Duncan Kyle - Terror's Cradle

A few minutes later, I suggested we cross the street and come back, just to underline to Anderson, if he were watching, that the Town Hall, not the procession, was our intended location.

`Can't do any harm, I suppose,' Elliot said. 'Let's try it.' He sounded deeply depressed. We crossed the road and stood for a moment, on the other side. The crowds were thickening fast, moving around us, jostling.

Elliot said, 'Okay, let's go back.'

Ànother minute,' I said. There was a big, noisy group hurrying toward us up the hill from the quay, sixty or seventy men, laughing and shouting. I waited until they were almost on us, then said, 'On second thoughts we might as well.'

Elliot turned. Willingham turned. I began to turn, let them see me begin, then stopped, took three quick steps, slid in among the noisy crowd and hurried forward. Ahead were the two long roads on either side of the playing field where the galley would burn, and they were packed. Only minutes now remained before the procession was to begin and away to my right there were already scattered outbursts of cheering. I heard Willingham'

s voice shout 'Stop him!' a few yards behind, but I was in the middle of a rapidly-moving little phalanx of men and a few seconds later the whole

group was merging into the crowd in the streets.

I separated myself quickly, then, and began to slide through the crowd, knees bent a little to keep my head down, praying that I'd slipped away successfully and heading now for the spot I'd specified in the note I'd slipped into Miss Petrie's hand. Squads of men in fancy dress lined the roads as seven o'clock struck. I was too early. I moved deep into the crowd, trying to be inconspicuous, but for once in Lerwick, sweaters and work trousers weren't standard dress. People were in their best for UpHelly-Aa. For twenty minutes I stood sweating, before the music crashed and the marching began. I made myself unpopular, then, pushing my way to the front. Suddenly a Very light soared into the sky and all along the road little lights flared suddenly as matches were struck. Then the lights grew brighter as the matches lit torches and the torches were raised high. Up-Helly-Aa had begun! I stood there in the torchlight, in the front of the crowd, trying to stick my face out. This was the designated place and the appointed moment. Miss Petrie had been given the photograph to pass to Anderson. Would he recognize me?

A squad of men in Viking costume came proudly by, torches held high, flickering flames gleaming on horned helmets decorated with glossy ravens' wings, shields bearing battle signs. Despite myself, I watched. The scene was ancient, majestic, strangely moving as a silence fell and the men marched forward in the torchlight. I didn't see or hear him approach. One moment I was watching the marching men; the next somebody was whispering close.to my ear. 'Sellers?'

I nodded.

`Follow me.'

We slipped easily back through the crowd; people were only too anxious to let someone from the front move away. A couple of minutes later, we were clear, hurrying inland, then turning and turning again, down a narrow lane and finally into a darkly shadowed yard.

Anderson was a big, rawboned, rangy man. Serious looking; physically hard. We moved close to a wall and I said quickly, urgently, 'Have you— '

Anderson stared grimly at me. 'No questions. Tell me what you know.'

So I told him. About the Soviet Jews who'd made their futile plan, had been betrayed, had tried again .using Alsa as an unknowing courier. How she'd left the lens case in the shop, and the optician, presumably knowing only one Sandnes, must have added the word Norway before posting it and that it must then have been redirected by the Norwegian postal service. He listened closely and carefully as I explained it. Then I told him why the transparency mattered so much, why Alsa had been kidnapped, who Elliot and Willingham were and why it was vital to keep them at bay. I told him about Noss and the Russian who'd waited for him there.

Ìt was you there last night?' he asked.

`yes.'

saw you, from a distance. Maybe you saved my life.' `Maybe I did. It's Alsa's life that matters. Have you got it?'

Anderson hesitated, stared at me for a moment, then nodded.

`Here? With you?'

`Yes.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little plastic case. 'There was a note from Alsa inside : just a few words. It said her life depended on hiding it safely. I didn't know what it meant but —'

A light blazed suddenly from the mouth of the yard. There were rapid footsteps and a voice snapped, 'Keep still!' We were against a wall already. There might have been somewhere to run if we'd had time, but the speed and surprise left us helpless. Four of them. And Marasov's rimless glasses gleaming above the torch. 'Give it to me.'

Anderson didn't move.

Ì said, give it to me.' Marasov raised his pistol slowly,

pointing the barrel at Anderson's right eye, holding out his hand. There was nothing Anderson could do. I watched in despair as the little tube was handed over. Marasov said, `Watch him closely!' Then he stepped back, uncapped the lens case, pulled out the protective plastic cage from inside it and extracted the tiny square of thirty-five millimetre film. He held it up against the light of his torch, threw the tube away and stepped towards us again. He was smiling. 'I knew you'd lead us to him, Mr Sellers.'

`You?' Anderson glared at me. 'You bast — '

'No,' I said, 'I didn't. They must have followed me!'

`Yes, we followed. We were patient, and now we have recovered What we lost.' Marasov fished in his pocket and pulled something out. A moment later flame flared from a lighter. An American Zippo, of all things. He lowered the transparency into the flame and we listened to the little sizzle as the film fizzled quickly to a cindery wisp. He dropped it and ground it with his heel.

Anderson was almost beside himself. 'What about Alsa?' he demanded. Where is she?'

Marasov continued to grind the burned transparency with his heel. Then he said, 'I have no idea who you're talking about.'

Anderson didn't speak. He simply flung himself at Marasov, smashing with his big fists at the little Russian's face. He got him, too, once or even twice, before the gun banged and Anderson grunted, reeled back against the wall and collapsed in a heap. I listened to the running footsteps as the Russians hurried away. My eyes had flooded with tears. The whole thing was my fault. I'd been so bloody clever, playing ends against the middle, and all I'd succeeded in doing was to ensure Alsa would be killed! Through me Anderson had been shot. Maybe killed. I didn't care a rap for Elliot's big intelligence breakthrough, but even that hadn't been saved from the universal disaster. I'd lost all the way round. Everything. The girl I loved, the whole bloody lot. Everything lay in ruins around me and I alone was responsible for the bloody shambles. Anderson groaned as I dropped to my knees beside him, groaned again as I gently turned his body so that he could lie, perhaps more comfortably, on his back. Well, at least he was alive. I'd have to leave him though; have to go ' for help. As I began to rise there came the sound of footsteps again, running footsteps. They stopped in the alley outside and I could see the flash of hand torches. Willingham charged into the yard, Elliot a pace or two behind him. 'That shot!' he said breathlessly. 'What the hell was it?'

I said dully, 'They shot Anderson.'

Ànderson?' Willingham glared down at him. `That's Anderson? Then where — ?'

I said, 'They got the transparency, too.'

He looked round wildly. 'Which way did they— ?'

Ìt's no use,' I said. `Marasov burned it.' I pointed to the little black smear on the concrete. 'That's all that's left.'