The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Obviously it wasn’t,’ said Schmidt. ‘The Americans?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I do think so,’ stated Schmidt. ‘Because they aren’t here. Perhaps they’re back at Kevo measuring angles with a theodolite like he was doing.’ He pointed at Denison.

  ‘Maybe,’ said McCready non-committally.

  Schmidt stared at the paper. ‘This is foolishness. Why didn’t he give the name of the nature park?’

  ‘Why should he?’ asked McCready. ‘He knew it. That is just an aide-mémoire—just for the figures. You see, Merikken knew where the papers were and expected to dig them up himself—he didn’t expect to be killed in an air raid. But since one bit of rough country looked very much like another he took the precaution of measuring those angles.’ He offered Schmidt a derisory smile. ‘Those papers will be a hell of a job to find—especially with interference.’

  Schmidt had a sour expression on his face as he folded the paper and put it into his pocket. ‘Where’s your theodolite?’

  ‘Over there in the corner.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I borrow it?’ His voice was heavily ironic.

  ‘Go ahead; we can get another.’

  Schmidt stood up, went to the door and opened it. He shouted something in Czech and came back into the room. ‘Put your guns on the table.’

  McCready hesitated, then said, ‘All right, everybody; put your guns with mine.’

  ‘You’re showing sense,’ said Schmidt. ‘Neither of us can afford a shooting incident—especially if people are killed.’ He laughed. ‘If only I have the guns we’ll both be safe.’

  Diana reluctantly laid down her gun and Harding followed suit. When the door opened to admit another man there were five pistols laid out. The man was carrying an automatic rifle and when Schmidt saw that McCready was looking at it with wary interest he laughed, and said, ‘We borrowed some of your NATO weapons. They’re not bad.’ He spoke to the man and pointed at the back packs, then he picked up the pistols, put three of them into his pockets and held the other two in his hands.

  ‘You spoke of interference,’ he said to McCready. ‘You will not interfere. You are out of the game.’

  The other man was dumping the contents of the packs on the floor. He gave a startled exclamation as he came upon McCready’s collapsible rifle. Schmidt smiled, and said, ‘Always trying, Mr McCready—but that I expect. You will stay in this hut. If you attempt to leave it there is a grave danger of being shot dead.’

  ‘How long for?’

  Schmidt shrugged. ‘For as long as I consider necessary.’

  Diana spoke up. ‘We’ll need water.’

  Schmidt regarded her speculatively, then nodded abruptly. ‘I am not an inhumane man.’ He pointed to Harding and Denison. ‘You and you will bring water now. The rest will stay here.’

  Denison picked up the two empty buckets, and Harding said, ‘We’ll need as much as possible. I’ll take the bowls.’

  The man with the automatic rifle slung it over his shoulder together with McCready’s rifle. He picked up the theodolite and its tripod and left the hut followed by Denison and Harding, and Schmidt brought up the rear, a gun in each hand.

  McCready watched them go down to the edge of the marsh, and cocked an eye at Diana. ‘They seem to have bought it,’ he said softly. ‘For the next few weeks all the nature parks in Finland will be crawling with Czechs wielding theodolites. That ought to make the Finns properly suspicious.’

  Denison walked down to the marsh acutely aware that the man behind him was holding a pair of pistols. He bent down and began to fill the buckets. Schmidt lobbed the pistols one at a time into the marsh, using an over arm throw like a cricketer. He spaced them well out and Denison knew they would be irrecoverable. He straightened his back and said, ‘How will we know when it’s safe to come out of the hut?’

  There was a grim smile on Schmidt’s face. ‘You won’t,’ he said uncompromisingly. ‘You’ll have to take your chances.’

  Denison stared at him and then looked down at Harding who shrugged helplessly. ‘Let’s go back to the hut,’ he said.

  Schmidt stood with his hands on his hips and kept his eyes on them all the way to the hut. The door closed behind them and he hitched his pack into a more comfortable position, spoke briefly to his companion, and set off along the edge of the marsh in the same direction from which he had come, keeping up the same stolid pace as when he had arrived.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It seemed to Denison that of all the episodes he had gone through since being flung into this hodge-podge of adventures the time he spent in the hut at Sompio was characterized by a single quality—the quality of pure irritation. The five of them were pent up—‘cribbed, cabined and confined’, as Harding ironically quoted—and there was nothing that any of them could do about it, especially after McCready tested the temperature of the water.

  After two hours had gone by he said, ‘I think we ought to do something about this. I’ll just stick my toe in and see what it’s like.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Harding. ‘I was wrong about Schmidt—he doesn’t bluff.’

  ‘He can’t leave his men around here for ever,’ said McCready. ‘And we’d look damned foolish if there’s no one out there.’

  He opened the door and stepped outside and took one pace before a rifle cracked and a bullet knocked splinters from a log by the side of his head so that white wood showed. He came in very fast and slammed the door. ‘It’s a bit warm outside,’ he said.

  ‘How many do you think there are?’ asked Harding.

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ demanded McCready irritably. He put his hand to his cheek and pulled out a wood splinter, then looked at the blood on his fingertips.

  ‘I saw the man who fired,’ said Denison from the window. ‘He was just down there in the reeds.’ He turned to McCready. ‘I don’t think he meant to kill. It was just a warning shot.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’ McCready displayed the blood on his hand. ‘It was close.’

  ‘He has an automatic rifle,’ said Denison. ‘If he wanted to kill you he’d have cut you down with a burst.’

  McCready was on the receiving end for the first time of the hard competency which Carey had found so baffling in Denison. He nodded reluctantly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘As for how many there are, that’s not easy to say,’ said Denison. ‘All it needs is one at the front and one at the back, but it depends on how long Schmidt wants to keep us here. If it’s longer than twenty-four hours there’ll be more than two because they’ll have to sleep.’

  ‘And we can’t get away under cover of darkness because there isn’t any,’ said Harding.

  ‘So we might as well relax,’ said Denison with finality. He left the window and sat at the table.

  ‘Well, I’m damned!’ said McCready. ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’

  Denison looked at him with a half-smile. ‘Have you anything to add?’

  ‘No,’ said McCready disgustedly. He went over to Diana and talked to her in a low voice.

  Harding joined Denison at the table. ‘So we’re stuck here.’

  ‘But quite safe,’ said Denison mildly. ‘As long as we don’t do anything bloody foolish, such as walking through that door.’ He unfolded a map of the Sompio Nature Park and began to study it.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Fine.’ Denison looked up. ‘Why?’

  ‘As your personal head-shrinker I don’t think you’ll be needing me much longer. How’s the memory?’

  ‘It’s coming back in bits and pieces. Sometimes I feel I’m putting together a jigsaw puzzle.’

  ‘It’s not that I want to probe into a delicate area,’ said Harding. ‘But do you remember your wife?’

  ‘Beth?’ Denison nodded. ‘Yes, I remember her.’

  ‘She’s dead, you know,’ said Harding in an even uninflected voice. ‘Do you remember much about that?’
/>
  Denison pushed away the map and sighed. ‘That bloody car crash—I remember it.’

  ‘And how do you feel about it?’

  ‘How the he’ll would you expect me to feel about it?’ said Denison with suppressed violence. ‘Sorrow, anger—but it was over three years ago and you can’t feel angry for ever. I’ll always miss Beth; she was a fine woman.’

  ‘Sorrow and anger,’ repeated Harding. ‘Nothing wrong with that. Quite normal.’ He marvelled again at the mysteries of the human mind. Denison had apparently rejected his previous feelings of guilt; the irrational component of his life had vanished. Harding wondered what would happen if he wrote up Denison’s experiences and presented them in a paper for the journals—‘The Role of Multiple Psychic Trauma in the Suppression of Irrational Guilt’. He doubted if it would be accepted as a serious course of treatment.

  Denison said, ‘Don’t resign yet, Doctor, I’d still like to retain your services.’

  ‘Something else wrong?’

  ‘Not with me. I’m worried about Lyn. Look at her.’ He nodded towards Lyn who was lying on her back on a bunk, her hands clasped behind her head and staring at the ceiling. ‘I’ve hardly been able to get a word out of her. She’s avoiding me—wherever I am, she’s not. It’s becoming conspicuous.’

  Harding took out a packet of cigarettes and examined the contents. ‘I might have to ration these,’ he said glumly. ‘I’ve also been wondering about Lyn. She is a bit withdrawn—not surprisingly, of course, because she has a problem to solve.’

  ‘Oh? What’s her problem? Apart from the problems we all have here?’

  Harding lit a cigarette. ‘It’s personal. She talked to me about it—hypothetically and in veiled terms. She’ll get over it one way or another.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘She’s a fine person. A bit mixed up, but that’s due to her upbringing. I suppose the problem has to do with her father.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Harding. ‘Tell me; what was the difference in age between your wife and yourself?’

  ‘Ten years,’ said Denison. He frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Harding lightly. ‘It’s just that it could make things a lot easier—your having had a wife so much younger than yourself, I mean. You used to wear a beard, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Denison. ‘What the he’ll are you getting at?’

  ‘I’d grow it again if I were you,’ advised Harding. ‘The face you’re wearing tends to confuse her. It might be better to hide it behind a bush.’

  Denison’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean…Diana said something…she can’t…it’s imposs…’

  ‘You damned fool!’ said Harding in a low voice. ‘She’s fallen for Denison but the face she sees is Meyrick’s—her father’s face. It’s enough to tear any girl in half, so do something about it.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Talk to her, but go easy.’ He went to the other end of the room and joined McCready and Diana, leaving Denison staring at Lyn.

  McCready organized watches. ‘Not that anything is likely to happen,’ he said. ‘But I’d like advance notice if it does. Those not on watch can do what they like. My advice is sleep.’ He lay on a bunk and followed his own advice.

  Harding wandered off into the storeroom and Denison resumed his study of the map of Sompio. From time to time he heard scrapings and bangings as Harding moved boxes about. Diana was on watch at a window and she and Lyn conversed in low tones.

  After a couple of hours Harding came back looking rumpled and dishevelled. In his hand he carried what Denison took to be a gallon paint can. ‘I’ve found it.’

  ‘Found what?’

  Harding put the can on the table. ‘The powder.’ He prised the lid off the can. ‘Look.’

  Denison inspected the grainy black powder. ‘So what?’

  ‘So we can shoot the punt gun. I’ve found some shot, too.’

  McCready’s eyes flickered open and he sat up. ‘What gun?’

  ‘The punt gun I was telling you about. You didn’t seem interested in it at the time.’

  ‘That was when we had guns of our own,’ said McCready. ‘What is it? A shotgun?’

  ‘You could call it that,’ said Harding, and Denison smiled.

  ‘I think I’d better look at it,’ said McCready, and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Harding and McCready went out, and Denison folded the map and went to the window. He looked out at the unchanging scene and sighed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Diana; ‘Bored?’

  ‘I was wondering if our friends are still around.’

  ‘The only way to find out is to stick your head outside.’

  ‘I know,’ said Denison. ‘One of us will have to do it sooner or later. I think I’ll have a crack at it. It’s three hours since McCready tried.’

  ‘No,’ said Lyn. The word seemed to be torn out of her involuntarily. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘Leave that to the…the professionals.’

  Diana smiled. ‘Meaning me? I’m willing.’

  ‘Let’s not argue about it,’ said Denison peaceably. ‘We’re all in this together. Anyway, it’s a sure cure for boredom. Keep your eye on those reeds, Diana.’

  ‘All right,’ she said as he walked to the door. Lyn looked at him dumbly.

  He swung open the door slowly and waited a full minute before going outside, and when he did so his hands were above his head. He waited, immobile, for another minute and, when nothing happened, he took another step forward. Diana shouted and simultaneously he saw a movement in the reeds on the edge of the marsh. The flat report of the rifle shot coincided with a clatter of stones six feet in front of him and there was a shrill spaaang as the bullent ricocheted over his head.

  He waved both his hands, keeping them over his head, and cautiously backed into the hut. He was closing the door when McCready came back at a dead run. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Just testing the temperature.’ said Denison. ‘Somebody has to do it.’

  ‘Don’t do it when I’m not here.’ McCready went to the window. ‘So they’re still there.’

  Denison smiled at Lyn. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he assured her. ‘They’re just keeping us in a pen.’ She turned away and said nothing. Denison looked at McCready. ‘What do you think of Harding’s gun?’

  ‘He doesn’t think much of it,’ said Harding.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ said McCready. ‘It’s not a shotgun—it’s a light artillery piece. Even if you could lift it—which you can’t—you couldn’t shoot it. The recoil would break your shoulder. It’s bloody useless.’

  ‘It’s not meant for waving about,’ said Harding. ‘It’s designed for use on the punt, like a 16-inch gun on a battleship. You don’t find many of those on land because of the difficulty of absorbing the recoil—but you can put half a dozen on a ship because the recoil is absorbed by the water.’

  ‘Just my point,’ said McCready. ‘It’s as useless as a 16-inch gun would be if we had one. The powder is something else; maybe we can do something with that.’

  ‘Like making hand grenades?’ queried Denison sardonically. ‘What do you want to do? Start a war?’

  ‘We have to find a way of leaving here.’

  ‘We’ll leave when the Czechs let us,’ said Denison. ‘And nobody will get hurt. They’ve fallen for your fake treasure map, so what’s the hurry now?’ There was a cutting edge to his voice. ‘Any fighting you do now will be for fighting’s sake, and that’s just plain stupid.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ said McCready, but there was an undercurrent of exasperation in his voice. ‘Your watch, Harding; then Denison and then me.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I mess about with the gun while I keep watch?’ asked Harding. ‘It’s of personal interest,’ he added apologetically. ‘I am a wildfowler.’

  ‘Just don’t cause any sudden bangs,’ said McCready. ‘I don’t think m
y heart could stand it. And no one goes outside that door except on my say-so.’

  Denison stretched his arms. ‘I think I’ll try to sleep for a while. Wake me when it’s my watch.’ He lay on his side on the bunk and for a while regarded Harding who had struggled in with the punt gun. He had some paper and appeared to be making small paper bags.

  Denison’s eyelids drooped and presently he slept.

  He was awakened by Harding shaking his shoulder. ‘Wake up, Giles; your watch.’

  Denison yawned. ‘Anything happening?’

  ‘Not a thing to be seen.’

  Denison got up and went to the window. Harding said, ‘I think I’ve figured out the gun. I’ve even made up some cartridges. I wish I could try it.’ There was a wistful note in his voice.

  Denison looked about the room. The others were asleep which was not surprising because it was midnight. ‘You’d better rest. When we move we’ll probably move quickly.’

  Harding lay on his bunk and Denison inspected the view from the window. The sun shone in his eyes, just dipping over the horizon far over the marsh; that was the lowest it would set and from then on it would be rising. He shaded his eyes. The sun seemed to be slightly veiled as though there was a thickening in the air over the marsh, the slightest of hazes. Probably a forest fire somewhere, he thought, and turned to the table to find the results of Harding’s handiwork.

  Harding had made up six cartridges, crude cylindrical paper bags tied at the top with cotton thread. Denison picked one up and could feel the small shot through the paper. The cartridges were very heavy; he bounced one in his hand and thought its weight was not far short of two pounds. A pity Harding could not get his wish but, as McCready had pointed out, firing the gun was impossible.

  He bent down and picked up the punt gun, straining his back and staggering under the weight. He cradled it in his arms and attempted to bring the butt to his shoulder. The muzzle swung erratically in a wild arc. It was impossible to aim and the recoil as two pounds of shot left the barrel would flatten the man who fired it. He shook his head and laid it down.

  An hour later the view from the window was quite different. The sunshine had gone to be replaced by a diffuse light and the haze over the marsh had thickened into a light mist. He could still see the boathouse where the punt lay, and the reeds at the marsh edge, but farther out the light was gone from the water and beyond that was a pearly greyness.