Terror's Cradle

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

For a few moments he stood there, perfectly still, with the kind of look on his face that Lancelot would have given the Holy Grail. Then he turned to me suddenly. The holy joy faded and his face hardened. 'Listen to me Sellers, and listen good. There are priorities and priorities. This is grade A class one, understand? Don't get in my way. Don't get in anybody's way! This is so important it's—'

I said harshly, 'Simmer down.'

He stared at me, then spoke more softly, but excitement still throbbed in his voice. 'I mean it, Sellers. You give us full co-operation, or else. I want every scrap of information you have. I want it now and I want it fast.'

`For Christ's sake! Who pointed it out to you! I'm cooperating.' •

He closed his eyes tightly for a second, he was calming himself deliberately. I said, 'What about Nikolayev?'

Òkay. I'll tell you. If you understand how important this is, maybe you'll be less of a son of a bitch. It goes like this. Nikolayev is a ship-building town. Right?'

Ì don't know.'

Àccept it. It's true. They build warships there. All kinds of warships. And we've watched them for years with photographic reconnaissance satellites. A year or two ago, they roofed in one of the construction yards. Roofed in the whole damn thing. And they've been building something under that roof.'

`What?'

He grinned without humour. 'Yeah, what? That's What we want to know. What we do know is that it's big and that it's top secret. God knows what that roof cost. But that's all we know, really know! But we suspect, and brother if it's what we suspect . . .!' He drew in a long, hissing breath.

Òne ship?' I said. 'Can it be as important as that?'

He gave that grin again. 'There's rumour, there's suspicion. There's conclusions and extrapolations and educated guesses. The ship they're building may be an aircraft carrier!'

I blinked at him. `So they're building another aircraft carrier? So what?'

He said, 'Not another aircraft carrier, Sellers. They only have one, the Kiev and she's small. A trial ship, that's all. This one may be a big attack carrier!'

It still hadn't reached me. 'I'm no student of naval strategy,' I said. 'What's sp significant about that?'

Ì'll tell you,' Elliot said softly. 'The Russian navy has

always remained basically a defensive force. They've built it up fast. It's modern and efficient. But its chief function has been to deny the US unrestricted freedom of the seas, particularly in waters within Polaris range of the Soviet Union. And to limit US options for intervention in areas where the Soviets also have an interest.

`But understand this. If they've started building attack carriers, there's only one reason.'

I said, 'I thought carriers were out of date.'

`You did, huh? Look, Sellers, if they're building attack carriers, it shifts the capabilities of the Russian navy from defence to offence. It means the Kremlin's extending its global reach. Attack carriers mean they're equipping their navy with seagoing airpower. And that means they're out to contest the US Navy's dominance at sea. They haven't had aircraft at sea before. Now maybe they're going to.'

Ì told you, I'm no strategist,' I said. 'They're changing their strategy. I see that. I even see the implications of an offensive posture as against a defensive one. But –'

He looked at me as though I were an idiot. 'Sellers, do you have any idea . . .? No, you don't do you? Listen,-if it's an attack carrier, one is no damn use at all. They'll have to build six or eight, maybe more, because each of their fleets will have to have at least one, otherwise there are weak points and the whole deal's stupid. Now, the cost of building even one attack carrier is so enormous, and the technological requirements so taxing, that it's likely to overstrain their whole technological capacity, slow down the space programme, everything. That's true, Sellers, even if you do have trouble believing it. Britain's phasing out carriers because she won't, soon, be able to afford even one. You know that?'

`No, I didn't.'

Òkay, think about the decision. In the minds of the Russian leaders, it's a massive decision, right? It's a crucial, historic choice. The demand on resources would be gigantic, the project would take maybe ten years of murderous effort and concentration of materials and manpower. It means they cut down on consumer manufacture, jack up steel production — Christ knows what it means. The internal political effects are big. But more important than that, it shows their intentions, long term intentions. Expansion of their spheres of influence. • Change of posture from defence to offence.

`Sellers, look. You asked me if one ship meant so much? This ship, this one ship, is probably the most important ever built. Not for itself, but for what it tells us. If the Russians are building an attack carrier, it means they're embarking on the next massive phase of Communist expansion internationally. It means a whole sweeping change in everybody's outlook; massive changes in international strategy.'

I watched him, fascinated, not doubting the truth of what he said. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow when he stopped. But even then he hadn't finished. 'If the ship under the roof at Nikolayev is an attack carrier, we're playing in a whole new ball game, all of us.'

I stood very still, absorbing it. Then I said soberly, 'You honestly believe Alsa brought that information out? '

Elliot took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. 'If it's from Nikolayev,' he said, 'It could be the answer. You may never have heard about it, Sellers, but this is international armaments mystery number one. And not just armaments either; it's economics on a critical level. Theirs and ours.'

Òurs? You said we couldn't afford—'

`You can't. Not Britain. I'm talking about the American shield, the big umbrella. Look at the other side of this and try to think some complicated Russian thoughts. They may be building the carrier. But maybe they're not. Maybe they're just pretending! Listen, they know all about photo-reconnaissance satellites. They should; they've sure put plenty up there. So some smart cookie in the Kremlin some place has this bright idea. 'Let's roof in a ship construction yard, comrades,' says this smart guy. 'They'll see it and then they'll start wondering what's going on undereneath, right? They'll wonder why all the extra secrecy. We build subs and everything else in open yards, so what's with the roof? They'll conclude we're building carriers,' he says. 'And if they think we are, they'll have to do something about it. Like build some more of their own.' You see the pattern, Sellers? It all works in reverse. If the Soviets are building themselves some attack carriers, then we have to build more, just to stay ahead. The cost to us is almost as stupendous as it is to them. Huge additional arms budget, big diversion of resources and material — the whole shebang. They've got us guessing and they know it. Carriers take years to build and if they've started already, we've got to start soon; strategically we daren't wait until they actually start launching.

`But, Sellers — and it's the hell of a big but — if all they're doing under that roof is building some tanker and taking their time about it, well then we're going to. be spending billions of dollars. We're going to be wasting billions of dollars. Right now they got us both ways. If they're building and we don't, the whole strategic balance changes. If they'

re not building but they succeed in forcing us to build, then they smack us a real economic sucker punch. And meanwhile all the dough they don't spend on a carrier goes into some other little sweetheart, like anti-missile-missiles -or anything else you can think of.'

Ànd all this,' I said, 'comes for the price of . one tin roof ?'

Elliot gave a little shrug. 'Those bastards don't play all that chess for nothing. So now you know the big question. Is that tin roof a little ploy with a pawn? Or is the goddam thing a queen?'

There was a knock on the door. Elliot turned, walked over and unlocked it, and let Willingham in. I didn't like the expression on Willingham's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Elliot got in first. He said just one word: 'Nikolayev.'

Willingham's mouth suddenly opened a good deal further, then closed with a snap and he said quickly, 'I don't think we need him any more.'

Why?'

Willingham gave me a glance of malevolent triumph `There's an Anderson here. And a Jarlshof. And a Sandness.'

It had been bound to happen. I was so tired now, so battered by the day's rampaging events, that defeat seemed to cover me suddenly with a wet, black blanket. They knew it all now, the whole damn lot. I'd nothing in reserve, no hope to cling to. It was the finish for me and probably, and much more tragically and totally, for Alsa, too. Then, from somewhere in my tired mind came the realization that I was still ahead. There were still things I knew and they didn't. And Elliot's argument, cogent and convincing as it was, hadn't shifted the balance of my own values. The information was important, all right. It was important to a great many people : to governments, to politicians, to strategists. Even maybe to me. But not as important as a life I valued. If it was one life against all this, I'd settle for the one life. If there were some way to save her. Alsa didn't matter a damn to Elliot and Willingham. She mattered a lot less to the Russians. But she mattered to me, even if the Russians had been right and she intended to marry Anderson.

I said, 'There was a fire tonight. At Jarlshof.'

Ì know that, sweetheart,' Willingham said. 'Did you start it?'

Às a matter of fact, I did'

Èxcellent. We'll get you for arson, too.'

Elliot said quietly, 'Why did you start it? '

`Because,' I said, 'the house was lousy with Russians.'

While they were still digesting it, gaping • me, while expressions chased one another across their two faces, I said harshly to Willingham, 'Did the police tell you a postman had been attacked?'

He nodded slowly.

Elliot said, 'By the Russians? That's what you believe?'

Ìt was on the Sauciness Road. I don't have facts to prove it was the Russians. But I know it. West Mainland is full of old people. All the mail going that way will be personal. No money, or very little. Not worth the effort for any criminal.'

`They've got it back, then,' Willingham snarled.

I let them think for a moment. It was Elliot who spoke. `What time? Which came first?'

`The attack on the postman came first,' I said. 'Otherwise they wouldn't have been lurking around Anderson's house. So they can't have got it, can they?'

Elliot came towards me, put his bony face close to mine, and said very quietly, 'W ere is Anderson?'

`The' Russians asked e that.'

`Where is he?'

Ì don't know.'

Willingham said, 'The galley shed. What the hell were you doing there?'

`Looking for him. Not finding him.'

Elliot turned away. 'Willingham, we need police help. W.e need to know how the mail comes in. Get the head cop up here!'

The head cop turned out to be the sergeant, because the local police inspector was away on a three-day course in Edinburgh. Elliot was clearly disconcerted by the lack of heavy rank. 'What's your name?'

`McAllister, sir.'

Òkay McAllister. Get on to the postal authorities. If there's any fresh mail on the island now, it's got to be checked. Anything, anything at all, addressed to Anderson, Jarlshof, Sandness, or to a girl called Alison' Hay, at any address, has to be found. Arrange for tomorrow's mail, when it gets here, to be checked too.'

McAllister was a square, phlegmatic man built like a shovel blade. He said. 'What do you expect to happen, sir?'

`Who knows? Maybe an attack of some kind. Just do it, huh?'

'If it's to be, an attack, sir, we'd better warn British

Airways. Mail comes up by air from Aberdeen.'

Òkay.' Elliot nodded approval. 'And ask the post office people in Aberdeen to search at their end too. Get going.'

McAllister stayed where he was. 'I doubt they'd do that on my say-so sir. You'll need to get authority, maybe the Chief Constable of Aberdeen. Can you arrange for that sir?'

Ì'll fix it,' Willingham said. He hurried out and I heard his footsteps descending the stairs. Ànd what about outgoing mail?' McAllister asked quietly.

`Jesus, yes!' Elliot said. 'Get that looked at, too. Same names. Anderson and Hay. Any letters to anyone of either name are to be held for examination, right?'

`Right, sir.' McAllister turned to leave.

`How many phone lines have you, sergeant?'

`Three, sir.'

'I got to call London.' Elliot began to follow the sergeant towards the door, then stopped and turned to look at me. He said, 'Get a man up here to stay with Mr Sellers, sergeant.'

Àye, sir. I will.'

McAllister removed the key from my side of the door and went out. The lock's click was loud in the room. '

I went over and looked out of the room's other window. The room itself was on a corner of the building. I already knew one window overlooked Lerwick harbour, that it was high above the ground and that there was no easy way down from it. Disappointingly, the same was true of the other. I had a nice view of the modernistic library building and the Town Hall, but the drop was a good twenty feet. I'd break my neck if I tried it. And anyway, I didn't have time. The lock turned again and my guard was with me. Like McAllister he was a broad, hard-looking man, thirtyish, accustomed to handling drunken trawlermen, I guessed, probably two or three at a time. He gave me a little nod that somehow or other contrived to be a warning, too.

I said, 'Any chance of a cup of something? Tea, coffee?' `When I can. Not now.'

`When you can will be fine.'

I sat down and looked across at him. 'Been in Lerwick long?'

`Five years.'

`Like it?'

Ì like it fine.'

`Bit cold, isn't it?'

Not really, no. We get the winds, but not the ice and snow like Scotland. It's a good place to be a bobby.' `Because it's small?'

Àye. You get to know the local people. It's no like the big cities.'

I said, 'You know Jim Anderson, from Sandness.' He looked guarded. 'I know him.'

I smiled. 'It's okay. I understand. But everybody's looking for him. Mr Elliot and Mr Willingham, too. It may be you'll know something that will interest them, too.' Àye,' he said. 'It may be.'

`Somebody told me about a climb he did.'

Òch aye. He climbs fine. He was over to Foula in the summer on the high cliffs. Ringing birds, so they say.' He shook his head a little, unimpressed by that kind of unnecessary risk-taking.

Ì don't know him,' I said. 'He's a friend of a friend. I gather he's a nice bloke.'

Òch aye. He's all right, Jim Anderson. Wee bit mad, you know. Climbing and all. He's a good sailor; too.' The policeman gave a tight little smile of recollection. 'I've been out with him. Fishing, you know. He doesnae get worried in the rough water.'

I asked, Sas he a boat?' and when he looked guarded again, added, 'If he has, they'll need to know.'

Àye, maybe you're right.'

`What kind?'

`Shetland model. They mostly are, up here. Good sea boats for men that can handle them.'

`Where's he keep it?'

`Down in the small boat harbour when he's to this side of the island. Walls, maybe, most of the time.'

Ìs it here now? They'll need to know.'

Àye. It was this morning.'

`Show me where?'

He gave me a look of amiable warning. 'You'll not be trying something foolish, sir?'

`With you?' I said.

Ì'd be a handful for you.' He walked to the window and pointed. 'You can just see her, sir. See the edge of yon roof?' The harbour was silver in the moonlight.

`No. Oh, yes I can. The pale one?'

Àye. She's twenty-six foot. Decked in. Good sea boat.' `Lucky man,' I said. Àye.'

`Harbour's busy, too.'

Àlways is,' he said. `For a wee place there's a lot of boats in and out. Fishin' boats mainly, but others, too. Even cruise ships sometimes. Och, we get all kinds. They come ashore, you know, the fishermen. Into the pubs, after the girls. I've seen six nationalities in one pub.'

`Gets rough? '

Òch aye. Now and then. Some are worse than others, you know. Depends how full their pockets are. All seamen are alike. A few drinks and maybe one gets nasty. English, Norwegians, Germans, Poles, Finns, all the same. All bar the Russians.'

`Russians?' I said, startled.

Òch aye. They come in here. There's a few here now. They're the best of the lot. Never any trouble.'

Òh? Why's that?'

Och, I don't believe they have the money. Not to come ashore on a wee kind of rampage. Or maybe they go to the salt mines if they get in trouble.'

Russians! I thought. Russians in Lerwick. Legitimately in Lerwick. Part of the scenery. I said. 'Which are the

Russian ships?'

He pointed towards the mass of fishing boats tied up in the harbour near the fish quay. '

There's three or four in there.'

Ànd they come ashore as they like?'

Òh aye. There's often a few Russians in Lerwick. You see 'em look in shop windows. Not buying, you understand. Not often. That's why I reckon they've no money.'

I looked at the lines of fishing boats with deep concern. Easy come, easy go. Free access. And the phony Sergeant Gustaffson has been sent to climb that hill with his radio, to find out what to do with me !

I said, 'It seems odd to be looking at Russian boats.' Àye. Visitors always think that. You see over there. That wee boat on a mooring.'

I followed the direction of his pointing finger.

`The little one? By itself.'

Ùsed to be Anderson's,' he said. 'Little Shetland model. Sold it and bought the bigger boat.'

His tough appearance was misleading. He was a pleasant man. Straight, confidence in himself, but not self-confident, strong, self-contained as a Brazil nut, happy where he was, happy to chat about this place he knew and liked. We talked until Elliot returned. When he entered the room I was careful to get in first.

`The constable here says there are Russian fishing beats in the harbour.'

Elliot's face showed surprise, then anxiety. He asked questions and got answers. Like me he was startled by their freedom to come and go. Then he said tightly, 'Thanks, constable. I think the sergeant will need you now.'

`Very good, sir.'

When he'd gone, Elliot turned to me. 'Police have only eight men available. They're mounting a search for Anderson, but . .

I nodded. 'You'll never find him here. Not if he doesn't want to be found. You're in a close community. They'll stick together.'

Elliot looked at me quickly. Why wouldn't he want to be found?'

`Like I said, it's a tight community. He'll know about the fire and he'll know about the postman. Perhaps he even knows more than that. There's a lot of space up here, a lot of tiny villages, remote crofts. He can keep his nose down forever, and —' I thought of the implacable Miss Petrie and her they-shall-not-pass performance at her cottage door — '

and they'll form an impenetrable ring round him. If he wants it.'

Willingham had returned while I was talking. He said tightly, 'We'll find him, don't you worry.' I took no notice, nor, I saw, did Elliot. Willingham flushed and his apparentlypermanent anger intensified a little. 'London will square the post office in Aberdeen.'

`Right.' Elliot looked at us both, for once showing a trace of uncertainty. I voiced his thought. 'What next?'

`We wait. What else?'

Willingham said, 'I'll join the search. The more bodies the better.'

I said, 'Watch the door close in your face. The police haven't much chance. You have none at all.'

`You, of course, have a better idea!'

Ì can think of one place to look.'

`You can, can you?'

Ànderson has a boat.'

`How do you know?' Elliot asked quickly.

Ì asked a policeman, like the song says.'

Elliot said, 'Get him!'

But the constable had already left to tramp the post-midnight streets. I said helpfully, 'I know which boat it is and where it's moored.'

`Tell me.'

Ì'll do better. I'll show you.'

They didn't want that, either of them. They wanted me safe and secure in the police station and tried to circumvent

me by asking the sole remaining bobby if he knew.

Fortunately he didn't. And a boat is such a convenient hiding place — for a man or anything else — that they daren't let it pass.

Elliot said wearily, 'Okay, Sellers. Show us.'

À pleasure.'

We went out into the empty night. The wind had dropped now and it was cold and still. Together we tramped down the steep hill towards the waterfront and turned right along the quay. Several of the fishing boats wore the hammer and sickle flag. We continued past them.

`That one,' I said, and pointed.

The Shetland model rode easily on her mooring, wide-bellied, bow both ends in the fashion of the Viking galleys. She didn't look as though anybody might be on her.

`Deserted,' Willingham said flatly.

`How would she look if he was aboard?' I asked.

Elliot looked round. 'We need a dinghy to get out there.'

There was a small rowing boat turned upside down on the sloping ramp and we righted it and launched it. 'Shall I wait here?'

`You will not!' Elliot said sharply. 'Get in. I'm not losing sight of you again.'

There wasn't far to go. Less than a hundred yards at a guess. We came away from the ramp, heading between two moored fishing boats on to the shining water. There were the small clatters and bumps of a harbour's background noises and somewhere not far away, a little engine was idling. Willingham did the rowing. Elliot sat in the bow, looking towards Anderson's boat. I sat in the stern.

It was as we came by the stern of the big fishing boat to our left that what I'd thought was a donkey engine turned out to be something else. The idling note was suddenly a sharp rising roar, very close, and a dark shape drove out at us from behind the bulk of the fishing boat. There wasn't a chance of avoiding it; not a thing any of us could do. We were hit fair and square amidships, rolled over instantly, plunged into the cold water of the harbour.

The shock of sudden immersion smashed the breath out of me and the boat, as it rolled, caught me a painful blow on the leg. I splashed and struggled, got my head to the surface and glanced round. As I shook the water from my face to look round, something slid powerfully by me. A hand grasped at my sleeve, gripped tightly, and I felt myself being drawn rapidly through the bitterly cold water.

I tried to turn my head to look up and as I did so, my other arm was grabbed. Two men were holding me, each by one arm; between them sat another. I stared up at his face in astonishment. The last time I'd seen it was in the Scanda Hotel in Gothenburg. He wore seaman's clothing now but the eyes behind the rimless glasses were the same. I was looking up at Pavel Marasov, the polite Russian press attaché !