ADAM HALL: The Scorpion Signal

'It's okay,' Floderus said, 'he's flashing us.'

'What sort of terrain is there,' I asked him wearily, 'between here and the checkpoint?'

'What? Oh, just rocks, and a few trees.'

'Why doesn't he just give a blast on the horns?'

He stared at me. 'They'd hear it from the frontier.'

Some kind of laughter came out of me, maybe panic in disguise. The truck came alongside and I waited for Floderus to check the driver before I got out and opened the rear door of the car and changed coats and put on the fur hat; at least London had got this much right, pulling the tailor out of bed as well, to check on the size.

'Gloves,' I said.

'Oh.' He gave them to me. 'This is Gunther,' he said in German.

A thick-shouldered man in a reefer jacket and woollen hat, his flat square face half buried in a scarf. 'Everything is in order,' he said.

'Why were you late?'

'There was snow.' He pulled open the rear doors of the truck and jumped up. 'In here.'

Most of the stuff on the floor was Scotch, in cases of a dozen bottles, and he had to shift four of them before he could drag the lid of the recess upwards and swing it to one side. The compartment was lined with felt. He stood clear of it to let the roof light shine down.

'What's underneath?'

'Nothing,' he said. 'The road. But it's thick, and there are steel brackets.'

'Do you bring people across in this, the other way?'

'I have brought seven, in the past three months. Seventy thousand US dollars. Not for me. For them: His breath clouded under the roof light.

'How much do you get?'

'One thousand. I get one for you.' His small brown eyes moved over me. 'It's the first time I've taken anyone this way.'

'Are you going to move those cases back over the trap when I'm inside?'

'Yes.'

'How many of them?'

'These here. Four. Maybe five.'

'How much do they weigh? Each?'

'Seventeen kilos.'

I dropped into the recess face-down and told him to shut the lid; then I humped my back until my spine made contact. There weren't more than a few inches of leverage but it might be enough to shift five cases of Scotch because I'd only have to do it if I got trapped and if I got trapped there'd be a lot of adrenalin to help me. I told him to open the lid.

'On your back,' he said, 'is best.'

'That's the way you put people in coffins.' I looked at Floderus, standing out there at the back of the truck with his hands tucked under his arms. 'Is there anything else?'

'This,' he said, and gave me a small red metal box. Normally I refuse it but on this trip I didn't think much of my chances and if they caught up with me in Moscow and pulled me in I might want to opt out rather than finish up like Schrenk, his feet were still rather painful, he tended to hobble. I put the box in my pocket. 'Send a signal,' I told Floderus, 'as soon as you can get to a telephone. Understood?'

'OK.'

I dropped into the recess again and told Gunther to shut the lid. The time by my watch was 03.37.

First there was just one man talking to Gunther; then a second one came up and told him to open the rear doors of the truck. I could hear those bloody dogs again, not far away now. I was lying in total darkness, with only aural data coming in. When the doors banged back the voices were much dearer.

What is in these boxes? What is in those packages over there?

So forth.

Sweat was running on my face because there weren't enough ventilation holes in this thing and they shouldn't be asking all those questions out there: Gunther had said there wouldn't be any trouble at the checkpoint, he'd drive straight through as soon as they recognized him.

How many cases are there?

Their boots grated on the floorboards just above me. I lay with my eyes shut to keep the sweat from running into them.

Does the Gruppenfuhrer know about this consignment?

There was grit under their boots and it sounded like static, immediately above my head. Of course the Gruppenfuhrer knew about it, Gunther told them. I thought his voice was too loud, too blustering.

A dog barked again and my scalp shrank, because this wasn't the end phase of the mission with the blood up and the nerves singing and the target in sight; this was the jump phase and the sweat was cold on me and I wasn't ready for them to tell Gunther to pull up on the floorboard here, this loose one.

Wait there. I shall have to wake the guard commander.

They'd be in trouble. Gunther told them, if they woke the Gruppenfuhrer for nothing. He'd have their hide.

We shall see about that, the man said, and his boots thudded on the roadway as he dropped from the truck.

I listened to the ticking sounds of the exhaust pipe contracting as it cooled. Light showed faintly through some of the ventilation holes and a door slammed somewhere on the right of the truck. Voices came again, Gunther's the loudest and with panic in it. They didn't listen to him.

Move your vehicle over here. It's in the way.

His boots loudened again and the doors at the rear slammed shut like an explosion. I listened to him going forward and climbing into the cab, pulling the door shut. Exhaust gas seeped in through the ventilation holes as he started the engine, and I began shallow breathing as we started to roll. I waited to feel the movement as he turned the wheel but it didn't come: my feet were being pushed against the end of the recess as he gunned up in first gear and botched into second and kept his foot down as a man began shouting somewhere behind us. The roar of the exhaust drowned everything out until the truck hit something head-on and began dragging the debris with it, possibly the barrier but I tried to believe that Gunther knew he wouldn't have a chance in hell of putting a ten-tonner through a checkpoint and getting away with it.

There were more shouts now and I could see lights flashing in the ventilation holes; then the noise fell away and we seemed to be clear of the debris as Gunther forced a fast change into third gear and flattened the throttle gain. A lot of vibration started and I braced my hands forward in case we hit something else.

When the first shots came I humped my back and heaved upwards against the trap door, feeling the weight of the cases and heaving again till they were forced dear. There was some rapid fire now and I crawled out of the recess and lurched forward, getting most of the cargo between my body and the rear doors as a bottle was hit and glass exploded inside one of the cases. The truck was swaying as we took a curve and some of the load went over, bursting open and shattering against the doors. I thought I could hear Gunther shouting in the cab, but couldn't make out any words. A bullet came through at an angle, deflected by the cargo and crumping into the timber close to my head. I lay face down, my body in line with the longitudinal axis of the truck, feet towards the rear doors.

Light was showing from somewhere, bright light from behind us, filtering through the gaps where the hinges were. The shots were lower now, clanging into the chassis below the tailboard; one of them ripped a hole in the silencer and a sustained roaring started up; I heard a tyre burst but there were twin wheels at the rear and Gunther still had control. A klaxon was going, its sound getting louder as a vehicle dosed in, its light silvering the dark through the cracks in the rear doors; the next volley smashed into a case and sent glass fluting through the air. Then they were shooting low again and two more tyres burst and the truck lurched over, righting itself and lurching again and starting a long slow zig-zag on the rear wheel-rims.

Then everything went. I felt a final lurch and then a brief period of weightlessness as the truck left the road and began floating into the drop, tilting to one side and staying like that, then tilting right over before it hit the rockface and started bouncing. Orientation was down to near zero now: I was inside a rolling barrel and the cargo had gone wild and all I could do was squeeze under the rear shelf and try to hang on but it wasn't easy because the noise had reached a crescendo: I was trapped inside a thunderstorm and couldn't think my way out.