His attention went back to those so-near headlights which were still weaving shadows round him — should he get Debonnair to put a shot astern into their tyres? Not yet, anyway — he didn’t want to risk the attention which a running gun-battle would focus on him, not until he’d reached the point he’d already decided on as his bolt-hole out of Spain.
And then things fell into place and he realized what the driver behind him meant to do: wait for him to be stopped at the San Roque control post. When that happened the men would run from their car, guns nicely concealed, and protest to the carabinero that Shaw had abducted Karina — a story which Karina would naturally be only too happy to substantiate — or some such yam equally difficult to discredit. And then Ackroyd and Debonnair and he would be arrested. That would be the end.
Very well, then!
They were nearly at the control post now. Shaw called back to Debonnair, “Keep your eyes on Karina, darling. See there’s no funny business as we come up to the post.”
“Okay. What’re you going to do?”
“You’ll see.”
The road from Algeciras took a right-incline towards the busy junction where the control post was situated, where that road and the roads from Malaga and from La Linea converged. After the right-incline, and just before the post itself was reached, the route swung hard right for La Linea and the frontier. Approaching the incline, Shaw put the wheel over gently, and then his foot slammed the accelerator viciously, almost sending it through the boards, and held it there. His teeth clenched tight as the Citroen seemed to take off from the surface, zipping forward, the extra spurt jolting its passengers hard back into the seats. Shaw’s hands gripped the wheel like vices, clenched down hard on the siren, taking the car skilfully and coolly through the traffic.
The big car tore for the control post at the roadside beyond the turn, blaring out in a continuous signal which sent other vehicles scurrying into the sides of the roads as it drew their attention to the hurtling headlights lancing into the night. Then, easing a little for the turn itself, Shaw put the wheel over. The Citroen banked, tilted, reared up on two wheels but took the turn. They held their breath as the wind rushed past them and the car rocked with a horrible light feeling as though it had no substance; and then it bounced back, rocking on its springs now, settling on to the four wheels again. Once more Shaw accelerated, shot past the stream of traffic coming down from the Malaga road, saw the terrified carabinero leap for his life, heard the crack of revolvers.
And then he was past, pounding down the road to La Linea and the British lines, the traffic in a mad tangle behind him. Twenty-four thousand lives depended on his using his advantage, and using it well and truly and in time.
The traffic was thicker along the La Linea road, and they couldn’t see for certain whether or not the following car had been stopped at the control post. It seemed rather as though it had at least got bogged down in the melee behind them. Debonnair asked, “How are you going to get through the Customs control at La Linea, darling?”
He grinned almost savagely along the beams of his headlights. “I’m not!” Even if the aduana wasn’t already being alerted from San Roque, the queue of waiting cars — waiting for the routine search and check of documents before passing into the neutral ground, and so to the last point before British territory — would be far too long, and so would the consequent and inevitable delay. He couldn’t risk that, and neither, of course, could he hope to crash that barrier, to drive fast through a pile-up of cars and people at the bottleneck of that narrow stone archway. It wasn’t like the open control of San Roque. However, this was precisely what Shaw had anticipated all the way along, and he’d planned for it.
With no slackening of his onrush, he belted through the speed-trap, overtaking dangerously, headed into the outskirts of La Linea. Very soon he was running along the road which bordered the water, the beach where the fishermen drew up their boats along the northern shores of Algeciras Bay. Standing blackly out in the seascape to his right, Shaw could see the big oiling-hulks — old British tankers now moored out in the Bay and used for fuelling shipping, tiny oases of Britain, outposts of Gibraltar in an alien sea; and, away beyond them, that towering Rock, close now, the lights of the town glimmering below the craggy heights, and the lion-like eminence of the North Front behind the airstrip. And in the Bay and the inner harbour — ships. The evacuation fleet, assembling still.
Shaw was just about half-way along this sector of the road when he yelled, above the engine and the rushing air, “Debbie — hold on tight, and stand by to get out fast!”
Then, as he reached the La Linea end of the beach road, he applied the foot-brake and pushed out the clutch; the car screamed on the road, almost going into a dry skid, tyres protesting, sending up a stink of burning rubber. Shaw released the brake, swung the wheel, swerved violently right, sent the car off the macadam roadway down a narrow stone ramp to grind and flounder over the shingly beach.
His door was open, and his gun was ready, before the car had grated to a stop.
Jumping out, he swung the rear door open. “Out!” he snapped. “Fast as you can, Debbie — no time to waste. Don’t worry about Karina.”
As he spoke his gun was covering Karina; Debonnair bundled out, went round to give Ackroyd a hand. Shaw snapped, “Down to the water — get one of those small boats, push it into the sea, and get Ackroyd aboard. I’ll be down in a tick, but if those blokes catch up meanwhile and anything starts happening you’re not to wait for me, nor try and help — that’s an order.” He looked at her kindly. “The whole of Gibraltar expects you to carry it out, Debbie.” He saw the fearfulness and the hurt in her face, but he went on resolutely, “You’ll row for the nearest hulk, board it, and get the watchman to send a signal to the Tower asking for a powerboat — send the signal as from me. After that you’ll be told what to do and you’ll only have to do it. Got that piece of metal, Deb?”
She nodded. She couldn’t speak.
“Whatever you do, don’t lose it.”
The girl stood there, tears pricking at her eyelids. Shaw heard the sound of the passing cars. It couldn’t be long now. He put a hand on Debonnair’s shoulders. “Get going now, Debbie.”
“All right, darling.” She put out a hand; he took it, pressed it. Hesitated, wanting to take her in his arms once more. Then he gently pushed her and turned away. Debonnair bit on her lip, got hold of Ackroyd, turned, and hurried him down to the edge of the Bay.
Shaw put his head inside the Citroen then. Karina smiled at him bitterly, sardonically. She said, “I suppose you couldn’t tear yourself away without saying good-bye, whatever you have done to me.”
Shaw disregarded the irony. “Know what I’m going to do with you?”
Her eyes were angry, hard. She said coolly, “I imagine you will shoot me — or take me to Gibraltar.”
“Neither, my dear.” There was an almost wistful look on Shaw’s face just then. “I’m going to leave you here, that’s all. You can’t do any more damage now — and I think the Civil Guard will be pleased to see you somehow — after those deaths on the Ronda road—”