“All right,” said Shaw. “I’ll wait, if that’s in order.”
“Right-ho, sir, that’ll be quite O.K.” The policeman gave him a seat and Shaw lit a cigarette. He hadn’t finished it when a car stopped outside and a dark, rather saturnine man with a soldierly bearing, whom Shaw guessed was Major Staunton, hurried in with another man — a man in police uniform, evidently the Chief of Police.
Staunton spoke to the security man at the desk. “If anyone wants me I’m not here.” The voice was clipped, brusque. “Meeting in half an hour with H.E. in The Convent, and I don’t know when I’ll be finished. Admiral and Air Officer Commanding will be there too, and the Brigadier—” He broke off as Shaw caught his eye. “Who’re you, may I ask?”
“The name is Shaw — Admiralty Inspector of Arament—”
“Ah, yes, I heard you were coming.” The tone was short and impatient. “Sorry. Can’t see you now.”
“It’s by way of being important—”
Staunton’s dark eyes flashed; even the tight black moustache seemed to stick out straighten “My dear sir,” he snapped tartly, “there’s something vastly more important than Armament Inspection going on. We’ll have to make it another time. Good day to you.”
Staunton swept into his private office, followed by the Chief of Police, and the door was slammed shut.
Shaw’s teeth clamped together and he felt the familiar pain in his guts. He moved swiftly over to the door before the security policeman could stop him. He jerked it open.
“What the—” Major Staunton stared angrily, his whole face seeming to hackle up. The dark eyes, level and steady over a hawk-like nose, had gone stony. “Will you kindly get to hell out of here?”
Shaw said quietly, “I’m sorry.” Shaw had been given absolute discretion to handle this job in his own way, and though that cable had not told him specifically to make his department known to the Defence Security Officer he knew that Staunton and the Chief of Police would be two of the most trusted men, men in whom he could confide without any qualms at all when circumstances made it necessary. Those circumstances had clearly come. Shaw reached into his pocket and produced the red-and-green-panelled Identity Card, which he passed to Staunton. He said, “I’m instructed to contact you, Major.”
Staunton looked at Shaw, took up the card, and examined it. “I see,” he said, raising his thick eyebrows a little. He glanced across at the police chief. “Naval Intelligence,” he said quietly. “Makes rather a difference, that.” He swung back to Shaw. “Now, Commander. I’ve not been told anything about you — in this connexion.” He tapped the card. “What do you want?”
“I want to find a man called Ackroyd.”
Staunton looked at him keenly and grunted. He sat back for a moment. Then he said, “Excuse me just a minute, won’t you?” He reached out for a telephone, said, “Scramble line to Whitehall.” When he got through he explained briefly about Shaw, and after that his conversation consisted mainly of grunts. Then slamming back the receiver he gave Shaw another shrewd, appraising look and said, “You appear to have considerable priority, you know. Well — I’m at your disposal and I’ll help in any way I can — and it sounds as though you can help us a lot, too.” He smiled a little then, tightly, anxiously. “You were asking about Ackroyd.”
“It’d help if I could know where he is.”
Staunton leaned forward, shoulders hunched. “Suppose I told you he was dead?”
Shaw felt very cold suddenly. He asked, “Is he?”
“My dear chap, that’s what we all want to know.” Staunton gave a sidelong glance at the Chief of Police, and Shaw, following that glance, noticed the dubious look which crossed the policeman’s face. Staunton went on deliberately, “A body was found this morning above Europa Point. Just below Windmill Hill. And Ackroyd hasn’t been seen since last night. There was no alarm till the body was found. Owing to the injuries it was totally unrecognizable, but it carried papers belonging to Ackroyd, and the general physical build and so on tallies. All the same, and in spite of the fact that the Chief of Police here disagrees, I don’t believe it’s Ackroyd’s body.” Again he looked over at the other man, and then went on, “But I can tell you this much, after a fairly exhausting day’s work: Ackroyd is no longer in Gibraltar, whether or not he’s in the next world. We’ve gone through the place with a tooth-comb.” He hesitated for a moment. “I can tell you something else, too: if we don’t find him pretty damn quick there’s going to be trouble. For one thing — and London says you know the details already and you’ll understand — I’ve heard that that blasted fuel unit of his has developed a defect again, and now they can’t stop it to find out what’s wrong. Ackroyd seems to be the only one who knows anything — and we’re expecting a planeload of distinguished senior officers from N.A.T.O., plus Cabinet Ministers, who’re coming to watch the thing in operation!”
Shaw had gone very white. He said, “So that’s happened again, has it? Why can’t they switch off?”
Staunton snapped, “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the damn’ thing. All I know is the bare fact that they can’t put it right, and they can’t switch it off.” He added, “I’m more concerned about Ackroyd himself.”
That phrase — London says you know the details already — had shaken Shaw because of what Carberry had told him. He said, “Major, is the thing… overheating? Is that it?”
Staunton’s searching glance ran over his face. “I believe it is. I gather the report from the technicians said something like that. Why? What’s the matter?”
“Major,” said Shaw quietly, “I shouldn’t start worrying just because the high-ups are due. If they can’t switch off soon there’s going to be more than mere trouble.” Earnestly he leaned forward, feeling the sweat sticky on his face. “Don’t you realize the Rock’s likely to go sky-high? Right now we’re sitting on what could be the biggest atomic blast since Hiroshima.”
CHAPTER SIX
The night before Shaw arrived the seedy-looking little man with the timid eyes had been happier than he’d ever been in his life. Happier and more important-feeling.
The huge power-production unit, even its lead casing seeming to pulse with controlled energy, had been running quite satisfactorily in the close, stuffy power-house, the enormous cavern which the Admiralty had allocated to it below Gibraltar’s rock. It seemed almost to speak to him, to respond to his caresses as he put out a skinny arm and patted the metal fondly, revealing the dark sweat-stains under the armpits of his open-necked white shirt. Dum-da, dum-da, it went, in its slow, emphatic way… dum-da, dum-da, dum-da, dum-da…
That machine — Autopowered Fuel Production Unit (AGL Six), Mark One, to give it the full designation, or AFPU ONE for short — was Mr Ackroyd’s whole life, almost of itself the culmination of years and years of grinding work and study which had really started when he was just a kid at the grammar school in the East Riding, taking a keen interest in the science lessons — even in those days, he thought, they’d taunted him with being half barmy. Well, in just under three days’ time he’d show them all, he’d just ruddy well show them. He’d been told that there was a possibility that even the Defence Minister was coming with the top brass.
Mr Ackroyd had started up AFPU ONE an hour or so ago because she took two full days to work up before she began to produce results — and when he’d run her through some days earlier for test she really hadn’t behaved very well, hadn’t been herself at all, and he’d had to send in a long, highly secret report about his brain-child’s irregularities. Of course, he’d worked on her since then, but still…