McCready said nothing. Schmidt shrugged and lit a cigarette. He blew a perfect smoke ring. There was a crackling silence in the hut that went on and on and on.
THIRTY-THREE
Armstrong’s hands sweated as he gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow and trundled it along the pavement at a speed that was positively dangerous to the pedestrian population of Enso. Beside him Carey walked quickly to keep pace, every now and then breaking into a little trot. Armstrong came to a halt at a street corner, stopped by the traffic flow.
‘Damn Boris Ivanevitch!’ said Carey. ‘God save us all from talkative coppers. I hope he gets hell for being late on duty.’
‘Not far now,’ said Armstrong. ‘Only another block. You can see the paper mill from here.’
Carey craned his neck and suddenly groaned. ‘And I can see that bloody bus—it’s just leaving.’
‘Is it coming this way? Perhaps we can flag it down.’
‘No, damn it! It’s going away from us.’ Carey checked his watch. ‘Dead on time. Huovinen is chicken-livered; he could have delayed it somehow.’
There came a gap in the traffic and Armstrong jolted the barrow over the kerb. ‘What now?’ he asked as they crossed the street.
‘I don’t know,’ said Carey heavily. ‘Let’s find a place where we’re not too conspicuous.’
‘The mill is as good a place as any.’
‘No; there’ll be a watchman. Go around the next corner and we’ll see what we can find.’
They were lucky. A trench was being dug along one side of the street. Carey said, ‘Just the thing; we’ll stop here.’
Armstrong stopped and lowered the barrow. ‘Why here?’
Carey sighed and plucked at his jacket. ‘Don’t be dim. This uniform and those exposed pipes go together. We look natural’
Armstrong glanced around. ‘A good thing the gang’s knocked off work for the day.’
‘Yes,’ said Carey. ‘Jump in the hole and you’ll look natural.’ Armstrong dropped into the trench and Carey squatted on his heels. ‘Got any bright ideas?’
‘There’s the empty house where I found the barrow. We could lie low in the cellar.’
‘Until tomorrow?’ Carey pondered and shook his head. ‘The problem is the head count at the frontier post. They’ll be two short and that might make it a bit unhealthy around here before long.’
Armstrong snapped his fingers. ‘There’s a railway goes from here to Imatra. Maybe we could get a ride.’
‘Nothing doing. Railway police are notoriously efficient—especially at frontiers. All it needs is a telephone call from that frontier post to say there are two Finns missing and they’ll be doubly efficient.’
‘There’s a copper coming up just behind you,’ said Armstrong.
Carey did not turn. ‘Not Boris Ivanevitch, I hope.’
‘No.’
‘Then have a look at that pipe and tell me what you see.’
Armstrong ducked down into the trench. His voice floated up. ‘It’s not cracked.’
‘It must be cracked somewhere,’ said Carey loudly. He heard the crunch of boots on road gravel behind him. ‘We’ll have to do a smoke test.’ He looked up and saw the policeman. ‘Good evening, comrade.’
The policeman’s face was expressionless. ‘Working late?’
‘I always have to work late when something goes wrong,’ said Carey in a grumbling voice. ‘If it isn’t one thing it’s another, and they always pick on me. Now it’s a pipe that’s sprung a leak which no one can find.’
The policeman looked into the trench. ‘What’s this for?’
‘Drainage for the new paper mill over there.’
The policeman looked at Carey. His eyes were like stones. ‘You won’t drain a paper mill through a pipe that size.’
‘Not the main drainage for the mill,’ said Carey. This is what you might call the domestic drainage for the lavatories and the canteen and so on.’ An idea suddenly came into his mind, the brilliance of which astounded him. ‘Perhaps the leak is in the mill. I might have to go in and see if I can find it there.’ He stood up. ‘You never can tell what a bad leak will do underground—undermine walls, anything.’ He frowned. ‘There’s some heavy machinery in there.’
‘So they tell me,’ said the policeman. ‘Imported from Finland.’
‘I don’t know why we can’t use our own Russian stuff,’ said Carey disgustedly. ‘But Russian or Finnish, it will collapse if the foundations are washed from under it. I’d better go and have a look.’
‘You’re keen on your job,’ said the policeman.
‘That’s how I got to where I am,’ said Carey. He jerked his thumb at Armstrong. ‘Now, take that young chap; he’ll never rise to be an inspector if he lives a hundred years. He never raises a finger unless someone tells him to.’ He turned to the trench. ‘Come on, useless; we’re going into the mill. Bring your barrow with your spade—we might need them.’
He walked away as Armstrong climbed out of the trench and the policeman fell into step beside him. ‘You’re right,’ said the policeman. ‘Some of these young chaps are useless.’
‘Do you have many like that in your lot?’ asked Carey.
The policeman laughed. ‘They wouldn’t last long with us. No, it’s the layabouts I come across in the course of duty who grate on my nerves. Youngsters of fifteen and sixteen with hair half-way down their backs and swilling vodka until they’re rotten drunk. I don’t know how they can afford it. I can’t—not on my pay.’
Carey nodded. ‘I’m having something of the same trouble with my own son. This generation is as soft as putty, but what can you do, comrade? What can you do?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said the policeman. ‘Just tell that son of yours to keep out of my way. I’m getting a bit heavy-handed these days.’
They stopped at the mill entrance. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Carey. ‘Maybe that’s what’s needed.’
‘It is,’ said the policeman. He flicked a hand in farewell. ‘I hope you find your leak, comrade.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Carey. ‘I’ve just thought of something. The watchman might not let us in.’
The policeman grinned. ‘I’ll have a word with him; it’ll be all right.’
He walked into the mill and Carey winked at Armstrong. ‘Not bad chaps, these Russian coppers, when you get to know them—in spite of Boris Ivanevitch. Come on.’
‘Thanks for the testimonial,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s just the thing I need to get a job around here. Why are we going in?’
‘You park the barrow near the temporary office in the corner. Then you go away and keep the watchman busy while I do a spot of burglary.’
‘You can’t burgle in front of a copper.’
‘He won’t stay around,’ said Carey. ‘He has his beat to cover.’
‘All right; you do your burglary—then what?’
Carey grinned. ‘Then we get ourselves booted out of Russia.’
Half an hour later, when they were walking up to the frontier post, Carey said, ‘It was the papers that bothered me. Leaving Russia is easy, but not with Merikken’s papers. Then I started talking to the copper about the mill and it gave me the idea. I’d seen those blueprints in that office this morning.’
Armstrong trundled the wheelbarrow. ‘I hope it works. There’s the frontier post.’
‘Remember you don’t know any Russian,’ said Carey. ‘It would be uncharacteristic in a Finn of your class.’
‘I don’t know any Finnish either,’ said Armstrong. ‘And that’s bloody uncharacteristic.’
‘Then keep your mouth shut,’ said Carey. ‘If you have to talk at all use Swedish; but don’t talk if you can help it. Leave the talking to me. And hope that none of these guards are studying engineering or mathematics.’
They bore down on the frontier post at a steady three miles an hour. Armstrong was still wearing working overalls but Carey had covered his uniform. He had stopped being a Russian and was now a Finn.
The guard regarded them with mild surprise as they approached. ‘This is as far as you go,’ he said in Russian, and accompanied the statement with a smile.
Carey answered in fast Finnish. ‘Did the bus driver tell you we were coming? The fool left us behind. We’ve had to walk from the paper mill.’
The smile left the guard’s face as he heard the Finnish. ‘Where the devil have you come from?’ he asked in Russian.
‘I don’t speak Russian,’ said Carey. ‘Don’t you know Finnish?’
‘Sergeant!’ yelled the guard, passing the buck.
A sergeant came out of the guard house, leisurely fastening his belt. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘These two Finns popped up. They came from back there.’
‘Oh, they did, did they?’ The sergeant stepped over and inspected them critically, his eyes dwelling for a time on the barrow. In exceedingly bad Finnish he asked, ‘Where did you come from?’
‘The paper mill,’ said Carey, speaking slowly. ‘The bus driver left us behind.’ He indicated the barrow. ‘We had to collect these papers to take to the boss in Imatra. It took us a while to find them and when we came out the bus had gone.’
‘What are the papers?’
‘Machine drawings and calculations. See for yourself.’ Carey threw aside the sacking on top of the barrow and picked up the top document. He unfolded it to reveal a blueprint which he gave to the sergeant. ‘That’s one of the drawings.’
The sergeant studied the complexity of lines with uncomprehending eyes. ‘Why take them back to Imatra?’
‘For revision,’ said Carey. ‘It happens all the time. When you build a complicated machine it doesn’t always fit together right, usually because some fool of a draughtsman has made a mistake. So the drawings have to be amended.’
The sergeant raised his head and eyed Carey and then looked at the blueprint again. ‘How do I know this is what you say it is? I know nothing about paper machinery.’
‘In the bottom righthand corner there’s the name of our company and a description of the drawing. Can you read that much Finnish?’
The sergeant did not reply. He handed the blueprint back to Carey. ‘Are they all like this?’
‘Help yourself,’ said Carey generously.
The sergeant bent and rooted about in the wheelbarrow. When he straightened he was holding a hardbound exercise book. He opened it and glanced at a solid block of mathematical equations. ‘And this?’
‘I wouldn’t know until I saw it,’ said Carey. ‘It could be about the chemistry or it could be mechanical. Let me see.’ He leaned over to look at the page the sergeant was examining. ‘Ah, yes; those are the calculations for the roller speeds. This machine is very advanced—very technical. Do you know that the paper goes through at seventy kilometres an hour? You have to be very exact when you’re working at those speeds.’
The sergeant flicked through the pages and then dropped the book into the barrow. ‘What do you mean—chemical?’
Carey was enthusiastic. ‘Papermaking is as much a chemical process as mechanical. There’s the sulphite and the sulphate and the clay-all have to be worked out in exact formulae for the making of different kinds of paper. I’ll show you what I mean.’ He dug into the wheelbarrow and brought up a roll of papers. ‘These are the calculations for that kind of thing. Look; these are the equations for making tissue paper of cosmetic quality—and here—the calculations for ordinary newsprint.’
The sergeant waved away the papers from under his nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have no authority to let you pass. I will have to consult my captain.’ He turned to go back into the guard house.
‘Perrrkele!’ swore Carey, giving the ‘r’ its full Finnish value. ‘You know damned well by the head count that thirty-six came in and only thirty-four went out.’
The sergeant halted in mid-stride. Slowly he turned and looked at the guard who shrugged helplessly. ‘Well?’ he asked acidly.
The guard was out of luck. ‘I haven’t put it in the book yet.’
‘How many went out tonight?’
‘Thirty-four, plus the driver.’
‘How many came in this morning?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty this morning.’
‘You don’t know!’ The sergeant was apoplectic. ‘Then what’s the use of doing a head count?’ He took a deep breath. ‘Bring me the book,’ he said arctically.
The guard bobbed his head and went into the guard house at the double. He emerged in less than fifteen seconds and handed the sergeant a small record book. The sergeant turned the pages and then gave the guard a look that ought to have frozen the blood in his veins. ‘Thirty-six came in,’ he said softly. ‘And you didn’t know.’
The luckless guard had the sense to keep his mouth shut. The sergeant checked his watch. ‘When did the bus go through?’
‘About three-quarters of an hour ago.’
‘About!’ the sergeant screamed. ‘You’re supposed to know to the second.’ He slapped the page. ‘You’re supposed to record it in here.’ He snapped his mouth shut into a straight line and the temperature fell. ‘For about three-quarters of an hour two foreign nationals have been wandering on the wrong side of the frontier without anyone knowing about it. Am I supposed to tell that to the captain?’ His voice was low.
The guard was silent. ‘Well, speak up!’ the sergeant yelled.
‘I…I don’t know,’ said the guard miserably.
‘You don’t know,’ repeated the sergeant in freezing tones. ‘Well, do you know this? Do you know what would happen to me—’ he slapped himself on the chest—‘to me if I told him that? Within a week I’d be serving on the Chinese frontier—and so would you, you little turd, but that wouldn’t make me any happier.’
Carey tried to look unconcerned; he was not supposed to know Russian. He saw the beginnings of a grin appear on Armstrong’s face and kicked him on the ankle.
‘Stand to attention!’ roared the sergeant, and the guard snapped straight, his back like a ramrod. The sergeant went very close to him and peered at him from a range of six inches. ‘I have no intention of serving on the Chinese frontier,’ he said. ‘But I will guarantee one thing. Within a week you’ll be wishing you were on the Chinese frontier—and on the Chinese side of it.’
He withdrew. ‘You’ll stay there until I tell you to move,’ he said quietly, and came over to Carey. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked in Finnish.
‘Mäenpää,’ said Carey. ‘Rauno Mäenpää. He’s Simo Velling.’
‘Your passes?’
Carey and Armstrong produced their passes and the sergeant scrutinized them. He handed them back. ‘Report here when you come in tomorrow. Report to me and no one else.’
Carey nodded. ‘We can go?’
‘You can go,’ said the sergeant tiredly. He swung around and yelled at the unfortunate guard, ‘Well, what are you waiting for? The grass to grow between your toes? Raise that barrier.’
The guard was electrified into sudden action. He raised the barrier and Armstrong pushed the wheelbarrow to the other side. Carey was about to follow when he paused. He turned to the sergeant and said, ‘Papermaking is very interesting, you know. When the factory is working you ought to go and see it. Very spectacular.’
‘I might do that,’ said the sergeant.
Carey nodded pleasantly and followed Armstrong. He took a deep breath as though it was a different kind of air.
THIRTY-FOUR
Schmidt consulted his watch. ‘One minute.’ He dropped a cigarette stub on the floor and put his foot on it.
‘We’ll wait,’ said McCready. He nodded to Denison. ‘Check the windows—see if there’s anyone out there. You too, Harding.’
Denison went to the window. All was quiet and nothing moved except water ripples in the distance and the reeds which swayed stiffly in the light breeze. ‘All quiet.’
‘Here, too,’ said Harding, who was at the back window. ‘Not a thing stirring on the mountain.’
>
‘I think you’re trying to pull a fast one,’ said McCready. ‘It would be a hell of a joke if there was just one man out there.’
Schmidt shrugged. ‘Wait for it.’
Denison saw a movement in the reed bed at the edge of the marsh. ‘There’s something—or someone out there. It’s a man. He’s…’
His words were cut off by staccato explosions. In front of the hut the ground danced and soil fountained under the impact of bullets. An upthrown stone hit the pane of glass in front of Denison and the glass fractured and starred. He ducked hastily.
The noise stopped, chopping off into a dead silence.
McCready let out his breath. ‘Automatic weapons. At least three.’
‘Five,’ said Schmidt. ‘Seven men—eight including me.’ His hand dipped into his pocket and came back out with the packet of cigarettes. ‘I’ve just cast my vote.’
McCready casually laid down his pistol on the table. ‘Power grows out of the barrel of a gun. Your guns are bigger.’
‘I thought you’d see sense,’ said Schmidt approvingly. ‘Where’s the map, or whatever it is?’
‘Give it to him,’ said McCready.
Denison took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out to Schmidt who examined it with interest. His interest turned to bafflement. ‘Is this all?’
‘That’s all,’ said Denison.
‘This word—’ Schmidt stumblingly pronounced It—‘Luonnonpuisto. What does it mean?’
‘A literal translation would be “nature park”,’ said McCready. ‘The other three words mean lake, hill and gap. The numbers are co-ordinates in degrees of a circle. If you can find a lake, a hill and a gap in that exact relationship, all in a nature park, then you’ve solved the problem.’ He smiled at Schmidt. ‘I can’t say I wish you better luck than we’ve had.’
‘Not much to go on,’ said Schmidt. ‘And this is a photocopy.’
‘Someone snatched the original at Kevo. Our friend there got a bump on the head. So it wasn’t you, then?’
The Tightrope Men / The Enemy Page 23