Redcap (24 page)

Some three hours later the bodies of the army driver and the other man had been buried in shallow, rock-marked graves and the hole had been filled; the truck started up, squeezed through the gap over the rubble edging carefully past the articulated vehicle. After that they drove through the night, and in the light truck they were able to make much better speed; after seventeen hours’ almost continuous hard driving they came into the outer perimeter of the Bandagong area at 5 p.m. next day. And soon after that they rolled up sweaty and covered in a layer of dust and dead weary to an Australian sentry outside a post guarding the beginning of the final stretch of road into the closed area.

As their truck stopped, Francis leaned out through the window and showed his pass. He said, “Special party entering MAPIACCIND territory.”

“Right you are, sir.” The sentry waved them on, walked alongside as they started off slowly. “You’ll be checked again at the entrance to the station. Been there before, have yer?”

Francis shook his head. “No, son.”

“Go easy then, Major. They’re trigger-happy, those bastards.”

The truck drove on for another five miles, past an airfield of the R.A.A.F., past a radar station, and then came up to a heavily guarded gateway in a high barbed-wire fence. To Shaw, the place looked very like a prisoner-of-war camp, at least so far as its boundaries went. At intervals along the wire there were high enclosures manned by guards with automatic weapons slung from their shoulders, guards who constantly swept the boundaries of the vast station with field-glasses. There were searchlights in the boxes, seach-lights which no doubt would keep the whole area floodlit by night. Ahead of the truck was a large sign reading, in several languages: DEAD SLOW. Farther along there was a pole barrier across the road.

As they approached this barrier in bottom gear, a loudspeaker blared at them to stop.

Mindful of what the Australian sentry had said, the driver jerked on his brakes instantly. A sentry in the grey uniform of the MAPIACCIND Field Force advanced towards them, automatic weapon held ready. Behind him, a squad of troops under a sergeant piled out from a building beside the gate and formed up in the road. The first man told the truck driver to go ahead slowly, and as the vehicle started up again he walked along beside it, shouted a peremptory command for it to stop just before the barrier was reached. As they stopped again, they were surrounded. The Major’s party-pass was examined, handed back; and then all the men were ordered out for their own papers to be checked individually by the sergeant. The truck itself was searched rigorously. There was something of a Germanic air of thoroughness about the whole proceedings. Shaw thought, as he held his rising impatience in check.

He muttered to Francis, “I suppose all this
is
necessary, but. . . ."

“But you’re itching to be airbound for Sydney?”

Shaw said tautly, “That’s right, Major, I am.”

Francis looked at him shrewdly but said nothing more. When all was found to be in order the men were told curtly to get back in, and one of the armed guards jumped on to the running-board. Then the barrier was lifted and they were waved ahead, told to follow the directions of their escort.

Driving slowly in Shaw was amazed at the place which was to be REDCAP’s permanent home—if ever it got there—the place which MAPIACCIND had created out of the Australian desert. It must be about the biggest power station in the world—the biggest of all time; Shaw knew that it was planned to meet civilian needs as well as military, that it produced electricity for general consumption, like a genuine power station, as well as plutonium. In the centre of the huge area towered the four gigantic reactors, tall rectangular structures which were the core of the whole station, each with a dozen or so smaller buildings grouped around in a circle and linked to the main tower by frameworks which looked like bridges or grain elevators. The truck drove slowly past the ancillary buildings—buildings which made the place into a completely self-supporting unit: there were arcades of shops; there were sports grounds, canteens, full-scale restaurants, a theatre, bars. There were schools, and comfortable-looking staff quarters, neat bungalows each set in its own well-kept garden. It was just like a town in itself, a little chunk of culture and civilization hewn out of the desert, and it seemed to cover an area as big as a medium sized English provincial town.

Their guide directed them towards a big building which, he told them, was the Administrative Headquarters, and they stopped at the foot of a flight of steps. Francis, telling his lieutenant to keep the men by the truck for the time being, jumped out with Shaw and they went inside a big hall.

A hall-porter came forward and once again their papers were examined. Francis said, “I have orders to report in person to the Commandant.”

“Very good, sir. If you will please wait a few moments?”

For five minutes Shaw fretted and fumed in a waiting-room and then the hall-porter came in and turned them over to a messenger who led them down a long, rather bare corridor. The messenger stopped at a door at the end and tapped. They went into a high, plainly-furnished room with large windows looking out over what appeared to be the courtyard of a kind of Civic Centre. A man in MAPIACCIND grey, a young officer with a thin, dark face, came towards them. Shaw couldn’t place his nationality.

He greeted them smilingly, politely. He said, “I am the A.D.C. to the Commandant, gentlemen. I hear you have had a troublesome journey. I am sorry. Major Francis, perhaps you will be good enough to give me a full report of all that happened?”

He turned, went over to a desk and sat down. Francis said, “But look, I’ve got orders to report to the Commandant. I’d better make my report direct to him.”

The A.C.D. said diffidently, “That will not be necessary. The Commandant, you understand, is a very busy man. Commander Shaw he wishes to see, but you, Major—no.”

“But my orders——”

Still smiling, the A.D.C. raised a hand. “I am so sorry. I too have my orders. May I have your report, please?”

“Oh—very well, then. There’s not much to it.” Briefly Francis sketched in the events of the night before and the A.D.C. made his notes on a sheet of paper. Then he said,

“Thank you, Major Francis. I shall have this typed for your signature, and then your job is done. You will refresh yourself and your men and then after a night’s rest you will return to your unit. We shall be delighted to entertain you in the Mess, Major.”

“Well, thanks. . . Francis looked puzzled and put out, but he shrugged and turned to Shaw. He said, “Well, Commander, that’s that, I reckon. See you later, maybe?”

“If I’ve got time. I’ll have to get to Sydney as fast as possible.”

Francis grinned and stuck out his hand. “Right you are, then. Good-bye—nice to have had you along.” They shook hands, and then the A.D.C. rang for a messenger to take Francis back to the truck. He accompanied the Major to the door and when he came back he asked,

“Commander, have you any weapon?”

“Why, yes.” Shaw tapped his armpit.

“Then you will please leave it here. The Standing Orders say that no one is to enter the Commandant’s private office with arms. You will appreciate, of course, that there is the question of security.”

“Well . . . yes, I suppose so.” A little surprised, Shaw removed the revolver from its holster and laid it on a table. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“It will be returned to you on leaving. And now—you will excuse me.” The young man came forward, ran his hands quickly—and, Shaw fancied, with some reluctance—over the agent and then stood back apologetically. “Orders,” he murmured. “I am so sorry.”

Just a little angrily, Shaw followed the A.D.C. towards a door at the end of the room. The MAPIACCIND man knocked, threw the door open, stood aside, and announced Shaw, who walked forward to a big desk before a wide window at the end.

A squat, thick-set man rose to greet him, stretched out a hand. “Welcome to Bandagong, Commander Shaw. Welcome! My name is Mirskov. Please sit down.”

“Thank you, Commandant.” Shaw took a chair at the side of the desk. He coughed, said: “I’m sorry to sound pushing and impatient, Commandant, but it’s rather urgent I get to Sydney as soon as possible. . . ."

Mirskov waved a hand. “In good time, Commander Shaw. First, there are just one or two matters which we must naturally discuss.”

Shaw said crisply, “There’s not much to tell you, I’m afraid, beyond what I said in my signal from the truck back down the road from Fremantle. You’ve got that?”

“Oh, yes, indeed—”

“Apart from that, there’s just this.” Shaw brought out the envelope handed him by Sir Donald Mackinnon, the envelope with the MAPIACCIND seal. “That’s the list of signals. If you wouldn’t mind giving me a formal receipt, sir?”

He handed the envelope over, and as Mirskov took it he seemed to catch his breath a little. He asked, “These are the signals—the operating signals for REDCAP?”

Shaw nodded. “Yes. As I understand it, they were to have been handed over to you by Colonel Gresham, by order of Geneva. And these are the genuine ones.” He explained briefly about the fake set held by Gresham, adding that he believed they might have been copied aboard the ship.

Mirskov’s eyes seemed to glitter oddly, and he said: “Indeed? Thank you very much, Commander Shaw.” He slid the envelope into a drawer and pressed a bell-push beneath the desk. He said nothing further, and almost immediately the door from the ante-room opened and a man came in.

Shaw glanced over at the doorway, and gave an exclamation, half rising from his chair. The man was—Sigurd Andersson. Admittedly he called himself a Swedish agent, but to find him walking gaily into the Commandant’s room at Bandagong was the last thing Shaw had ever expected. When he looked back in incredulous query at Commandant Mirskov, he saw that the squat man had a gun in his hand.

Shaw’s throat went dry as Andersson approached and looked questioningly across at Mirskov after a triumphant glance at the agent. If Mirskov belonged to the other side . . . and yet, how could he?

Andersson sat down and said, “You look pleased, Mirskov. May one inquire—why?”

“But certainly!” Mirskov’s thick lips parted gloatingly. “The man Shaw has brought the signals—the genuine ones!” Andersson’s whole body seemed to tauten. “Do you mean that seriously?”

“I would not joke about such matters. Here they are.” Mirskov opened the drawer, brought out the envelope. Shaw started forward, maddened with rage now. As he moved, Mirskov’s gun came up, levelled at Shaw’s stomach. Mirskov said softly, “Come any nearer and I shall shoot at once. And I can assure you, no questions will ever be asked. Oh yes, I am what you would call a traitor, no doubt, and you will be wondering how this could happen. Let me remind you, in the last resort a man is seldom a traitor to his own conscience—he goes where his true sympathies lie.” Again, the man’s eyes glittered oddly. “The screening . . . yes, it was intensive, very intensive, of course. But so was the preparation by our people. They are not fools, Commander. My background was impeccable, I had been known for years to the men who appointed me to Bandagong.” His voice changed suddenly and he snapped, “Sit down.”

Shaw obeyed, slowly, licking his parched lips. Turning to the other man, he asked: “Are you going to explain, Andersson?”

“Karstad,” the man said gently. “There is no further harm in my admitting straight out that your guess was right after all . . . and now the Commandant will continue. It is quite simple.”

Mirskov said, “Certainly.” He cleared his throat. “Karstad has brought me certain information, information upon which it is my duty to act in my capacity as Commandant of Bandagong. He tells me that you have been conspiring against the interests of MAPIACCIND—that in fact you are impersonating a certain Commander Shaw of the British Navy. Have you anything to say to that?”

Shaw laughed scornfully. “Only that you know perfectly well that that’s a damned he, and you won’t get away with it.”

Mirskov grinned, blinked his eyes rapidly. “Of course it is a he, we may as well admit that amongst ourselves! But— we shall most certainly get away with it, my dear fellow. Karstad, in the name of Andersson, is an accredited agent, and his word will be believed. And think—how many people
know
that you are Shaw?”

“Plenty. Sir Donald Mackinnon for one. Any amount back in England.”

“Ah—quite! Back in England, yes. But out here in Australia? And as for the liner Captain, he cannot be certain that something has not happened to the real Shaw on his journey, that an impostor has not arrived in Bandagong—unless he is allowed to see you, which he will not be. I assure you, my dear fellow, that is the story we shall stick to, and I, the Commandant of Bandagong and in effect the Ambassador of MAPIACCIND in this self-governing territory, will not be questioned. I have complete power within this area and no one at all enters it without my permission. Moreover, no one nearer than Geneva has the authority to overrule my decisions.”

Shaw bit down on his lip, his face grim and lined. Andersson looked at him, laughed. He said, “Oh, my dear Shaw! How stupid, how very stupid, you have been . . . you knew that I killed Gresham, did you not?”

“I did.”

“The report of my death reached your chief at precisely the right time, I would say. That was neatly contrived, don’t you think? Naturally, all this was planned a very long time ago—”

Shaw asked harshly, “Tell me, Karstad—why did you tip Donovan off? Whose side were you on then?”

“The same side which I have been on all along . . . but it seems there is some misunderstanding. I did not ‘tip Donovan off’ at all. I was seeking his help in what we had to do. You understand, I knew he was discredited in his own country and in France and in Norway—everywhere—for I myself had ‘denounced’ him in the first place—”

“You—” Shaw was half out of his chair.

Karstad lifted a hand and his voice sharpened. “Wait— sit down or Mirskov will shoot.” Karstad waited until Shaw had sunk back, then went on: “You see, Donovan was becoming too successful in the war, and by his very success he was in danger of leading me into disfavour with my superiors—the Germans. In those days he was too clever to allow himself to be killed, therefore it was necessary that he should be discredited. And so I framed him.” Karstad shrugged. “When I found a use for him all those years later, I did not forget that record. I knew he was alive and I thought he would be a willing collaborator, since he had been disgraced—by the West, so far as he knew. And we needed much help, much help. But for once, my friend, I was wrong. Oh, he agreed—yes, he agreed!” Karstad’s face was very ugly. “And then I heard that he intended to contact you and report all I had told him. As a result of that, I had to arrange for Donovan to be killed before he had a chance to speak. It was nearly too late. Nearly—but not quite.”