Duncan Kyle - Terror's Cradle

I went up to the second floor reference library and helped myself to a book, the telephone directory for Northern Scotland. Andersons weren't exactly uncommon, and there were numbers of James Andersons, -several of whom could have been the man in Alsa's story. I put the phone book away and searched the shelves until I found the Survey Gazetteer of the British Isles. There was an interesting entry under T: Jarlshof (Earl's Court) ruin, in S. of Mainland, Shetland.' Then I tried Sandnes, and there it was, 'pl, 8 mi NW of Walls, Shetland, PO. TO.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stared grimly at that formal little entry in the Gazetteer. It was true that at last things were coming together, but it was happening in a faulty kind of way. For a start, Sandness in the Shetlands wasn't spelled the same way as Sandnes, Norway. Anderson, oddly enough, was a name common to both countries. I got out an atlas and found that Jarlshof and Sandness were a long way apart. I tested the breadth of the library's available material and found a Norwegian

Trade Directory to see what the letters G.B. meant. They meant nothing at all. G.B. was not, as I had supposed, an indication of a company's legal set-up. I was standing by the window, which overlooked Theobald's Road, with the book in my hand, when a pair of white police cars appeared outside. Shutting the directory with a snap, I headed quickly for the door and stairs and went down to the street, startled that the Metropolitan police had been called in so quickly. I emerged from the library. cautiously, only to realize I needn't have bothered. If I'd thought before moving, I'd perhaps have remembered there was a divisional police HQ almost next door, but by now I was decidedly jumpy and simply hadn't thought. I decided not to go back inside. The police would certainly be asked to look for me. Wemyss already suspected I had facts I hadn't told him about, and it was clear enough from what I'd done with Willingham that I'

d picked up more in the Daily News office. If this was as big as he and Elliot believed, they'd now want me very badly indeed.

So what next? Christ, there were three places I ought to be : Gothenburg; Sandnes, Norway; and Sandness, Shetland! Of the three Gothenburg was the one that called most strongly, simply because that was where Alsa was. But she'd fixed things so the lens case would be sent to Sandnes, Norway, then deliberately pointed me in the direction of the Shetlands. Why? The only answer I could see was that she wanted me to go and see this man Anderson. I wondered where he came into it : an ornithologist working in wild and remote islands; one of 'those dedicated, away-from-it-all people who find satisfaction in the simple life. That, at any rate, was the picture Alsa had painted in her piece about him. I soon realized it was all very well thinking blithely about heading for the Shetland Isles, and a lot less easy to do it,. They were nearly a thousand miles away and accessible quickly only by air. I had no doubt, either, that there would be people watching for me at Heathrow.

I kept walking, trying to think what other arrangements

Wemyss and Co. might be making to get their hands on me. Tapping the wires into the Daily News for a start, though that alone would keep them busy : there were sixty general lines into the switchboard and private phone lines all over the building. The first one they'd tap would be Scown's. I wondered how long it took to tap a telephone. Probably not long if the job were being done officially, so it might be dangerous, now, even to try to speak to Scown. The realization that I was completely alone hit me then and I felt momentarily slightly sick. On one side there was Wemyss, with the resources of his immensely powerful department ranged against me. Plus Elliot, and his agency. On the other side were the Russians, determined to recover the thing that had been smuggled out. In the middle, two tiny, insignificant figures in the giant pincers, were Alsa, and me. Of the two of us, only I had liberty of action and even that liberty was rapidly being curtailed. ,

I came to the corner and glanced along Gray's Inn Road at the Sunday Times building, its metal cladding gleaming dully in the cloudy sunlight. I thought about it, and dismissed it. I had one or two friends on the Sunday Times, but none was close enough for me to seek help there.

But what about the other papers? I knew plenty of people in Fleet Street, for Heaven's sake, and there'd be somebody among them, surely .. . Walking up Gray's Inn Road, I thought of names, some of them powerful names in the business, and dismissed them one by one. What I needed was a plane, and there were plenty of people I knew who could charter one with a phone call. I could myself, normally, but this time I daren't risk using my own name. The trouble was that all the people I knew would want to know why. They'd be after the story. And the story couldn't be told. All right, then. Did I know anyone who could fly? Plenty, of course, who'd flown years ago, but I needed someone with a valid, current licence. Then I remembered a little Australian on the Daily Mirror. What was his name? Hinton, that was it. Bruce Hinton. It had to be Bruce, all Australians of his generation seemed to be called Bruce.

, I found a phone-booth near the top end of Gray's Inn Road, close to King's Cross, and rang the Mirror. When the switchboard put me through to features I put on a fake Australian accent and asked for him.

`Just a sec,' said a busy voice. I swore softly to myself. Hinton was actually on duty, damn it, I'd hoped it might be his day off and that I could persuade somebody on the Mirror to give me the home number.

`Bruce Hinton.'

I said carefully, 'I think we may have got something that might interest you. Can you meet me?'

`Who is it?'

`John Sellers.' I hoped he'd think it was the offer of a job coming up.

`S'pose so. Where?'

Ì'm up near King's Cross.'

`Bloody hell, mate!'

Àll right,' I said. Ìf you feel like that.'

`No, no ! I'll come. 'Bout twenty minutes, okay?'

`Right.' I told him where to meet me and filled in the waiting time buying myself a blue donkey jacket, a cap and a pair of sunglasses at an army surplus shop nearby. I had talked to Hinton, or more accurately been one of a drinking group that included him, a few times. I didn't know him well, just well enough to be aware that flying was his private obsession. He had a one-third share in a small Cessna. He'd have a fair salary, but nothing like enough cash to indulge a hobby like flying as much as he'd like. I was banking on that.

A few minutes before he was due to arrive I went looking for a taxi, cruised round in it for a couple of minutes, then went to the rendezvous. He was there, waiting. I shouted his name and he came across and got in. As he closed the door, he said, 'This is bloody mysterious!' Ìt gets worse. Is your plane flying today?'

He blinked at me. 'It was this morning. Not sure now. I think it will be free. Why?'

`Because I want you to fly me somewhere.'

`Jesus, John. I'm not licensed for bloody charter! They'll have my licence so fast it –

Anyway, I'm on the desk today.'

`Pity. I thought a couple of hundred quid might tempt you to give an old friend a demonstration.'

He looked at me quickly. 'It bloody well does, too. Where d'you want to go?'

`Lerwick.'

His eyes widened. 'You joking?'

`Sure? You're not pulling the old Pommie – '

Ì'm sure,' I said. 'Two hundred in cash. Plus fuel and maintenance charges.'

He grinned suddenly. 'What the hell you up to?' `My business.'

`Yeah. Jesus, if they heard at the Mirror!'

Why should they?' I said persuasively. 'Your old Auntie Rainbow just blew in from Woolloongabba. Wants you to show her round London.'

`So she did. Good old Auntie Rainbow.' He thought for a moment. 'Listen, it's not Lerwick, you know. The airport's • at Sumburgh. Christ, it's five, maybe six hours!'