His mind went back to that note about Ling’s, the restaurant in the Cross… he wished now he’d remembered to confront Karstad with that name — he might have found out a little more. Ling’s 4.30. It could be just a note of a date, of course, as Francis had said dismissingly. On the other hand… if and when he got to Sydney, Ling’s might be worth a visit.
But he wasn’t ever going to get to Sydney now.
Shaw paced that tiny cell, two steps one way, two the other, until he felt he was going mad. He thought about those yellow-skinned armies standing by to converge on their objectives, thought of England and of Debonnair in London, of the liner and Judith Donovan. His head was aching now, a dull mass of pain; the blinding, everlasting, relentless electric light, shadeless, seared his tired, red-rimmed eyes. Men brought in food, but refused his request to be allowed to see the A.D.C. and after he’d made himself eat he went on pacing, pacing until, at last, sleep became a necessity and he flopped down on the mattress on the raised wooden shelf which passed for a bed, and pulled the blanket over his body.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After Major Francis had had a late dinner in the MAPIACCIND Officers’ mess, he inquired, quite casually, for Shaw. The A.D.C. said, “He is still with the Commandant.” Francis whistled. “He’s having a long session, my word! Is he coming along for a meal or anything?”
“No, I do not think so, Major.” The young man seemed stiff, ill at ease. “I understand he will be… going on to Sydney very soon.”
Francis nodded. “That’s what he wanted to do, I know. Seemed it was pretty urgent.” He added, “I’d like to have seen him again. Good bloke.”
“Yes, indeed. You will excuse me now?” The A.D.C. finished his coffee and got up. “I have much work to do.”
“Sure, that’s all right.” Francis, frowning in puzzlement, nodded to the officer. He lit a cigarette, went across to a rack and found some magazines. He sat down in an easy chair and tried to read for a while, but found he was too tired to concentrate. Soon after, he went over to the comfortable room which had been provided for him in a block used by visiting officials, and turned in. He went on wondering about Shaw; something, he felt, didn’t quite add up and it puzzled him. That attack on the road convoy, of course, had been shattering proof that things were not as they should be, and the implications of that were endless… but Shaw had been worrying, had suspected something, even before that attack had come. He’d even warned them that it might happen. Shaw was in the know about something and he’d been pretty cagey all along. And now it seemed almost as though he’d been spirited away — or maybe that was just fanciful; Francis remembered that Shaw had said he might not see him again before he left for Sydney. But it was still odd that by after dinner he hadn’t in fact left for Sydney, considering his panic to get there.
Next morning, when Francis drove away with his truck and his men, he still had no news of Shaw. The A.D.C. had been as evasive as ever, and it had begun to look fishy. Francis, as he passed through the main gate and headed back for the Australian post at the outer perimeter, went on worrying it over in his mind and then he decided he would just have a word with the naval authorities in Sydney. Leaving the truck at the post, he got permission to make a telephone call, and he rang Garden Island, spoke to the Duty Officer, and was then put on to the Captain of the Port himself.
Apart from knowing that he had spent a night in the cell Shaw had little idea as to time when he heard the key turning in the lock and he saw the sergeant standing there with the escort.
The sergeant said briskly, “You’re wanted in the Commandant’s office. You will come at once.”
The escort waited outside the door, took his arms again as he came through, and he was marched back past the guard point beyond the steel doors and taken up once again to that large room with the big desk before the wide windows. It was evidently night once again, for those windows were now curtained. Behind the desk, looking furiously angry, Mirskov sat with one hand resting in a drawer. The man’s thick lips were working away and little droplets of saliva bulged from the corners of them. Curtly the Commandant dismissed the guard, brought his hand up from the drawer, and levelled a revolver at Shaw.
When the guard had withdrawn from the room, Mirskov said: “There was a telephone call from Sydney. There will be another. From a Captain James.”
Shaw felt his heart leap.
Mirskov went on, “This Captain James, whom I know to be of the Naval Intelligence, is anxious for news of you. He was expecting you to report. He realizes that you must indeed be Commander Shaw, for there has never been any opportunity for impersonation. James has been in touch with the Captain of the New South Wales. The girl Judith Dangan was able to confirm that the Shaw who left the ship at Fremantle was the Shaw whom she contacted in France and who also boarded the ship at Naples. Major Francis was with you all the way from Fremantle. That has made things difficult for me, but not impossible.”
Shaw laughed, said jeeringly: “You were just a little too clever, Mirskov—”
The gun jerked up. “Silence! It is not that at all. Always I had known the difficulties of keeping this up for long, but I was confident that I could do so for long enough for our purpose. Now that is not so, thanks apparently to the man Francis, who has aroused disbelief. Now. I have apologized to this Captain James. I have told him that I realized I was obviously mistaken about you and that of course you would be released immediately. But he wishes to speak to you himself. It would not have seemed reasonable of me to have refused this request, and I told him to telephone again, when I would have you here to speak to him. Now listen to me carefully. You will tell Captain James when he rings, that you wish to question the man who wrongly informed against you, and that you wish to work on certain investigations here at Bandagong. To our mutual surprise, things are not all as they should be in the station. You will tell him that you will report by telephone immediately you have further news. Is that understood?” His gun nosed towards Shaw, and he added: “I will shoot instantly if you say one word other than this. Your Captain James, he will not hear the shot, for I can disconnect the line whenever I choose.”
“Maybe — but you’re going to have a job explaining afterwards, aren’t you?”
Mirskov snapped, “There will be no afterwards. The time is very close now. And you — you will be very dead in any case. And there is something else. If you do not do exactly as I say, a very special, very prolonged and very painful death will be reserved for two young ladies of your acquaintance — in advance of the world detonations. I have only to send word to London and to the liner.”
Shaw felt his guts draining away, and his hands shook; but he tried to conceal his racing thoughts and his excitement. Tensely he said: “All right. I suppose I haven’t any choice. But you’ll suffer for this one day, Mirskov.”
“I think not. But you are a wise man, Commander Shaw. Make certain you remain so when the telephone rings.” Mirskov relaxed a little, but kept the gun pointing steadily at Shaw. “Sit down.”
For an excruciating half-hour Shaw sat in silence under the muzzle of that revolver, thinking ahead and planning how he was going to get out of this. Slowly, very slowly, the minutes ticked by, the hands creeping over the face of a clock on the wall. Both men were tense and nervy. Shaw jumped when the harsh clamour of the telephone broke into that grim silence.
Mirskov reached out for the receiver.