Duncan Kyle - Terror's Cradle

But no! By God, they weren't just birds! I realized suddenly that there was something wrong with these transparencies. I was handling them carefully, by corners and edges, out of long habit. But somebody hadn't been so careful. There were one or two fingermarks on them, sweat leaving whorl patterns on the delicate emulsion. Anderson wouldn't do that; Anderson was a pro, he'd be as careful handling them as I was. No man shins down cliff faces to photograph seabirds, then wrecks his work with careless fingering of the result.

It was tenuous enough, as evidence, but all the same my scalp prickled. I was almost sure now that somebody else had been here before me, also examining the place. Maybe the same rough fingers whose prints were on the transparencies had opened the envelopes. Maybe Anderson hadn't been here for days.

There was nothing more on the desk, nor, now, was there anywhere left in that room for me to look. I picked up the lamp and carried it over to the rough little kitchen. A few minutes' search turned up nothing there, either. There was only one other room on the ground floor and I crossed towards the door and went in. A workshop. Two benches; one with an angled drawing board and artist's materials, another for woodworking, with carpenters' tools neatly in racks above it. I looked round the room desultorily, almost certain now that Jarlshof could tell me nothing. I'd go up the stairs and see what was there, but I knew already that it was hopeless.

I turned to go back into the living room and what I saw stopped me dead in the doorway. A man sat in one of Anderson's threadbare armchairs. He was quite still, quite calm. He held a big, battery lamp in his left hand and at the moment I saw him, he moved the switch and the light came on. His right hand held a pistol.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

For a moment I failed to recognize him. For one thing, he'd. been dressed differently the one time I'd met him. For another, I hadn't imagined I'd ever see him again. Now he wore a dark donkey jacket and a seaman's cap whose peak shadowed the upper part of his face. I heard a sound, glanced quickly round the room and saw another man step through the stairway door, a big man dressed similarly in donkey jacket and cap. His face too, as the lamplight fell on it, I recognized. He was the first Gustaffson, the phony one, who'd come to call on me at the Scanda in Gothenburg! He stared at me in mild surprise. I looked again at the man in the chair, knowing him now. This was the man who had impersonated Schmid. He said quietly, 'Place the lamp on the table.'

I'd been thinking, but thinking far too slowly, of letting it fall. His hand lamp scotched that idea; there'd be no sudden plunge into darkness, just a target held easily in a beam. I obeyed slowly.

`Now step away from it. Stand by die fireplace.'

The pistol followed my movement, pointing low at my

abdomen. 'At least,' he said, 'you confirm that we are in the right house. Now you can tell me where Anderson is.' I said, 'Who?'

He sighed. 'Let us not play tiresome games, Mr Sellers. Where is Anderson?'

I shrugged. 'How would I. know?'

He looked at me thoughtfully. 'If you knew, you would not be here? That's it, eh?'

I shrugged again.

Ì had hoped you were Anderson,' he said. We have been waiting for him for several hours. You can tell me about Anderson.'

Ì've never met him in my life.'

`No? Yet you are here and you got here very quickly. How?'

Ì have a homing instinct,' I said. 'Like a pigeon.'

`Yes. A pigeon. A swift bird, but vulnerable, Mr Sellers. I admit I was surprised to see you. Almost as surprised as you are to see me, perhaps.'

`What surprised me most was your clumsiness,' I said. `You left dirty great thumbprints all over his transparencies. It was obvious somebody'd been here.'

`How clever. And how incompetent to be caught. Tell me about Anderson.'

`Tell me about Alison Hay.'

He smiled faintly. 'You are in no position, Mr Sellers—' `Where is she?'

`You think she has been found? How could I know? I am not, as you must now realize, of the Gothenburg police.'

`You're here because you heard about Anderson from her. There's no other way —'

He nodded. 'Of course. The question is how you knew, Mr Sellers. Tell me.'

Why should I? Who are you, anyway?'

Who I am doesn't matter. But you will tell me because I wish to know. And because you can be made to tell me.' `Then make me.'

Òh, I can. Quite simply. And I know more than you think, Mr Sellers. Even about Anderson.'

I waited.

`For example. The girl Hay was to be Mrs Anderson.' That hit me and he watched it hit. Two blows at once. Was to be?' I said heavily.

`You see? Whereas you . . .' He smiled. 'For you friendship. Yes, friendship. But only friendship. For marriage, this Anderson. You want proof ?'

I shook my head.

`No? But you must have the proof.'

He took a photograph from his pocket and held it towards me at arm's length. I took it from him. The picture showed

Alsa with a big bony-looking man in his thirties. Alsa was holding tight to a big, fluffy, struggling seabird chick of some kind and laughing and he was watching indulgently. A very happy scene indeed; one for the family album. He said, 'I could tell you more.'

`Then tell me.' I put the picture on the table, still seeing her in my mind's eye, remembering the way she looked at me, the way she'd put me off with that stagy myheartbelongs-to-another business. Being gentle, because she was like that. Saying it, but wrapping it up, hoping it wouldn't hurt as much. And me refusing to believe she meant it.

`You will ask me now whether she is alive or dead. Whether it was necessary to kill her.'

Ì'm asking.'

`Sometimes, under interrogation, people die. It depends for instance on how much they resist, how urgent the need for information. '

`For Christ's sake! Is she alive?'

He pursed his lips. We can exchange information, Mr Sellers. This is painless. I have no wish to hurt you. You will tell me how you come to know of Anderson. And other things. And I shall tell you about Alison Hay.'

I said, 'She's alive. She has to be. She's your only lever against Anderson. You daren't — '

`That is merely hope,' he said in mild contempt. 'Whether she is dead or alive, she is effective as a lever, provided Anderson does not know the answer.'

I stared at him, trying to apply some grip on my own Chaotic thoughts, aching to hear him say, she was alive, appalled at the thought of what might have been done to make her talk, trying to unearth somehow a tiny tactical point I could use. It was his confidence that infuriated me, the ease with which he applied his bloody pressures. Already the pressures were getting to me; the need to know about Alsa had me on the rim of despair and somehow I must get back at him. I said quickly, 'I'm not alone.'

`No? You have an army perhaps? Swarming over the hillsides? Do not be absurd.'

`This morning, in London, I talked to the security service.' Ànd the CIA, no doubt.'

`No. The National Security Agency.'

He stared at me for a moment, then spoke briefly to the big man. I said, 'Russian.' I don't speak it, but it's not difficult to recognize. His eyes flickered to me, then away again as the big man ,put down his rifle and unslung a rectangular case from his shoulder, flicked back the fastening studs, pulled out four feet of telescopic aerial, flicked a switch, and spoke into the machine. The reply was a harsh hiss of static. The big man muttered and spoke again and again the roar of static mush came back. He kept trying for a minute or two, then shrugged helplessly. The phony Schmid snapped an Order and the big man nodded and went out, grimacing. I understood both the reason and the grimace. Scown had had his own bright idea about walkie-talkies once, a long time ago, and I too have stood in the lee of little hills swearing at them. The big man had been sent climbing.