ADAM HALL: The Scorpion Signal

I turned again, wheeling into the wind with the edge of the cliff a hundred feet below me. The air feathered against my face, numbing it, and tears crept back from the corners of my eyes, drying on the skin. A pale sun was turning the sea into hammered gold, below on my right side, and the waves were rolling in ice-blue arcs, hanging poised for an instant before they shattered along the shore.

It had been the twentieth turn: I'd been counting them. I was now half hypnotized by the sliding images of grass and cliff and sand and sea as they floated below my prone body, and by the periods of near-weightlessness as the wind gusts dropped me into the troughs and lifted me out again. A minute ago two gulls had come abreast of me and drifted alongside not far away, their sharp heads turned to watch me as they wondered what I was; inland I could see our three shadows gliding in perfect formation across the short brown grass of the cliff top, two small ones and the third much bigger but still the shape of a bird, not of a man. By a degree, however small, I was taking on their character, watching the land below and feeling the lie of the wind, the muscles compensating as evolution worked on my humanoid body and adapted its behaviour to the needs of a bird.

I broke the next turn at ninety degrees and went down-wind across the edge of the cliff to try out the air on the lee side. For a moment the car was directly below me and I saw Norton again, standing near it and gazing up. Another car was pulling in rather fast from the cliff road and bouncing over the grass, but I lost sight of it as the sail hit some turbulence. I worked on the bar, tilting it back to gain speed and pulling the nose up to get some more height; then I veered into the wind and crossed the cliff again, turning to drift parallel with it.

After the next turn I saw the other car had pulled up alongside Norton's MG. There were a couple of men in dark uniforms, and Norton started waving to me with wide urgent gestures. I checked the sail and rigging but couldn't see anything wrong. I didn't expect to: I had a rough idea of what had come up. At the end of the run I turned and moved inland again. All three of them were waving to me with flailing downward motions, putting a lot of expression into it; I could now see the white letters on the back of the second car. I didn't like it, any of it, because I'd been on leave only two weeks and my nerves were still trying to shake themselves out.

I made three more runs, trying to forget about them, but they began using the horns at me and a siren wailed into life and died again. They were still waving, so I compromised: I think I could have got enough height to come in and land on the grass and ask them what the hell they wanted, but I gave myself a final fling and put the nose down and swooped over their heads in a long arrowing dive across the cliff and the beach and the sea, wheeling against the beaten gold reflection and moving into wind again, lowering, the trailing edge fluttering near stalling point a few feet above the ground; then I put the nose down and ran in with my feet ploughing up the sand as I got the last of the wind out of the sail. I was still dismantling when Norton came sprinting along from the cliff path to help me.

'London,' he said.

'I'm frozen stiff,' I told him. 'Look after this, will you?' I left him and ran hard for a mile, as far as the pier and back, feeling better because I'd worked a bit of the frustration out: there was absolutely no point in getting annoyed just because he'd mentioned London. They couldn't send me out again, not this soon.

'Police escort,' Norton said as he strapped the spars together. 'Not my fault.'

'All I need,' I said, 'is a phone.'

'And the best of luck.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake shut up.'

I hated panic, and a police escort meant someone in London was panicking.

It was ten minutes before we got the kite up the steps in the cliff. The two cops helped us stow it on the rack of Norton's MG, asking a lot of silly questions, what did it feel like, wasn't it dangerous, so forth. They followed us to the hotel and I used the telephone and talked to three people, one of them Tilson; then I put the phone down and came back to the lobby and told Norton:

'You weren't joking.'

He puffed out his cheeks. 'Are you taking your car?'

'Yes. I'll need it to come back in, tomorrow.'

He didn't make any comment. The two cops were looking at us from the entrance doors and one of them called out:

'We were told to get a move on. It's up to you.'

I went over to the desk to pay my bill.

'Give me a lift?' Norton asked me.

'Where to?' I was thinking of Helena.

'London.'

I turned and looked at him. 'Do they want you too?'

'They might.'

I suppose he could have gone over to the telephone booth by the doors while I was calling London: the first line I'd tried had been engaged. Maybe they'd told him to make sure I got there.

'Look,' I told the cashier, 'there's a Helena Swinburn meeting me here in an hour from now. Give her this message and get the florist to bring round some gardenias, if not, orchids, if not, carnations, all right? Add twenty-five to the card to cover it. And I'm leaving my bags in the room.'

He was making notes. 'You'll be keeping the room, then, sir? '

'Yes. I'll be back tomorrow some time.'

I could hear Norton whistling under his breath. He'd caught some of the panic from London when he'd phoned, typical admin reaction. I went over to the cops. 'What's the form?'

'You follow us. If you can't keep up, just give a toot.'

'Bloody cheek,' I said and went out to look for the jag.

In the next ten minutes we cleared all the red lights in the town with the siren and flashers going and settled down into the nineties as soon as we got on to the motorway north, reaching Mitcham in seventy minutes flat.

'Chopper,' Norton said. He hadn't spoken before.

I'd been watching it. The patrol car was slowing hard in front of us and taking us across the common, pulling up close to the spot where the helicopter was touching down on skis. It was a police machine with the coat-of-arms of the Royal Borough of Westminster on the side; I suppose they hadn't been able to get the Sussex constabulary to fly us in from the coast. Everyone had obviously been playing about with the radio and I began feeling depressed because this was fully-alert procedure and I was meant to be on leave.

The door slid back and a voice came above the sound of the blades. 'No baggage?'

'No'

'Hop in.'

Norton's foot slipped on the metal rung of the step as he swung up.

'Watch it.'

They slammed the door and gunned up and lifted off with the first of the neon lights falling away below. Norton was still untalkative; he sat puffing his cheeks out, trying to get rid of the tension. He'd been with the Bureau nearly as long as I had and he knew the signs. This wasn't a mission they wanted me for: someone had blown a fuse and the whole network had gone out of whack. It had happened twice before, during my time: once when Fraser had been pulling a Polish intelligence colonel across the frontier at Szczecin and the checkpoint had shut down on them, and once when they'd hauled me out of Tokyo to look for some nerve gas some bloody fool had dropped all over the Sahara. Whatever they wanted me for this time it was no go.

London was coming up, a haze of light from horizon to horizon under the late January fog. Norton was rubbing his hands together, though it wasn't cold in the cabin; I felt sorry for him, with all that adrenalin sloshing about before we'd even started.

'Never mind,' I said above the beat of the rotors, 'it's probably some bloody fool in Signals getting his homework wrong.'