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And ah never said one word, not the ’ole time, ah didn’t.”

“Good man.” Somehow Shaw believed this unlikely-looking little hero whom Gibraltar knew as a finicky, standoffish, nervy type who ran a mile at a loud noise. He asked gently, “Look, Mr Ackroyd, if it’s important we ought to get it back, oughtn’t we? I mean—”

“Course we ought… why ever did I let it go?” Mr Ackroyd’s voice was panicky now; a moment later, however, it faded away again, drifted off as he developed a spasmodic facial twitch which Shaw found painful to watch; drifted off, when Ackroyd spoke again, into nonsense. Shaw clenched his hands, a feeling of utter desperation coming over him again. Gibraltar was waiting… he shook Ackroyd a little, tried to stop the meaningless meander about some one called Ernie Spinner in Liverpool.

In the end he succeeded. Ackroyd stopped. He said slackly, “Ah’ve joost remembered where that part is, lad.”

He grinned up at Shaw. Shaw could have sworn he saw a wink on the drawn white face.

He asked quickly, “Yes, old chap? Where?”

Mr Ackroyd gave a tired chuckle, put his hand to his mouth as though about to say something confidential. Shaw felt his scalp tingle, felt the rising irritation… at any moment Ackroyd might forget again. Ackroyd said:

“Roody woman rammed it down ’er tits.”

There was a brief pause, then a sudden, irrepressible giggle from Debonnair. “Ah don’t knaw, ah’m sure, but ah’d have said it’d be roody uncomfortable down there. Prickly, like.”

Shaw let out a long sigh, and heard Debonnair still giggling away in the stem. There was a tired smile on his lips as he said wearily, “Well, now we know, we’re not much for’arder — not until we find Karina. And then it probably won’t be down her — er—”

“Exactly,” agreed Debonnair primly.

* * *

Main Street was quiet at this early-morning hour just past midnight, except for a few drunks and one or two ladies of easy virtue hanging about, from force of habit, round the entrances to night-clubs, and the M.P.’s, and the Naval Patrol with their measured tread and the blancoed belts and gaiters moving solemnly along from the Picket House, and the infantrymen stationed by their trucks. Grim-faced, sunburnt men behind the steering-wheels, smoking the cigarettes which they — some of them — hurriedly squeezed out in their fingers as the Governor came round.

Hammersley thought bitterly: Do they really think I’m going to have their names taken for smoking at a time like this, when it could be about the last packet of Players or Woods they’ll ever open in their lives?

Then he knew he had to shake himself — and the men— out of such thoughts; a time like this was one of the times when discipline was needed more than ever, the very time it justified itself. He didn’t worry about those men, the older ones, who’d had the common sense to douse their dog-ends when they saw him — that was in itself an act of respect, an acknowledgment of basic and ingrained discipline. Those men would be all right. But when a group of young soldiers carried on smoking as he went past, and stared at him superciliously as much as to say: Go on, you bastard, you just try choking us off now and see what happens, mate… then Hammersley went into action.

He roared, “Company Commander!”

A sergeant came forward at the rush, halted, saluted. “Beg pardon, sir, the officer’s gone along—”

“Very well, Sergeant, you’ll do. Once you’ve done your buttons up, that is.” His voice was sharp, his face pugnacious. The N.C.O. fumbled at his buttons. “Those men.” Hammersley pointed with his cane. “Why are they smoking?”

The sergeant stared woodenly into space. “Sorry, sir. I reckon they feel… well… what’s it matter, kind of, sir.”

“I see.” Hammersley looked at him, felt years older again. “And do you feel like that too, Sergeant?”

“Well, sir.” The man swallowed. A biggish Adam’s-apple wobbled uncertainly in a long brown throat. “Yessir. I do, sir.”

“All right.” Hammersley climbed out of the staff car. He raised his voice deliberately, so that the men could hear. He said, “In that case I’ll see you’re broken to the ranks… If you can’t take charge you’re not fit to wear your chevrons. What’s your name?”

The man was shocked, Hammersley could see that. His face had gone a dull mud colour. Hammersley thought, That’s done him a power of good — he’s more worried about that now than the rumours he’s been fed with, and he’ll be able to look forward to writing to his M.P. about me. The sergeant said, “Smith, sir.”

Hammersley looked towards the A.D.C. “Note that, Captain Harrison.” To the soldier he said, “Very well, then. That’ll be all for now.” Then he walked over to the men — he noticed that they’d snuffed those cigarettes now, were coming, though slowly, to attention, straightening their caps.

He said, “All right, at ease. Now listen to me. I’m not having any soldiers under my command slouching around in public as I’ve just seen you men doing.” What he wanted to say was, This Rock has been garrisoned by British soldiers for over two hundred years, and maybe you’re the last regiments who’ll ever come here, because when the civilians leave at noon to-morrow — to-day, rather — that’ll very likely be the end. It’s you who’ve got the duty of seeing Gibraltar, not through a mere siege, but off the world’s map, and if you can’t take a pride in yourselves at this stage you’re going to let down all those, Foot and Guns, who have gone before.

He said none of that; for one thing it was too old-fashioned a bunch of sentiments altogether, and for another there was — as ever — the secrecy which had prevented him all along from taking these men into his confidence.

What he did say, with a nice parade-ground snap in his voice, was: “If I catch you like that again I’ll have all your names taken and you’ll be up before your Commanding Officers at next Defaulters.”

He stared them out and then he swung round, walked back to his car. Before he drove away he noticed the difference; they’d smartened up, were tending to grin ruefully at one another — a good sign, that, and as much as to say, ‘Well, reckon we did ask for that.’

What one of them actually said, though H.E. never knew it, was: “If the old beggar’s so sure there’s going to be another muckin’ Defaulters, there can’t be much to bloody well worry about, eh?”

* * *

Hammersley had got down to Irish Town, and his car was circling Casemates, the parade where the ancient Ceremony of The Keys had taken place regularly ever since the start of the Great Siege in 1779, when he heard the roar of the motor-cycle coming fast along Main Street, and then a moment later the dispatch rider zoomed up and dismounted.

He approached the General, gave him a swinging salute.

He handed over a sealed envelope and stepped back. Hammersley opened it, read it, crushed it in his hand. It was from the captain of H.M.S. Cambridge, addressed to the Flag Officer, and it read simply: Ostrowiec left harbour at 0030 hours local time. Have intercepted and searched without result. Ostrowiec proceeding on passage to Gdynia.

So that was the last hope gone — almost.

There was always Shaw, of course…

Hammersley turned away, the square shoulders sagging a little.

* * *

Further questioning of Ackroyd had produced no lead to Karina; the little man’s usefulness was exhausted, at any rate for the time being. There was always the chance, Shaw knew, that Karina would be waiting for them when they came into land. Against that possibility was the fact that she wouldn’t know precisely where they intended to come ashore, and also the fact that she wouldn’t want to risk the attentions of the Civil Guard after the affair of the fishing-boat. Anyway, and most important, he had to make contact with her. From what he’d picked up before leaving Gibraltar, he was pretty sure that Ackroyd without that metal fitting would be just as useless as no Ackroyd at all, in so far as the immediate safety of the Rock and its inhabitants was concerned.