Terror's Cradle

CHAPTER SIX

Pm no-electronics engineer, so there was no way of knowing whether the bug only worked when the phone was used, or whether it was the nastier type that listened constantly. If it were the second variety, the listener would know I'd been handling the phone, and might be wondering if I'd inspected it. The best thing now would be to pretend to make a call, any call, and behave as naturally as possible. I picked it up and waited a while, deliberately mumbling and muttering to myself when there was no answer. The hall porter was presumably dozing in his cubicle somewhere; either that 'or he'd been paid to stay out of the way while somebody came up to my room. I held on for a couple of minutes, then swore softly, replaced the receiver and went back to lie on the bed and brood.

I was wiser about only one thing. The fact that somebody had me bugged was clear proof Alsa hadn't voluntarily gone off somewhere. But then I'd never believed she had. Apart from that, two hours' thought got me precisely nowhere. I wasn't even sure what to do next.

Around six I took a shower, shaved and dressed and went downstairs in search of nourishment. The hotel dining room wouldn't be open for another hour, so I went out, found a workman's café and had some breakfast. As I finished the second cup of coffee, I decided I'd start at the obvious place and went to look for a taxi. Strom Brothers AB was about three miles from the city centre and still not open when I arrived. I hung about in the drizzle for a while, and then the gates opened and cars began to roll up. The usual thing: works people arriving half an hour before the office staff. I persuaded the watchman to open up the waiting room. At five-to-eight people began flooding in and exactly at eight a girl asked what I wanted. I explained and was taken to see the works manager, a man called Morelius.

Morelius was grave and sorry and said he 'understood my concern for Miss Hay. He, too, was concerned and he would naturally help in any way he could. I asked if he'd seen Alsa.

He told me she had spent just one afternoon at the print works. She'd arrived from Moscow, booked herself into the Scanda Hotel, then rung Strom Brothers and they'd sent a car to pick her up. The way I saw it, while she was waiting for the car, she must have rung Scown in London to say she'd arrived safely.

`Did she bring material here that afternoon, Mr Morelius?' `Some, I think.' He frowned, remembering. 'She had a

briefcase and one of those flat portfolios artists use.' Ìs any of it still here?'

'Yes.'

`May I see it?'

The corners of his mouth turned down. 'The police . unfortunately they insist that—'

I said, 'We're deeply concerned about Miss Hay, of course. But we're worried too about the production of the magazine, the schedule.'

Morelius was looking at me carefully. He said, We meet our schedules, Mr Sellers. Always we meet them.'

`Doesn't look as though you will this time.'

No. But the fault is not ours. And there is a clause in me contract covering events such–'

'We're not thinking, are we,' I said pointedly, 'of just

one little contract?' •

He blinked a couple of times, feeling the nutcracker squeeze, then said defensively, 'This is not fair. We — '

I interrupted him again. 'This contract is for six issues of forty thousand copies. Woman's Week is two million copies a week for the foreseeable future. That's number one. Number two is that Mr Scown is fond of Alison Hay.'

Morelius was blinking even harder. 'You mean, personally . . .?'

`Not like that,' I said. 'But it's as if she were his daughter.' He hesitated. 'The police would be angry.'

I said, 'The police don't place two-million-copy print orders. Mr Scown will also be angry.'

Morelius thought for a moment. 'You will undertake to be most careful?'

`Certainly.'

Then, reluctantly he conceded. 'I show you. One moment please.' He picked up the phone and spoke in Swedish. When he'd finished, he said, 'I will be told if the police come here. If they do, you will have time to come away from the room. You will do that?'

Òf course.'

The room was plain and tidy. All magazine printers have places like it, where editorial production people can work. There were a couple of desks, a layout table, a frosted glass with a light beneath it for transparency viewing, a couple of telephones, a photo-copying machine.

`Thanks.'

He didn't want to leave me. I said 'You must have other problems.'

`Please. If the police come, you will —'

I nodded. 'Like a rat down a rope. So let's not waste time.' He left me to it. There were a few rough layouts on the desk, some black and white prints in a wire basket, and that was all. Alsa must have taken the briefcase and the artwork portfolio back to the Scanda Hotel. I sat at the desk and began to go through the material carefully. The pictures were the usual Russian

propaganda stuff: new cities mushrooming out of the Siberian vastness, kids at a ballet school, more kids doing exercises in a beautifully equipped gymnasium, watchmakers at work. A few had pencil marks on the back in Alsa's writing; she'd sized one or two up provisionally. It all seemed very innocent.

The layouts were roughs for various pages in the magazine, with type areas and pictures blocked in and not much else. A few were front-cover designs, with scribbled-in picture outlines and a few rough type styles for the title. Russian Life. They didn't look particularly exciting, though one was fairly striking: a rough map of Russia with flags sticking out of it. Alsa clearly intended to put a picture inside each flag. Nice idea if the artists didn't foul it up and the printers got the register right and didn't blur the edges. I stayed for an hour or so, and went through the stuff carefully three times, but there was nothing I could see that might give me a lead. All the same, I made quite a few photocopies in case there was something important I'd missed. When I'd finished I left everything as I'd found it, picked up the key Morelius had left on the table, locked the door behind me and went back to Morelius' office.

`No police?'

'No.' He managed a smile. 'It was useful?'

Ì don't think so,' I said. 'Sorry about the pressure. I felt I had to look.'

Morelius smiled. 'Now it is over, I do not worry. I would like to help. If there is anything

. .

I nodded. 'I'll ask. Thanks.'

`You tell Mr Scown we wish to help, please.' Ì'll tell him.'

`Where will you go now?'

I had no idea. 'Back to the hotel, I suppose.'

`We will send you by car,' Morelius said. He got up and opened the door. 'You will have spoken to Mr Marasov?' I turned to look at him. 'Who?'

He looked surprised. 'You did not know? Mr Marasov 'came here with Miss Hay. He is a press attaché, I think anyway, at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm.'

`What,' ',asked, `was he doing?'

`Miss Hay said he was helping her with some translation.' Was he, now?' I thought about that. 'Did they leave together?'

`Yes. In our car.'

Where did they go?'

`To the Scanda Hotel. The police know this. They asked the driver.'

I asked the driver myself on the way back into Gothenburg and he confirmed it. He'd taken Alsa and the Russian to the Scanda and when he dropped them, they both went inside.

`What were they talking about?'

He shrugged. 'I not listen. My English .

`You heard nothing?'

`No. Once he say he is sorry. I hear that.'

I wondered what he'd been sorry about, but there was no mileage in it. He could have been sorry about dropping cigarette ash.

I thanked the driver, watched the Volvo move away, and wandered into the Scanda's lobby. At least I now knew what to do next. I was heading for the lift and my bugged telephone when the porter called my name and hurried over. À visitor asks to see you, sir.'

Òh? Who is he?'

Òver there, sir.' He nodded towards the apology for a lounge, where a man sat quietly, smoking a cigarette. He looked up as I approached and began to rise. Ì'm Sellers,' I said.

`Pavel Marasov. I am Press Attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm.' He offered his hand and I shook it: a cold hand, limp grip. He was a bit like his handshake, too. Rimless glasses of Glenn Miller vintage. Medium height, nondescript, in a slightly scruffy suit, but with a kind of intensity around the eyes. 'I came here to see if there was news and was told you are here.'

Ànd is there any news?' I sat down next to him.

No. I asked the police. They do not know where Miss

Hay is. It is very worrying.'

I said, 'We're all worried.'

`The Ambassador himself is most anxious.'

We stared at each other for a moment or two. Then I said, `Mr Marasov, I don't know much. The police are keeping it tight. But I understand there was some problem about a transparency.' I used Schmid's trick, watching his eyes and emphasizing the word transparency.

But he didn't hesitate. 'Oh yes. It was unfortunate. We were sorry Miss Hay was troubled, but — you are a journalist, I think?'

`Then you will understand. In Moscow Miss Hay was at the Number One Magazine Publishing House.'

I said, 'I know it. I was there myself.'

He looked at me for a moment.

`So you are the, er — '

Ì'm the one you threw out,' I said.

He nodded, even smiled a little. 'I heard of it, but this is a neutral country, eh?' Then he frowned and returned to the subject. 'You understand that there is a central photographic laboratory. They do' work on many publications.'

Ì remember.'

`They were copying transparencies for Miss Hay. A great many transparencies, you know? She selected what she wanted and they were copied because it is the rule that the original transparencies are not released. You follow me?'

`Yes.'

Well, naturally there was much material in the laboratory, including the transparency which had been selected for a special anniversary edition of Soviet Industry. Miss Hay had• taken away a large number 'of transparencies and when it was found that the cover was missing, it was thought it might, in error, have been given to her. The matter was urgent for production reasons.'

I said, Ì'd still like to know what happened.'

Ìt was most regrettable. It was necessary to stop her at the airport and ask if her material could be examined.'

`Who stopped her?'

Ì believe a message was sent from the publishing house to the airport police. Naturally it was not a police matter ...'

`Naturally,' I said. I could imagine the happy moment: Alsa at Sheremetyevo Airport with a pile of transparencies and the sudden heavy hand of the Russian police. She must have been scared out of her wits.

`They search her?'

`No.' He looked at me reprovingly. `She was a guest of the Soviet people, Mr Sellers. She was asked if the material could be checked'

Ànd she agreed?' Of course she'd agree, I thought. With the plane on the runway and the Soviet police breathing heavily, anybody'd agree.

`She was most co-operative. Unfortunately the transparency was not found.' Marasov smiled ,again. 'They have to find a new cover now. It is most annoying for them.'

Ì can imagine.'

`But these things happen. Miss Hay told me she understood and did not mind.'

I said, Àlsa's a nice girl.'

`Very nice,' he agreed. 'I found her most charming.'

Èverybody does. Tell me, Mr Marasov, since Gothenburg's a long way from Stockholm, why're you there?'

He made a little gesture with his hands. 'She speaks no Russian. I speak English. I have instructions to help her in any way necessary. With additional information or material, translation. And so on.'

It was all plausible enough. Indeed it was more or less to be expected. Marasov would have been instructed to help, to keep a watching brief, and to try to make sure the official line wasn't transgressed.

`You have no idea where she is?'

`No.' Marasov shook his head. His regret seemed genuine. Òr why she might have disappeared?'

He said, with a slightly weary air, as though he'd said it a lot of times: 'I know what you think, Mr Sellers. You believe we have kidnapped her for some reason.'

Ì'm a reporter,' I said. 'It wouldn't be the first time I've come across the story.'

Ì assure you it is not so.' The glasses glinted indignantly. He looked at me with an intensity that was almost pleading. `We wish to see Miss Hay complete her work. We have regard for her. Also it is to our advantage. Please do not think otherwise.'

I shrugged. 'Okay. I'll try to believe it. One question, though. What time did you leave?'

`We had one drink. I left at five thirty o'clock.'

Àll right. And we keep in touch?'

`Please. I am at the Hotel Nord. And Mr Sellers' `What?'

'If you hear anything at all, please let me know. We will help in any way we can.'

I watched him go, and tried to decide whether to believe him or not. Marasov was an official of a country that had engaged for half a century in devious, determined and often horrific clandestine activities, a prime suspect if ever there was one. Yet he was apparently showing distress and wanting to help. One duckling missing from a pond; one ferocious pike in the pond, and the pike says, it wasn't me. I'm as anxious as you are. Who believes the pike? Why should I believe Marasov?

Oh, God, I thought despairingly, where was Alsa?

Schmid had used the don't-ring-us-we'll-ring-you routine, but it was difficult to imagine that Sweden's highly efficient police hadn't progressed a millimetre in more than sixty hours of investigation, so I telephoned the police from the pay-phone in the lobby. I'd assumed almost automatically that the bug in my bedroom was Russian. So it might be, but if Marasov wasn't lying, then it might be somebody else's bug and I preferred not to speak into a 'microphone without having some idea whose it was. But Schmid was out, or so they said, and so was Sergeant Gustaffson. The duty inspector said he was sorry there

was no news, and I'd. be told the moment anything new turned up, if I'd leave my name and number. I told him Schmid had both, but he made a note all the same, and said don't ring us, we'll ring you.

I took the lift to the top floor and found the door of six-two-eight, the room Alsa had used. I tried the door handle, just in case, but it was locked. However, the door of the next room, six-thirty, was open and I looked inside. The twin beds were freshly-made, and the room clean. There was no communicating door. I strolled along the corridor. A chamber-maid was at work making beds, and several doors stood open. She seemed to be working from one end of the corridor to the other and hadn't reached six-thirty yet, so it was a fair guess the room hadn't been occupied the previous night. I wondered who'd been in • it the night Alsa vanished. She must have been moved quickly, either out of the hotel or at least to another room, and presumably against her will. How had the trick been done?

I returned along the corridor, found the fire escape door, pushed it open and saw the stairs that could lead only to the roof. After that I took the lift back to the lobby and asked the reception clerk who had occupied the rooms on either side of Alsa's on the night she disappeared. He looked at me doubtfully at first and then gave me the information. Six-thirty had been occupied by two gentlemen.

`Frenchmen, sir. Mr Raoul Maisels and Mr Phillipe Cohen.' He pronounced them the French way and it was only because I could see the paper in his hand that something dawned on me. "Jewish?' I asked.

`Possibly. I do not know, sir.'

Òkay. What about six-two-six?' That was the room on the other side. Òne moment.' He worked down the list. 'An American couple, sir. Mr and Mrs Paul C. Scott from Philadelphia.' `When did they check out?'

`Next day, I think, sir. Yes, next day,

`Both lots?'

`,Yes, sir.'

I thanked him and walked away. Two people each side, and both pairs had packed and gone next morning. Coincidence or not? I wondered how rooms were allocated in the hotel; who drew up the lists?

Probably the reception clerk, unless VIPs were involved. At that point the manager would take over.

I turned to walk back to the lift and nearly fell over the feet of a workman. Two of them were doing repairs in the recesses of some kind of cupboard. I skirted them and pressed the lift button. When it came and the doors opened, I checked the inside buttons. They were numbered one to six, and the bottom one was for the garage beneath the hotel. I pressed it and went down a floor. It wasn't exactly difficult to see how Alsa could have been removed from the hotel. The door to six-two-eight upstairs wasn't ten yards from the lift; the garage had free and open access to the road. If Inspector Schmid hadn't worked that one out he must be pretty stupid, and he hadn't seemed stupid, so why hadn't he mentioned it, at least as a possibility? To hell with it, I'd go round to the police now, see Schmid if he was in, and start asking questions about Maisels, Cohen and Mr and Mrs Scott and their movements.

When I got there, Schmid was still out. I was asked if I was a relative of Alsa's and what my interest in the matter was anyway, then told to sit on the hard wooden bench they obviously kept for the people they wanted to discourage. When Inspector Schmid returned, he would perhaps see me. He would, at any rate, be informed. The decision was his.

I sat there for an hour and a half with corns developing rapidly on my rear end, but watching the comings and goings carefully. I was determined that when Schmid came m, he wasn't going to slip past and then refuse to see me:

At long last the desk sergeant, who'd been studiously ignoring me ever since I'd first sat on the bloody bench, beckoned with his finger. Schmid would see me now. He told me how to get to the second floor office and I went up in the lift, found it and knocked. The door was opened by somebody I hadn't seen before. `Mr Sellers?' he asked politely.

`Yes.'

`Please come in. This is Inspector Schmid.'

I glanced at the figure behind the desk, then turned to the man who'd opened the door. Àre you Sergeant Gustaffson?' `Yes.'

I'd never seen either of them before.