get in. After that you can argue it out with the Pentagon. Now—open up those gates and be damn fast about it!”
The sentry stared at him, still chewing. He’d been slightly shaken, Shaw thought, at the direct mention of Geisler; but the gun was still lined up on his stomach and the hand was steady, the face unrelenting again.
Shaw went on harshly, desperately, “If I was up to anything d’you imagine I’d come right here to the gates, openly and alone except for a girl? Use your ruddy head! Anyway—I’m coming in even if I have to shoot my way through.”
He bent quickly towards the Sten. The sentry jerked his weapon forward, snapped, “Leave those guns right there unless you want a load of this, Limey. You’re coming in all right—but not the way you want.”
Sweating, Shaw straightened, left the Sten in the mud. The sentry said, “Hold it just like that.” Still keeping his gun aimed at Shaw and the girl, he moved sideways and pressed a bellpush in a small weatherproof box by the gateway. Almost at once an armed petty officer of the British Navy came out from the guardroom alongside the entrance. Shaw gave a gasp of relief when he saw the Royal Naval cap. The American rating jerked a thumb in Shaw’s direction. He said, “Guy out there says he wants to see the Old Man. Says it’s urgent—”
Shaw broke in, explained once again who he was, that he had to see Geisler and Hartog right away. Time was running out now, every single second counted ... slowly, maddeningly the petty officer rasped a brown hand across his jaw. He said, “We’ll have you in the guardroom, then we’ll see.” To the sentry he said briskly, “Righto, lad, keep ’em covered.” He went forward, put a hand on the gate. “Move away from those guns, you two.”
“But—”
“You ’eard. Move, or else! Remember, I’ve no proof you’re who you say you are . . . sir.”
His mouth tight, nails digging into his palms, Shaw moved away. The petty officer opened the gates, walked through, picked up the Sten and the revolver. “Right, in you go now. Watch your step. Move along, miss, please.”
Shaw and Gillian went in through the gates, covered now by the two guns. They were pushed into the guardroom. The petty officer called out in a loud voice, “Knocker... you’re wanted. Look lively now.” A moment later a door opened and another British rating came in, nipping off a dog-end and buckling a blancoed belt. The petty officer said, “Keep these two covered while I ring the Commander’s office.”
The man called Knocker jerked a revolver from his holster.
Ordering the sentry back to his post, the petty officer took up an internal te
lephone and asked the exchange for Geis-ler’s room. He waited, then said, “No reply, eh? Put me through to Mr Hartog, then.” A few moments later he was speaking to the scientist. After a while he put down the phone ruefully, his face very red.
He said, “Sorry, sir. Reckon I’ve maybe overstepped myself this time . . . but you’ll understand I’ve got to make sure who I let through. Very strict, the orders are, and without papers, sir, well. . . .”
“I understand, of course. You were only doing your duty.” The petty officer was standing squarely in front of the door, and Shaw was trembling with impatience, fists clenching and unclenching again and again. “For God’s sake, don’t waste any more time now. I’ve—”
The petty officer raised a hand. “If you’ll just hang on a moment, sir, Mr Hartog’s coming down himself to identify you. I can’t let you go right in till he’s done that.”
“What about Commander Geisler?”
“Busy, sir. Mr Hartog, ’e says he’s the only other gentleman as can positively identify you.”
“That’s true, but—” Shaw lifted his arms, let them drop again, gave a despairing look at Gillian. Hartog, if he chose to—and it was almost a certainty he would—could so easily fail to identify him. And then what? They’d be treated as a couple of lunatics and chucked into a cell to await investigation by Geisler, an investigation which Hartog would presumably see to it was delayed until it was too late... Shaw walked up and down like a caged tiger, looking at his watch. Hartog was taking his time. . . it wasn’t that far from the admin, block to the gates . . . what was going on?
It was nearly ten minutes before Hartog came in, dripping rain off his oilskin. Shaw swung round, face tight, and stared at the scientist. There was a curious look in the man’s eyes, and he seemed once again to have been drinking heavily. His step was uncertain and his words were a trifle slurred.
He smiled sardonically, and then, to Shaw’s relief and surprise, he said, “Why, hullo there, Shaw—”
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