Chapter Twenty-Three
In London Latymer had also got matters moving rapidly.
A conference of service chiefs had been followed immediately by a cabinet meeting and after that the United States Ambassador had been summoned to Downing Street. When the Ambassador was shown in Latymer was already with the Prime Minister, who had returned half an hour earlier from the Palace. During that half-hour Latymer had been having a bad time and now he wasn’t holding back on his opinions. He said acidly, “My dear sir, I know Shaw inside out! I gave him a blasting over the line to Washington for making arrangements without the knowledge of the British Government, I agree… but in point of fact I trust him absolutely to carry this thing through.” He turned to the Ambassador. “So, it seems, does the President, Your Excellency.”
The Ambassador agreed. “That is so. The fact—”
Latymer broke in, addressing the Prime Minister. “With respect, sir… I’m not having Shaw’s pitch queered by the politicians now he’s gone in at the deep end. He’s the best man I’ve got and he’s fully experienced in similar situations — and his line’s the right one. This has to be done under cover. I’ll stake my career on that.”
The P.M. reached out a hand to a tumbler of whisky on a table by his chair. He looked at the hand, seeming to study dispassionately the shake that was in it. His voice was quiet and steady when he said, “I may have to hold you to that. But since the American President has initiated this—”
“And his own country’s facing the most immediate threat, to say nothing of his own personal position, as the Ambassador will confirm—”
“Yes, Latymer, I know all that. Just hear me out.” The Prime Minister walked slowly across to an ornate chimney-piece and stood with his back to it, gazing the length of the room. “I was about to say… we’ll play it your way—”
Latymer said fervently, “Thank God for that!” He mopped his face.
“—and Shaw’s. We all know Communist double-talk is more than capable of presenting active defence of one’s own country as naked aggression. But like America, I shall order internal defensive measures so we’re fully prepared to meet any emergency as it comes. Police, armed forces, Civil Defence… they’ll be needed at strategic points for the protection of life and the places Shaw has reported as being under the first threat. The B.B.C. and the independent TV stations, Houses of Parliament; the various Government buildings, Buckingham Palace.” He paused. “Unlike America, however, that is the sum total we’re required to do.”
Latymer nodded heavily. “Or able to do,” he growled. “We can’t get tough with a tom cat. Which is just one more reason why I prefer to rely on Shaw’s somewhat less obtrusive methods! God help us if we’re expected to strike back at China, assuming they get as far as attacking.” He added, “There’s one more thing. There’s going to be a number of very itchy fingers on triggers at the time Tucker’s TV appearance is due. I think we should make it absolutely crystal clear that the Negroes in this country aren’t to become the victims of a witch-hunt. We have to bear in mind that the Coloured races — though I’m far from whitewashing the extremists among ’em — are being duped, misled, used for purposes they know nothing about. They’re no more than cat’s-paws in this, most of ’em.”
“That’s entirely agreed,” the P.M. said. “I think all of us realize where the blame lies. I’ll be in touch shortly with the Special Branch… all known Communists will be placed under strict surveillance from now on—”
“Strict — but discreet, I trust?”
The Prime Minister smiled. “Very discreet,” he said. “And you can take it from me — there’ll be no victimization of the Coloureds.”
Throughout the White world the preparations continued clicking smoothly into gear. With something like forty-five hours to go before the Presidential broadcast, no time was being lost and no one was showing any complacency. The West had been thoroughly alarmed by the urgent messages that had crackled out from Washington… to Paris, Bonn, Moscow, Rome, Ottawa, Canberra, Wellington as well as London. Men moved to their stations throughout all countries, not knowing why, assuming some exercise to be imminent. In the United States the Continental Air Defence Command at Colorado Springs was on an immediate alert to intercept any enemy aircraft; the Strategic Air Command would shortly be continuously airborne with its nuclear bomb-loads ready. The long, probing fingers of the missiles stood ready now to be lifted electronically through their sealing doors, to nose up from the earth and await the blast-off that would carry them across the ocean to the Chinese mainland. At sea, the commanders of the nuclear-powered, Polaris-carrying submarines, all of which were re-deploying into the Pacific, had received their stand-by instructions and would remain at instant readiness to execute the final order if it should come, if Shaw should fail in the last round against Tucker. In its station near Chinese waters, the U.S. Seventh Fleet turned on a course to take it farther from the mainland — a feint, in case the Chinese should be tracking them on their radar installations, or send over reconnaissance aircraft. But the Polaris squadron remained on station, lurking deep down and undetectable, while the surface ships steamed away at slow speeds. The whole fleet would be well within striking distance if its services should be required. America was determined, if the worst happened, to throw in all she had and to hit the Chinese hard from every direction.
Everywhere agents kept their ears to the ground, their fingers on a very sensitive pulse, but they were able to detect, as the hours wore on, no sign of any leakage, of any fresh apprehension among the Negro populations in the White countries, no sign of any fresh appreciation of the situation being made.
From cover outside the Hound-Tucson property, Shaw watched and waited until he saw Spice and Vilera leave the premises. He had had a long wait in the dark but it had been worth while. The men drove off in the Cadillac… and when they were out of sight, Shaw moved in. He moved in openly through the gateway and jumped up on the ramp and went quickly for the door into the office. When he banged on the door, which was locked, he had a gun in his other hand — a Webley ·38 pocket revolver loaned to him by Kirkham.
From inside Bum Walley answered; Shaw remembered the voice only too well. “Yeah? Who is it?”
“Customs,” Shaw answered, using a Brooklyn accent.
“What d’ya want… this time of night?”
“Open the door and you’ll find out, mac.”
“Ain’t openin’ no — door for no — Customs.”
Shaw said, “I’d reconsider that noble stand if I were you. If you don’t open up I’ll fetch the cops and get ’em to blow the lock if need be. And if they have to do that, I’ll assume you have something you don’t want seen and I’ll go right through the warehouse and everything else and I won’t stop till I’ve found something to hang a charge on. It’s your choice entirely.”
And a hell of a choice for poor Bum, Shaw thought with a grin. He’d be sweating drops of blood with the sheer worry of making up his mind. After a pause Walley said placatingly, “Aw, to hell. Okay, I’m coming.”
The key turned in the lock and Walley blinked out with the light behind him. Then his mouth sagged open. He looked as if he’d seen an evil spirit as he travelled backwards with Shaw’s gun in his belly.