ADAM HALL: The Scorpion Signal

I gazed across at the brilliantly-polished Zil. 'Did you see what he was doing in here?'

'No. He locked the door after him.'

'How did you get in, afterwards?'

'Picked the lock. It's a tumbler.'

'Did he bring anything with him?'

'Nothing too big for his pockets.'

'Take anything away?'

'Not that I saw. He wasn't carrying anything.'

He was moving his feet up and down, his hands stuffed into his pockets. There was no heating on in this place and a freezing draught was blowing across the floor. The building was old and looked abandoned; above our heads there was a gap of light where the roof had started caving in under the weight of the snow, and the whole place creaked. Various smells were distinguishable: rotting timber, damp sacking, sour grain, petrol and rubber.

I went on staring at the big black limousine, not comfortable with it. 'All right,' I told Shortlidge, 'I want you to keep watch outside. I'll be here about an hour. Where's your car?'

'Round the back.'

'Can I use this torch?'

'Help yourself.'

'There's one in the Pobeda glove pocket, if you want one. Listen, if you can't see the door to this place from your car, sit in mine. I want you to warn me if anyone comes, but keep out of the action if anything starts, understood?'

He considered this, moving his feet up and down. 'What about if you're up against it?'

'I'll look after myself. Your job is to get a signal back. Croder's instructions.'

'OK.' He left me.

I stood listening to the creaking of the building, feeling the cold draught numbing my ankles as I stared at the big black Zil. It was probably going to be all right, but even Schrenk was human and could make a mistake, and it was a minute before I was ready to go across to the thing and start work.

Long wheelbase, four doors, Central Committee MOII number plates, immaculate bodywork and chrome. I shone the torch through one of the windows. Brushed vinyl club seats, thick blue carpeting, two telephones, built-in tape deck, air conditioning vents and controls, cocktail cabinet, wood-grain panelling, dark blue nylon curtains at the rear windows, a thick glass division between the front and rear seats separating the passengers from the chauffeur and escort.

I began underneath, fetching some sacking from a pile near the wall and spreading it on the dirt floor and sliding inwards on the flat of my back with the torch in my right hand. The general layout was massive but clean, with cross-braced box section chassis members and two enormous exhaust silencers running half the length of the car. I checked ledges, niches and junctions, inching my left hand along the topside of every component, the sweat beginning because the organism was confined and wouldn't be able to help itself if anything went wrong, wouldn't even know about it except for a microsecond of cataclysm.

Careful, old boy. Don't touch the wrong thing. Amusement in his tone as he watched me, his eyes narrowed against the smoke of the cigarette.

Bugger off.

I went over the rear axle casing, propeller shaft tunnel, flywheel housing, crankcase flanges and trays while the building creaked and the draught chilled my bones and the bastard began laughing softly with that awful laugh of his that turned to coughing because of the cigarette smoke.

You're taking a chance, old boy, I suppose you know that.

Yes, I knew that. He was human and he might have lost some of his cunning when they'd half-killed him in that bloody place and I couldn't be sure that my hand wouldn't at some time touch a badly assembled trip mechanism or set off a too-sensitive rocking device or break a circuit when I opened a door and triggered the interior lamps. Taking a chance, yes, and I couldn't get his voice out of my head.

I stopped after ten minutes and lay listening, with the torch switched off and the stink of oil in the air, the draught shifting and fretting and freezing the skin. Four vehicles had gone past the warehouse and each time I'd switched off the torch because this building wasn't light-proof. Five minutes ago a train had rolled slowly alongside, its vibration setting up a buzzing in one of the Zil's headlamps.

You're pushing your luck, old boy. You -

Shuddup.

I wiped my hands on the sacking and got out from underneath and opened the driver's door, doing it quickly because there was a Russian roulette factor in play: Schrenk was working in foreign terrain and he couldn't be a hundred per cent certain of his components or materials, however competently he assembled them.

In twenty minutes I was finished with the interior, lifting out the seat cushions and the carpets, checking the cocktail cabinet, telephones, tape deck, air conditioning vents and the tip-up seats. Most of this time was spent in checking the recess behind the facia panel in the forward compartment, working with extra care among the wiring, terminals and fuse boxes.

There's only one thing those bastards'll listen to.

A bomb.

He was so good at them. I'd watched him rigging a bang more than once, sitting over the bloody thing and crooning like a witch, his thin nicotine-stained fingers stroking and fondling and fiddling, the pliers paring the insulation and making the loop in the copper cable, his fingertip spinning the brass terminal free as if he were playing with a toy, his pale eyes bright and his mouth touched with a faint Gioconda smile.

'Anyone would think,' I'd said to him once, 'it was a baby rabbit.'

He'd looked up quickly. 'That's all they are, old boy. Baby rabbits.' A soft chuckle. 'Until they go up, of course. Then they're tigers.'

I pulled the bonnet lock and went through the engine compartment, taking nearly half an hour because of all the subsidiary tanks, reservoirs, chambers and small boxed components; a lot of them were labelled but I had to identify the rest by following the cables, pipes and linkages to find out which system they served. Then I shut the bonnet and opened the boot and checked the spare wheel, the first aid box and emergency tool kit. The torch battery was running low by this time but I'd almost finished now.

Didn't find anything, old boy?

It could of course be packed inside the upholstery or the roof lining or the door panelling, anywhere like that, but a major search with tools would take time and at this stage I'd prefer to report to Croder and get his instructions; until we knew the overall picture we didn't necessarily want Schrenk to know we'd found the Zil and we didn't necessarily want to immobilize it: he could have alternative procedures planned.

I started on a final check before the torch was too dim, covering the areas behind the radiator grille, inside the wings and under the bodywork valances. Another freight train was rolling through but the warehouse was a sound-box and when the door creaked I froze and waited, concealed by the Zil.

Light flashed from a torch.

`You there?'

`Yes.'

`Someone coming.'

I went over to the door. 'Keep inside and stay hidden,' I told Shortlidge. He moved for the pile of crates and I shut the door and got behind it and waited. The train was still rumbling but I could hear footsteps over the brittle snow outside and then a key in the door. It was turned sharply three times: he was surprised to find it was already unlocked.

I'd have liked to have a final word with Shortlidge because I didn't know whether he'd follow my orders and stay out of the action or decide to get mixed up in it and risk two deaths and no signal to base, but he was a fully trained a-i-p with a Curtain-country post and I stopped worrying and watched the door. It opened cautiously and a man came in and snapped a light on and I used the right hand and searched him for weapons while he was still out and then got some snow and packed his face with it till he came to. Then I began asking questions.