Terror's Cradle

by Duncan Kyle

  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.

  `What now?'

  `We wait.'

  Tor instructions?'

  He frowned. 'You are a nuisance. Anderson will return. We will be here. But for the moment you must be taken away.'

  He was sending for reinforcements and I began to ask myself where they could be. To the west lay the Atlantic. A ship, then? One of the inevitable Russian trawlers that swarm round the world's seas. But there were no hills to the west so no need to climb. The high ground lay near the middle of the long island; I'd driven up and down the spine of hills on the way here. So with luck it would take time. I wished I knew more about the topography of the place. Those inlets I'd passed could probably shelter a ship, particularly a small one like a trawler. How near was the nearest? What kind of transport had they?

  He didn't move his eyes from me, after that; but he didn't talk either. I was standing, he was seated, and we were both listening to the wind buffeting the windows. Somewhere up the hill the big man was struggling higher, swearing, seeking a spot from which the cross-country line was clear. I said, 'Speaking of incompetence, you haven't searched me.

  '

  Tor What?' You are no danger to me. You are carrying nothing to interest me. What you have of value is inside your head.'

  `You don't know that. '

  Ì know I can kill you before you move a foot. So be still.'

  Somewhere upstairs, a loose-fitting window kept rattling, and once or twice his eyes moved irritably towards the sound. `May I sit down?'

  `No.'

  He was listening, his head slightly to one side, awaiting the big man's return. Upstairs the window rattled again and he 'frowned.

  I was assembling saliva in my mouth, stockpiling it, consciously suppressing the reflex that demanded I swallow, tilting my head back to allow the fluid to flow into my throat. Was there enough? Could I make myself choke? Would the choking immobilize me? I opened my mouth, breathing in hard and tried to kill the swallowing movement halfway. I managed to inhale a tiny amount. Then other bodily reflexes took over and I began to cough and splutter, magnifying the effect deliberately and reaching for my handkerchief. He watched me carefully, his eyes above the unwavering pistol following the movement.

  I got a coin out with the handkerchief and concealed it in my hand as I blew my nose and hawked and spluttered for a moment or two. Then I returned the handkerchief to my pocket.

  `Fear,' he said, 'Sometimes affects the membranes.'

  I nodded, the coin concealed in my right hand. I moved it slowly through my fingers until it rested over my thumbnail, wedged against my index finger. Ànderson's an ornithologist,' I said. 'A bird-watcher. They spend their time in isolated places with cameras and binoculars. It could be days before he's back.'

  He gave me a contemptuous smile. 'It is winter npw, Mr Sellers. The migrations are over. The breeding season has not begun. I am not an idiot.'

  I said, 'I understand he found a pair of snowy owls.' `So?'

  Not migratory. Very rare.' I didn't know whether they migrated or not. Or care.

  `Since you do not know him, how do you know this?' Àlsa – Alison Hay, did a story,' I lied. 'It was among the newspaper cuttings.'

  Ì see. Let us hope these owls do not detain him long: `That's one,' I said.

  'What?'

  À snowy owl. Up there.' I nodded in the direction of one of Anderson's wall charts and his head turned involuntarily towards it. For about two seconds. He was saying, 'So elementa –' when the coin I'd flicked up over his head landed on the stone floor beside the door.

  I shouted, 'Run, Anderson!' and he swung round. quickly to look at the door. The low armchair inhibited his movement. 'Run!' I called again at the top of my voice, then I flung myself towards the Tilley lamp and swept it in one movement from the the table into his lap.

  Paraffin spilled and caught. Not much, but it was quick and there were little flames on his clothes and he lurched forward to try to control them. I got him once, with desperate violence slamming my fist at his neck, before the pistol went off. The bullet flicked my jacket, but I'd got him again before he could fire a second time, this time with all my strength, and on the nose. He grunted and then whimpered and I hit him again, smashing him back into the chair before I hurled myself to the door and off down the hill towards the car.

  Nothing to interest him in my pockets! I had the Mini keys in my pockets and I went down the rough slope like a greyhound, climbed into the car and got it away fast, without lights, accelerating down the track towards the road.

  I'd gone maybe sixty yards when something slammed into the car. The big man had a rifle, but even so it must be a lucky shot, and I knew it. I kept my foot hard down and the gear low as I bucketed towards the road, then swung out on to the metalled surface without stopping.

  Seconds later I was accelerating fast away from the place. I turned my head as I went and saw a small glow from the cottage. Maybe the Tilley lamp had crashed to the floor as he struggled to rise. Good! Maybe he was frying in his own oil. Also good! I switched on the headlights, needing them badly. I. hadn't seen any wheeled transport, but they might have a car hidden somewhere. Again I was thankful for the Mini; on narrow winding roads, that little car's stability is worth a lot of engine power. I realized how much I was trembling and tried to control it, to switch my mind away from what had just happened, and began to take risks to force my mind to concentrate on driving, to concentrate on the road and on where the road would take me. There was noone to help, no friends on the islands. I knew no-one here except the Dennetts, who couldn't conceivably help. But, hang on! Who was the office stringer here? Newspapers use freelances in every corner of the country and there was certainly one here; I'd seen his name a few times, on copy. What was the name, damn it? I tried to visualize the sheets of copy paper. Lerwick. Something, Lerwick. But what was the something? If I'd been in the Daily News office, I'd have called the news desk and got the answer pat. But I wasn't in the office; I was driving like a madman. across lonely peat moors with armed men not far back who would be very anxious indeed to get their hairy paws on me again. The name, what was it? It was an odd name, I knew that. Something incongruous, something that didn't fit. I could remember the names of whole masses of correspondents, but

>   not the one that mattered. I started to go through the ones I remembered, hoping to roll it out of my memory in a list. MacGregor, Kirkcaldy, I remembered him. His name fitted; Onslow, Brighton; the splendidly-named Brown, Windsor; somebody at Lincoln. Why Lincoln? Of course, damn it, Lincoln was it — the man's name here! Lincoln, Lerwick!

  That was why it was incongruous : two place names. And a very English name in the far, far north.

  Lincoln. I must speak to Lincoln. He'd know the islands like the back of his hand; freelances have to if they're to make a living, especially in a place like the Shetlands where the story has to 'be very good indeed if it's to interest the London-orientated noses of news editors.

  I was going through the minute roadside hamlets like a frantic flea and a couple of times a lighted phone box was past almost before I saw it. Well, I'd wait until I reached Lerwick. There I could keep the car out of sight in case the big man had made radio contact and others were on the lookout for a purple Mini.

  This time I did the trip in a minute or two over the hour, not without giving the local sheep and myself a fright or two. The only real danger was that somebody might be driving to meet me, but that was to assume good organization on land and somehow I didn't really believe they'd have things as well set up as that. Anderson was the target. I'd just come blundering in.

  Lerwick isn't big, and before I knew it I was almost on the harbour front. I turned right, up a street of houses, swung into a narrow lane, and climbed out. As I closed the door, I saw a bullet hole in the body panel, a couple of feet behind the driving seat. At night, with an accelerating unlit target, that was some shooting. I shuddered and swallowed and hurried away.

  There was a phone box near the town hall, I was told, and I ran to it up something Brae, a street so steep it knocked the breath out of me. When I reached the box I gave myself great offence by having to use a ten-pence coin for a twopence call. Then I remembered that the coin I'd used in

  Anderson's cottage had been a two. Well spent, I thought.

  Lincoln was listed under Journalists in the Yellow Pages. His wife answered the phone with the slightly weary politeness

  of journalists' wives who become accustomed but never reconciled to late phone calls. I told her who I was.

  `Jack's away, Mr Sellers. Can he call you back?' A Scots accent. Maybe Lincoln was a Scot, despite the name.

  `No. I'm here in Lerwick, in a call box. I need to find him urgently. Do you know where he is?'

  Ì know where he was going. To the galley shed in Saint Sunniva Street.'

  Ìf not, one of the pubs?'

  She said primly, 'I feel sure you'll find him at the shed, Mr Sellers. D'you know where it is?'

  Ì'll find it.'

  Ànyone will tell you.'

  `Thanks.' I hung up and left the kiosk, looking for anyone who'd tell me, but the street was quiet. Finally I found a small boy who should have been in bed. `Da galley,' he said. Àway da.'

  Looking in the direction his finger pointed, I could see a pool of bright light among the grey stone houses half a mile away.

  `Da's da galley.' He seemed impressed.

  He grinned and ran off, almost certainly not in the direction of bed. I also grinned briefly to myself, glad to have something to grin at, then set off towards the lights. The wind still blew, but Lerwick is sheltered from the blast by the high hills and the half mile walk was an opportunity to wind down, soothing yet bracing. I turned into St Sunniva Street, still tense but feeling better.

  A small crowd; perhaps a hundred people, was gathered beneath the bright television lights, and a camera dolly showed above their heads, lenses pointing into the shed. I approached, then pushed my way through until I could see inside. I ought to have remembered, of course. I'd heard of the galley, of Up-Helly-Aa, the Shetland Fire Festival,

  but until I looked in through the double doors the word galley hadn't clicked in my mind. It stood there now, a big, colourful, beautifully-built Viking galley, shields at its sides, the striped sail furled at its masthead, people milling around. Half-bottles of whisky, those flat halves that fit conveniently in pockets, were much in evidence and a few people were wearing full Viking costume. I looked at the galley with interest. In the UpHelly-Aa festival it would be dragged in torchlight procession through the streets, and burned, spectacularly. A waste, I thought, then doubted my own sudden judgment. Why a waste, when it was also an exclamation of pride?

  The somebody nudged me and rattled a collection box under my nose. 'She's fine, eh?'

  `She is.'

  `Costs money, she does.' He was smiling. 'More every year. Inflation they call it.'

  I found a pound note, folded it and slid it into the box. 'I'm looking for Mr Lincoln.'

  Òh aye. The reporter?'

  I nodded.

  `He's here somewhere. Saw him no more than a minute or two ago. Aye, there he is, over there.'

  He pointed out a man in his late thirties, fair-haired and stocky, who stood quietly watching the TV cameraman. Earning his bread, no doubt.

  `You're Mr Lincoln?'

  He turned. 'Yes?'

  `John Sellers, Daily News.'

  We shook hands and he said, 'Here for Up-Helly-Aa,' then? Make a nice feature. Nationals haven't done it for a year or two.' He was English, probably Lancashire from the vowel sounds.

  `Not really. I want to see a man.'

  Àbout a dog?' He laughed. 'Okay, that's why I get a retainer. Who is he?'

  `How many retainers?'

  À few.' He laughed again, energetic and cheerful, a busy,

  independent freelance who served many people but no master. 'Good, is it?'

  I said, 'It's a story we care about. I want help, but it's an exclusive. So far, anyway.'

  Òh?' Bright and beady interest.

  À tenner for information,' I said. 'More if it stays exclusive. God help your retainer if it doesn't.'

  He said seriously, 'You've been dealing with too many Southern crooks, Mr Sellers. I'm secure if I'm paid.' `James Anderson. The ornithologist.'

  `Jim Anderson. Oh yes, I know him. Don't tell me the Daily News is interested in birds with wings.'

  Ì just want to see him.'

  `He was here till a few minutes ago.'

  `Here?' I could hear the surprise in my voice.

  `They're all here for Up-Helly-Aa. He may still be marching, I think.'

  `Where is he?'

  `He'll have gone. You've heard about the fire?' `What fire?'

  `His house. I got a tip-off from the police a few minutes ago and told him. Not too bad, so I understand. But he lives in the far west, you know. Takes a fire engine a long time to get there.'

  `Damn! He'll have gone out there.'

  Lincoln said, 'I don't think so. He went to phone, I know that. To find out how bad it was.'

  `Where will he phone from?'

  He laid a finger against his nose, grinning. 'Local knowledge. When he's in Lerwick he usually stays with Miss Petrie. She was a teacher here for years. Retired now.'

  `Her address. Quick!'

  He eyed me with interest, my urgency whetting his appetite for the story; he gave me the address and directions how to get there. It wasn't far away. Less than ten minutes' walk, he said. I half-walked, half-ran and made it in five.

  Miss Petrie lived in a neat granite cottage in a small row in the older part of the town, and from the shut-down look

  of the place Anderson wasn't there and she'd gone to bed.

  I gave a couple of bangs with the polished brass door-knocker and waited. After a moment a light came on inside, a bolt was drawn back, a lock turned. She was about seventy, white-haired and needle-thin, wearing a heavy woollen dressing gown with several neat dams in it. Miss Petrie could have modelled for any advertisement that required a face stern yet kind, authoritative yet gentle. A long, good, helpful life lay behind her and she looked at me with an incongruous sharp hostility in her level grey eyes.

  I said, 'Miss Petrie?'
<
br />   `Yes.' She said it slowly, reluctantly.

  Ì'm sorry to disturb you, but it's very urgent indeed. I must speak to James Anderson.'

  `Then you'd better speak to him somewhere else. He's not here.' Her voice was cold. I said, 'I have very important information for him. My name – '

  `No,' she said sharply. Her hands shook slightly, from age or nervousness. Age, probably. This one would have good nerves.

  `Please, Miss Petrie. If you can even get a message – '

  Ì don't know where he is. You're wasting your time and mine, young man. Good night.'

  She began to close the door.

  Desperately, I said, 'If he's told you somebody's after – '

  But the door was shut. The lock clicked and the bolt slid home. I raised my hand to the knocker, but let it fall, accepting the futility of knocking again. If I'd ever met someone acting out of character, it was the old lady behind that door. Nor was it hard to guess the reason. I'd doubted, at first, whether Anderson would have gone to Miss Petrie's house. Far more likely that he'd have set off on the long drive to Sandness when he heard about the fire. But now I was sure that he either was there or had been there.

  The old lady's unnatural hostility only confirmed it; she was protecting one of her own, and with determination. I

  wondered what Anderson could know. A fire was a fire. An accident, almost invariably. But this whole set-up said clearly that he must know there was more to it than that. He must be highly suspicious and he'd communicated his suspicion to Miss Petrie; now, already, one line of defence was mounted.

  I turned away angrily, knowing the defence was, for the moment at least, impenetrable, and I hurried back towards the galley shed, hoping Lincoln would still be around. Turning into St Sunniva Street, I could see the crowd was still there, but the TV camera had stopped work. I prayed that Lincoln hadn't. Forcing my way into the shed again, I looked round for him anxiously. There wasn't a sign. Damn! I felt a sudden,. leaden sense of despair, and stood for a long moment, body slackening, in the realization that the roads were closing round me.

  `Sellers!'

  The call came from above and I turned and looked up. There was a kind of balcony at the end of the shed above the doors, and Lincoln was leaning over, a half-bottle in his hand. I ran up the steps towards him and he held the bottle out to me. 'Here. You look as though you need it.'