Десмонд Бэгли - Running Blind

Elin rang up as I was finishing breakfast. From the static and the slight fading I could tell she was using the radiotelephone in the Land-Rover. Most vehicles travelling long distances in Iceland are fitted with radio-telephones, a safety measure called for by the difficult nature of the terrain. That’s the standard explanation, but not the whole truth. The fact is that Icelanders like telephoning and constitute one of the gabbiest nations on earth, coming just after the United States and Canada in the number of calls per head.

She asked if I had slept well and I assured her I had, then I said, ‘When will you get here?’

‘About eleven-thirty.’

‘I’ll meet you at the camp site,’ I said.

That gave me two hours which I spent in walking around Akureyri like a tourist, ducking in and out of shops, unexpectedly retracing my steps and, in general acting the fool. But when I joined Elin at the camp site I was absolutely sure that I didn’t have a tail. It seemed as though Slade had been telling the truth when he said he had no further use for me.

I opened the door of the Land-Rover, and said, ‘Move over; I’ll drive.’

Elin looked at me in surprise. ‘Aren’t we staying?’

‘We’ll drive a little way out of town and then have lunch. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

I drove along the north road by the coast, moving fast and keeping a close check behind. As it became clear that no one was following I began to relax, although not so much as to take the worry from Elin’s eyes. She could see I was preoccupied and tactfully kept silent, but at last she said, ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

‘You’re so damn right,’ I said. ‘That’s what I want to discuss.’

Back in Scotland Slade had warned me about involving Elin in the operation; he had also invoked the Official Secrets Act with its penalties for blabbermouths. But if my future life with Elin was going to mean anything at all I had to tell her the truth and to hell with Slade and to hell with the Official Secrets Act.

I slowed down and left the road to bump over turf, and stopped overlooking the sea. The land fell away in a rumble of boulders to the grey water and in the distance the island of Grimsey loomed hazily through the mist. Apart from the scrap of land there wasn’t a damned thing between us and the North Pole. This was the Arctic Ocean.

I said, ‘What do you know about me, Elin?’

‘That’s a strange question. You’re Alan Stewart — whom I like very much.’

‘Is that all?’

She shrugged. ‘What else do I need to know?’

I smiled. ‘No curiosity. Elin?’

‘Oh, I have my curiosity but I keep it under control. If you want me to know anything, you’ll tell me,’ she said tranquilly, then hesitated. ‘I do know one thing about you.’

‘What’s that?’

She turned to face me. ‘I know that you have been hurt, and it happened not long before we met. That is why I keep my questions to myself — I don’t want to bring the hurt back.’

‘You’re very perceptive,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think it showed. Would it surprise you to know I was once a British agent — a spy?’

She regarded me curiously. ‘A spy,’ she said slowly, as though rolling the word about her mouth to taste it. ‘Yes, it surprises me very much. It is not a very honourable occupation — you are not the type.’

‘So someone else told me recently,’ I said sardonically. ‘Nevertheless, it is true.’

She was silent for a while, then she said, ‘You were a spy. Alan, what you were in the past doesn’t matter. I know you as you are now.’

‘Sometimes the past catches up with you,’ I said. ‘It did with me. There’s a man called Slade...’ I stopped, wondering if I was doing the right thing.

‘Yes?’ she prompted me.

‘He came to see me in Scotland. I’ll tell you about that — about Slade in Scotland.’

The shooting was bad that day. Something had disturbed the deer during the night because they had left the valley where my calculations had placed them and had drifted up the steep slopes of Bheinn Fhada. I could see them through the telescopic sight — pale grey-brown shapes grazing among the heather. The way the wind was blowing the only chance I had of getting near them was by sprouting wings and so, since it was the last day of the season, the deer were safe from Stewart for the rest of the summer.

At three in the afternoon I packed up and went home and was scrambling down Sgurr Mor when I saw the car parked outside the cottage and the minuscule figure of a man pacing up and down. The cottage is hard to get to — the rough track from the clachan discourages casual tourists — and so anyone who arrives usually wants to see me very much. The reverse doesn’t always apply; I’m of a retiring nature and I don’t encourage visitors.

So I was very careful as I approached and stopped under cover of the rocks by the burn. I unslung the rifle, checked it again to make sure it was unloaded, and set it to my shoulder. Through the telescopic sight the man sprang plainly to view. He had his back to me but when he turned I saw it was Slade.

I centred the cross-hairs on his large pallid face and gently squeezed the trigger, and the hammer snapped home with a harmless click. I wondered if I would have done the same had there been a bullet up the spout. The world would be a better place without men like Slade. But to load was too deliberate an act, so I put up the gun and walked towards the cottage. I should have loaded the gun.

As I approached he turned and waved. ‘Good afternoon,’ he called, as coolly as though he were a regular and welcome guest.

I stepped up to him. ‘How did you find me?’

He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t too hard. You know my methods.’

I knew them and I didn’t like them. I said, ‘Quit playing Sherlock. What do you want?’

He waved towards the door of the cottage. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me inside?’

‘Knowing you, I’ll bet you’ve searched the place already.’

He held up his hands in mock horror. ‘On my word of honour, I haven’t.’

I nearly laughed in his face because the man had no honour. I turned from him and pushed open the door and he followed me inside, clicking his tongue deprecatingly. ‘Not locked? You’re very trusting.’

‘There’s nothing here worth stealing,’ I said indifferently.

‘Just your life,’ he said, and looked at me sharply.

I let that statement lie and put up the rifle on its rack. Slade looked about him curiously. ‘Primitive — but comfortable,’ he remarked. ‘But I don’t see why you don’t live in the big house.’

‘It happens to be none of your business.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, and sat down. ‘So you hid yourself in Scotland and didn’t expect to be found. Protective coloration, eh? A Stewart hiding among a lot of Stewarts. You’ve caused us some little difficulty.’

‘Who said I was hiding? I am a Scot, you know.’

He smiled fatly. ‘Of a sort. Just by your paternal grandfather. It’s not long since you were a Swede — and before that you were Finnish. You were Stewartsen then, of course.’

‘Have you travelled five hundred miles just to talk of old times?’ I asked tiredly.

‘You’re looking very fit,’ he said.

‘I can’t say the same for you; you’re out of condition and running to fat,’ I said cruelly.

He chuckled. ‘The fleshpots, dear boy; the fleshpots — all those lunches at the expense of Her Majesty’s Government.’ He waved a pudgy hand. ‘But let’s get down to it, Alan.’

‘To you I’m Mr Stewart,’ I said deliberately.