A little later he was able to speed up and, well clear to seaward, they passed Tarifa Point.
Very soon Shaw would have to head back in or risk being run down by the shipping in the Straits — he had no navigation lights, and wouldn’t have dared to use them if he had — or be picked up again if the skipper of that fishing-vessel should take it into his head to return.
Shaw had helped Debonnair over the gunwale as soon as it seemed safe to do so, and followed himself. They sat there shivering in the cool night air. Mr Ackroyd’s teeth chattered away, and he stared up at the two apathetically while they did what they could to make him comfortable. Shaw searched through the little man’s clothing, bringing a cry from him as he jolted the bruised arm. He didn’t find anything during that search.
A little later Debonnair asked, “Where do we head for?” She snuggled back into the comparative warmth of Shaw’s body. “Could we cross Algeciras Bay in this, d’you think, and enter Gib by sea?”
“We could, Debbie — it’s only about five miles by sea from Carnero Point — if it wasn’t for something I was trying to find on Ackroyd when I was going through his clothing a little while ago.” Briefly he told her about the technician’s theory, the theory that Ackroyd had removed a piece of AFPU ONE’s starting mechanism — told her in such a way that he didn’t have to divulge much, though he made her realize the vital importance of what he was saying. When he’d finished she lay back and looked up at him sideways and said, “Oh, my God,” very softly.
Shaw said, “We’ll have to try and get something out of Ackroyd about it as soon as he’s in a fit state. If it really is missing — and I do feel sure he did take it — then ten to one Karina’s got it now. So — we’ve got to find Karina.” Bitterly now he reproached himself for not having immobilized his own car. “That means we’ve got to try to land — I’d say, somewhere near Carnero — and walk into Algeciras itself. We’d look a bit suspicious, entering the port by sea after what’s happened to-night.”
She nodded. “And when we get ashore — what then?”
He said wearily, “Debbie my dear, God may possibly know, but I certainly don’t. Let’s get to Carnero first.”
She moved closer into his arms. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’ll stop asking silly questions, darling.”
“They’re not silly questions,” said Shaw gently, stroking her wet hair. “It’s my fault for not having the answers ready, that’s all!” So near Gibraltar and yet so damn far, he thought miserably, and until we cross that little strip of neutral ground beyond La Linea every man’s hand — practically — is against us.
Shaw took up the oars, sculled the boat along to the eastward, still keeping well clear of the land. The girl drew away from him, to give him more freedom of movement, but he pulled her back to lean against his chest. She was shivering so… God, but he should never have allowed her to come with him on this job…
Mr Ackroyd was humming again, and Shaw clamped his teeth down hard.
Dum-da, dum-da, dum-da…
That was going to drive him mad soon. And he still had to get this little lunatic to talk.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hammersley hadn’t so very much to do himself in these final stages, with the evacuation organized and timed to begin at noon — less than twelve hours to go now.
He had made the decisions, and he would stand or fall by those decisions — not that it made much difference to his own position either way, because he didn’t intend to leave his command. So he wasn’t likely to be called to account in any way. They could say anything they liked after he was gone and he wouldn’t care. All he could hope for now was to do the best he could for the people who depended on him. And now the donkey-work was being carried out by the staff and by the regimental officers and the men under their command.
But Hammersley couldn’t sit around in The Convent and do nothing — nothing but wait, and count the hours — the hours at first, and then it would become, as the time drew nearer, the minutes and the seconds. During the morning — so long, long ago — after he’d seen Forbes and then sent the hastening signal to the evacuation fleet, Hammersley had driven round the town and had gone up the Rock to the out-stations for a word with the troops. And everywhere it had been the same; the routine going on, yes, but the strain, the frightening air of expectancy, the worried faces of those who suspected that this was more than just the exercise which Hammersley had announced recently in the Gibraltar Chronicle. A few of the locals, smelling danger despite the security muzzle, had got out under their own steam already — the rich ones, or those with connexions across the frontier or in Tangier. He couldn’t stop them; wouldn’t if he could. They had a right to protect their own lives — he couldn’t even blame them morally. The rest waited, on the whole dumbly, not knowing what was going on but neither wishing nor able to leave the Rock that was the only home they knew. All Hammersley wished, so fervently, was that he’d been able to advise them — order them — all to get out while the going was good.
Was this whole damn nuclear set-up in the present-day world worth while? If security demanded that for the sake of England Gibraltar’s unconsulted people should die was it, in the last analysis, worth it? Hadn’t the times and men’s morals degenerated so far that nothing was worth while saving-saving only for the universal holocaust to come?
All these thoughts had gone through Hammersley’s mind as he’d sat with his driver and his A.D.C. in that truck during the morning, glum and not speaking, driving along Gibraltar’s narrow, noisy, crowded streets. The only conclusion he could come to as some salve for his own conscience was the obvious one: it wasn’t just England. Narrow concepts of nationalism didn’t wash these days, couldn’t wash, mustn’t wash. It was the free world’s way of life that was at stake; perhaps these people wouldn’t die — those of them who would have to — in vain. Or not quite in vain.
And he told himself that the people he had seen that morning had been pretty good. He knew that to-morrow, as the evacuation fleet began to enter Algeciras Bay, the seawalls would be crammed with people watching, wondering… would they go on believing that this movement of shipping and the disposal of the troops who were now moving to their stations along the streets was due to an exercise? Hammersley was still, in accordance with orders, keeping as much as possible dark until the very last moment, the moment when he would make that final broadcast, the moment when the evacuation itself would actually begin. He hadn’t told even his own family the full, awful truth, though he sensed that behind his wife’s admirably controlled front was hidden some blame, which she couldn’t altogether conceal, for the fact that he’d allowed their sons to come out to Gibraltar. He hoped that before the end came he’d have time to put that right with her, to explain things. It wouldn’t be long now, of course, but there was still that slim chance that either the Cambridge would find Ackroyd aboard the Ostrowiec or that Shaw would have something concrete to report.
And now it was night again — the time that seemed the worst of all. It was after midnight; to-morrow, in fact, had come.
Hammersley had had a direct line laid on, from his own office in The Convent to the power-house; and he had only to lift the receiver to get the latest information immediately. But mostly when it was answered the first thing he got was that racking dum-da, dum-da sound… He didn’t know quite why — perhaps it was on account of some morbid curiosity that made him unable to leave the receiver alone — but he stretched out a hand now and put the thing to his ear.