Gibraltar Road by Philip McCutchan Page A

topographically, bringing Shaw’s own knowledge right up to date. Carberry had warned him of a tightening up by the carabinero section of the Guardia Civil on the Spanish side of the La Linea frontier post, of a markedly increased antipathy towards British subjects entering from Gibraltar. He had put Shaw wise to the best ways of getting through both the Spanish control and the British Lines beyond the North Front if he should want to enter Spain incognito to pick up information about Karina’s intentions. Carberry had told him more about Don Jaime, and about that Malaga contact, Domingo Felipe, who could, Carberry had said, be picked up any evening in a certain one of the numerous bars in Torremolinos; this Felipe would be briefed meanwhile by other contacts in Spain, round Barcelona way, so that he would be able to make himself known to Shaw. Because of this, Carberry had strongly advised Shaw to make a point of contacting Jaime if he did enter Spain, and thus get himself within the ambit of Domingo Felipe. Carberry had provided Shaw with documentation to cover every foreseeable contingency—including a Spanish workman’s day pass from La Linea into Gibraltar. All these papers were now in a plain package in the Captain’s safe. And in Shaw’s baggage as the old cruiser pushed on south for the Straits was a set of Spanish workman’s clothing which was so genuine that it carried even the sour smell of unwashed hombre —dirty, sand-coloured corduroys, faded blue shirt, black beret. They could come in handy.
    Carberry had given Shaw a photograph of Mr Ackroyd, too, so that he could identify the little man, if necessary, before he’d managed to wangle a properly casual meeting; and he’d told him quite a lot about Mr Ackroyd, and the full story of Project Sinker.
    He’d said, booming out his exclamation marks, “It really is something big, old boy—the Old Man’s perfectly right! They’re blasting away the rock in some of those caves below Arrow Street, which runs along the top of the east face. It’s quite well advanced already! They’re making the caverns big enough to take these nuclear-powered subs, you see, and use the Rock itself as a kind of underground port, fully protected from the air—”
    “Even against H-bomb attack?”
    “We-ell, yes. As near as one can possibly hope, anyway! Can’t think of anywhere else on God’s earth where they’d have a better chance—put it that way!”
    Shaw had agreed with that. Under those millions of tons of living rock, beneath that great towering natural edifice, they would be pretty secure. Carberry had continued, “In time, as I dare say you’ve been told, there’ll be other refueling bases, but that’s very much in the future—they take a longish while to establish, and Gib’s our great white hope for the next few years! You can imagine the security—officially it’s being given out that the project’s concerned with providing safe berthing facilities for ordinary surface craft— the smaller escorts and anti-submarine vessels and so on— in time of war. All the people working on it are hand-picked, but even they don’t get the whole picture, and all the area is heavily screened by security police, while the labour’s provided by specially graded volunteers from among the dockyard mateys in the home ports.”
    Shaw nodded. “The Old Man said something about that.”
    “Now, what you might call the hub of the whole thing is in that power-house leading off Dockyard Tunnel, where this man Ackroyd has his infernal machine! He’s due to demonstrate it soon after you arrive, and we’re all keeping our fingers crossed that it’s going to work! It’s what you might call a dicey do, that machine, and Ackroyd’s last test wasn’t very satisfactory. An entirely unexpected defect cropped up. ’Course, it’s been dealt with, but I don’t care for the sound of it, old boy!”
    “How’s that?”
    Carberry had bunched his lips and examined his