“They can’t prove that was me, Esmonde.”
"— and at the moment you’re sitting in what amounts to a stolen car.” He grinned. “Maybe they can’t prove you killed those two guardias, but I wouldn’t bank on it. Also, don’t forget last night.” Shaw knew there was no point in taking Karina back to Gibraltar — she’d only be an embarrassment. All they could do would be to deport her again — since all her business had been conducted on Spanish soil, there was really nothing to hold her on — one could scarcely force an agent into British territory and then have her on an espionage charge, while to charge her with abducting Ackroyd, a British subject, would probably be to defeat the ends of security anyway. There was, though Shaw hardly admitted it to himself, another reason: a sense of chivalry towards a woman he had physically loved. But he knew she couldn’t give anything away because she didn’t know anything more than her Government already knew — and they wouldn’t thank her for spilling any beans to Spain.
As Shaw backed from the car he heard the roar of a fast-moving vehicle pulling out from the stream of traffic, and he thought he recognized Don Jaime’s car. A crowd was starting to gather as it flashed past, then checked, carried on for some way under its own impetus, and then screamed to a stop a few hundred yards farther along towards La Linea.
Karina glanced back through the rear window of the Citroen. When she faced in Shaw’s direction again she seemed to be smiling and composed. She called from the side window, “You won’t get away, my Esmonde.”
“Won’t I!” He was already moving down the beach.
“Even if you do, for now, we shall meet again, of that I am sure.”
“No, Karina, never again.” Keeping low, Shaw ran fast for the water’s edge. As he got there, in time to give Debonnair a hand with shoving out a boat from among the many lining the shingle, he caught a backward glimpse of Karina running up the beach towards the road. The men were coming down to meet her, and with them were two Civil Guards, probably alerted from San Roque.
She’d still try and bluff it out even now.
“All right now, Debbie.”
Shaw, who’d remained in the water to give the boat an initial thrust out, dragged himself over the gunwale and took up the oars, putting his back into the job, his whole soul and every ounce of his effort. The boat shot out fast from the shore, and as he strained away, pulling skilfully, with his seaman’s training helping him and with Debonnair at the tiller, a broad streak of wake widened back towards the beach, standing out clearly under the moon which hung above Algeciras Bay. Looking along that wake, Shaw noticed that Karina was talking frantically to the two Civil Guards, seemed to be arguing; then two more uniformed men came down on to the beach from the roadway and, after a word with the first two, ran along to man and launch a boat.
Shaw cursed.
He didn’t want to fire on the Civil Guard, whose men were only doing their duty; it had been bad enough that he’d been morally responsible for the death of that guardia back at Tarifa last night. Speed was the only defence open to him, and he strained harder at the heavy oars, his chest heaving, breath coming in great gulps. But he had got a good start, and by the time he was within hailing distance of the oil-hulk’s high decks the guardias’ boat was a good cable’s-length astern of him — and not pulling very expertly.
“Debbie,” he gasped. “Give ’em a shout. The hulk.”
She cupped her hands, stood up.
“Sit down! You’ll upset the boat.”
She sat; yelled up at the decks, which looked quite deserted. Shaw, looking anxiously over his shoulder and lying on his oars as his boat swept up dead astern, could see no ladders down. He made round for the starboard side, where he could see the long shape of the accommodation-ladder, high up and horizontal in its stowed position — they’d be able to lower that quickly from up top if there was anyone about. Surely there was a watchman of some sort?
If there was one he’d better be awake.
Debonnair yelled again, urgently.
Up above their heads a figure slouched to the ship’s side from the lee of an after deck-house. The watchman — a Gibraltarian by the sound of him — called down, “Who’s there, please?” Debonnair called back, “Commander Shaw of the British Navy.”
A chuckle floated down, a gob of spit plumped into the sea near by. Shaw didn’t wait for the inevitable back-chat.
He roared: “I’ll have you bloody well chucked in gaol if you don’t get a ladder down immediately. It’s a matter of high priority, and I’ve got to see His Excellency. Lower the starboard ladder, and lower it now.”
Shaw’s voice carried authority when he wanted it to.
“Yes, at once, sir, excuse me,” the Gibraltarian said. He disappeared, re-emerged a moment later alongside the starboard ladder.
As Shaw heard the dismal, rusty creaking sound above his head, the sound which indicated that the man was starting to wind the ladder down to them, the first bullets came whining in from the Civil Guards. Shaw pulled in close to the ship’s side. Some bullets zipped through the boat’s sides, smashing the planking, and she began to fill. As the level of the water rose the guardias’ boat swept round the stem of the tanker, collided with the sinking craft. The shock tumbled the men together into the bottom of their boat; Shaw, braced back against the tanker’s wall-like plates, kept his balance. He had an oar in his hand, and as the Civil Guards struggled up and then tried to stand so as to bring their carbines to bear, Shaw swept the heavy blade towards them. It got one man on the hip, hard, laid him flat, sending him smashing into the other, who fell over the gunwale into the water, his carbine going in after him. Taken completely by surprise, he hadn’t even time to cry out.
Shaw panted.
The ladder was coming down now, its bottom platform was nearly in the water. And just about in time. As the heavy platform dipped in just ahead of them Shaw’s boat filled to the rubbing-strake and lay awash. Grabbing Ackroyd, Shaw yelled to Debonnair, “Swim for the ladder!” As soon as he saw her on the way he pushed Ackroyd ahead of him. Debonnair climbed up and gave him a hand to get the little man on to the platform and then Shaw struggled up after them. The other boat had drifted away now, and the ditched guardia was swimming after it, having difficulty because of his heavy clinging uniform.
The small British party went up the steps of the ladder, and when they made the deck Shaw ordered the watchman to hoist away. As the ladder came up Shaw cut short the watchman’s agitated demands for an explanation. “That can wait,” he said tersely. He asked: “Got a signal lamp on the bridge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right.” Shaw dashed for the bridge ladder, ran up. He found the lamp and switched on the power. He trained the reflectors of the big signalling projector towards the harbour, and banged down the key at the side. A moment later the great white beam lanced into the night, up and down, urgently, stabbing across to the inner harbour of Gibraltar, sending its vital message to the Tower, from Commander Shaw to Rear-Admiral Forbes.
When he’d done Shaw lit a cigarette, the first for a hell of a long time; and he drew deeply on it. Then within minutes he heard the wonderful, lovely sound of a British naval power-boat speeding out into the Bay from the gap between the Detached and South Moles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The telephone rang in the Rear-Admiral’s office. Harrison, the A.D.C., was on the line, his voice tense.
He said, “From H.E., sir, he’s going to broadcast in fifteen minutes—”
The voice went on, “—and the executive order to start the evacuation will be passed to all concerned as soon as he’s finished speaking, and Spain, Tangier, and general Mediterranean shipping will also be informed of the situation. I’m ringing the Brigadier and the A.O.C.—”