An hour and a half later they were walking through the streets of Enso. Armstrong still wore his overalls and carried a spade over his shoulder, but Carey had removed his and was now more nattily dressed. He wore, he assured Armstrong, the regulation rig of a local water distribution inspector. In his hand he carried, quite openly, the metal detection gadget. To Armstrong's approval it had a metal plate attached to it which announced in Russian that it was manufactured by Sovelectro Laboratories of Dnepropetrovsk.
As they walked they talked -- discreetly and in Russian. Armstrong noted the old-fashioned atmosphere of the streets of Enso. It was, he thought, occasioned by the Russian style of dress and he could be in the nineteen-thirties. He always had that feeling when he was in Russia. 'I nearly had a heart attack when that bloody man wanted to know where Virtanen was,' he said.
It had been a tricky moment. The Chief Engineer, Dzotenidze, had stood by the machine quite close to them while he interrogated Huovinen as to the whereabouts of Lassi Virtanen. 'Those screens aren't right,' he said in Russian. 'Virtanen isn't doing his work properly.'
An interpreter transmitted this to Huovinen, who said, 'Virtanen hasn't been feeling too well lately. An old war wound. In fact, he's not here today -- he's at home in bed.'
Dzotenidze had been scathing but there was nothing he could do about it. 'See that he's back on the job as soon as possible,' he said, and stalked away.
Armstrong said, 'I could have stretched out my hand and touched him.'
'Huovinen could have come up with a better story,' said Carey grimly. 'What happens if that engineer checks back and finds that the bus came in with a full crew? Still, there's nothing we can do about it.'
They walked on for five minutes in silence. Armstrong said, 'How much farther?'
'Not far -- just around the comer.' Carey tapped him on the arm. 'Now, Ivan, my lad; you're a common working man, so let your betters do the talking. If you have to talk you're slow and half-witted and as thick as two planks as befits a man who wields an idiot stick.' He indicated the spade.
'The heroic worker, in fact.'
'Precisely. And I'm the technician controlling the magic of modern science and haughty to boot.' They turned the corner. 'There's the house.' Carey regarded it critically. 'It looks pretty run-down.'
That's why it's being demolished.'
'Just so.' Carey surveyed the street. 'Well start on the outside just for the sake of appearances -- right here in the street.' He took a pair of earphones from his pocket and plugged the lead wire into a socket on the metal detector. 'Do I look technical enough?'
'Quite sweet,' said Armstrong.
Carey snorted and switched on the detector, then adjusted a control. Holding the detector close to the ground like a vacuum cleaner he walked along the pavement. Armstrong leaned on his spade and looked on with an expression of boredom. Carey went for about fifty yards and then came back slowly. There was a worried look on his face. 'I'm getting quite a few readings. This street must be littered with -- metal.'
'Maybe you've struck gold,' suggested Armstrong.
Carey glared at him. 'I'm no t being funny,' he snarled. 'I hope to hell the garden of that house isn't the same.'
'You're arousing interest,' said Armstrong. 'The curtain just twitched.'
'I'll give it another run,' said Carey. He went through his act again and paused in front of the house, then took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled in it.
Armstrong lounged after him just as a small boy came out of the house. 'What's he doing?'
'Looking for a water pipe,' said Armstrong.
'What's that thing?'
'The thing that tells him when he's found a water pipe.' said Armstrong patiently. 'A new invention.' He looked down at the boy. 'Is your father at home?'
'No, he's at work.' The boy looked at Carey who was peering over the garden fence. 'What's he doing now?'
'I don't know,' said Armstrong. 'He's the expert, not me Is your mother at home?'
'She's doing the wash. Do you want to see her?'
Carey straightened up. 'I think it runs through here,' he called.
'Yes,' said Armstrong. 'I think we do want to see her Run inside and tell her, will you?' The boy dashed into the house and Armstrong went up to Carey. 'Kunayev is a: work; Mrs K. is doing the wash.'
'Right; let's get to it.' Carey walked up to the front door of the house just as it opened. A rather thin and tired-looking woman stepped out. 'This is the . . . er -- ' Carey took out his notebook and checked the pages -- 'the Kunayev household?'
'Yes, but my husband's not here.'
Then you'll be Grazhdanke Kunayova?'
The woman was faintly alarmed. 'Yes?'
Carey beamed. 'Nothing to worry about, Grazhdanke Kunayova. This is merely a technicality concerning the forthcoming demolition of this area. You know about that?'
'Yes,' she said. 'I do.' The faint alarm turned to faint aggression. 'We're having to move just when I've redecorated the house.'
'I'm sorry about that,' said Carey. 'Well, under the ground there are a lot of pipes -- gas, water, electricity and so on. My own concern is with the water pipes. When the demolition men come in there'll be bulldozers coming through here, and we don't want them breaking the water pipes or the whole area will turn into a quagmire.'
'Why don't you turn off the water before you start? she asked practically.
Carey was embarrassed. 'That's not as easy as it sounds, Grazhdanke Kunayova,' he said, hunting for a plausible answer. 'As you know, this is one of the older areas of Svetogorsk, built by the Finns just after the First World War. A lot of the records were destroyed twenty-five years ago and we don't even know where some of the pipes are, or even if they connect into our present water system.' He leaned forward and said confidentially, 'It's even possible that some of our water still comes from over the border -- from Imatra.'
'You mean we get it free from the Finns?'
'I'm not concerned with the economics of it,' said Carey stiffly. 'I just have to find the pipes.'
She looked over Carey's shoulder at Armstrong who was leaning on his spade. 'And you want to come into the garden,' she said. 'Is he going to dig holes all over our garden?'
'Not at all,' said Carey reassuringly. He lifted the detector. 'I have this -- a new invention that can trace pipes without digging. It might be necessary to dig a small hole if we find a junction, but I don't think it will happen.'
'Very well,' she said unwillingly. 'But try not to step on the flower beds. I know we're being pushed out of the house this year but the flowers are at their best just now, and my husband does try to make a nice display.'
'We'll try not to disturb the flowers,' said Carey. 'We'll just go around to the back.'
He jerked his head at Armstrong and they walked around the house followed by the small boy. Armstrong said in a low voice, 'We've got to get rid of the audience.'
'No trouble; just be boring.' Carey stopped as he rounded the corner of the house and saw the garden shed at the bottom of the garden; it was large and stoutly constructed of birch logs. 'That's not on the plan,' he said. 'I hope what we're looking for isn't under there.'
Armstrong stuck his spade upright in the soil at the edge of a flower bed, and Carey unfolded a plan of the garden. 'That's the remaining tree there,' he said. 'One of the four Meyrick picked out. I'll have a go at that first.' He donned the earphones, switched on the detector, and made a slow run up to the tree. He spent some time exploring the area about the tree, much hampered by the small boy, then called, 'Nothing here.'
'Perhaps the pipe runs down the middle,' said Armstrong.
'It's possible. I really think I'll have to search the whole area.'
Which he proceeded to do. For the benefit of the small boy every so often he would call out a number and Armstrong would dutifully record it on the plan. After half an hour of this the boy became bored and went away. Carey winked at Armstrong and carried on, and it took him well over an hour to sear
ch the garden thoroughly.
He glanced at his watch and went back to Armstrong. 'We have two possibilities. A strong reading -- very strong -- on the edge of the lawn there, and a weaker reading in the middle of that flower bed. I suggest we have a go at the lawn first.'
Armstrong looked past him. 'Mrs K. is coming.'
The woman was just coming out of the house. As she approached she said, 'Have you found anything?'
'We may have -- found a junction,' said Carey, and pointed. 'Just there. We'll have to dig -- just a small hole, Grazhdanke Kunayova, you understand. And well be tidy and replace the turf.'
She looked down at the straggly lawn. 'I don't suppose it matters,' she said dispiritedly. 'My husband says the grass doesn't grow as well here as down south where we come from. Would you like something to eat?'
'We brought our own sandwiches,' said Carey gravely.
'I'll make you tea,' she said decisively, and went back to the house.
'Nice woman,' commented Carey. 'It's midday, when all good workers down tools for half an hour.'
They ate their sandwiches sitting on the lawn, and drank the glasses of lemon tea which the woman brought to them. She did not stay to make small talk, for which Carey was thankful. He bit into a sandwich and said meditatively, 'I suppose this is where Merikken and his family were killed -- with the exception of young Harri.' He pointed to the house. 'That end looks newer than the rest'
'Was there much bombing here?' asked Armstrong.
'My God; this place was in the front line for a time -- the sky must have been full of bombers.'
Armstrong sipped the hot tea. 'How do we know the trunk is still here? Any keen gardener might have dug it up. What about Kunayev himself?'
'Let's not be depressing,' said Carey. 'It's time you started to dig. I'll give you a reading and then let you do the work, is befits my station in life.' He walked across the lawn, searched the area briefly with the detector, and stuck a pencil upright in the ground. 'That's it. Take out the turves neatly.'
So Armstrong began to dig. He laid the turves on one side and tried to put each spadeful of soil into as neat a leap as he could. Carey sat under the tree and watched him, drinking the last of his tea. Presently Armstrong called him over. 'How deep is this thing supposed to be?'
'About two feet.'
'I'm down two and a half and there's still nothing.'
'Carry on,' said Carey. 'Meyrick could have been in error.'
Armstrong carried on. After a while he said, 'I'm down another foot and still nothing.'
'Let's see what the gadget says.' Carey put on the earphones and lowered the detector into the hole. He switched on and hastily adjusted the gain. 'It's there,' he said. 'Must be a matter of inches. I've just had my ears pierced.'
'I'll go down a bit more,' said Armstrong. 'But it'll be difficult without enlarging the hole.' Again he drove the spade into the earth and hit something solid with a clunk. 'Got it!' He cleared as much as he could with the spade and then began to scrabble with his hands. After five minutes he looked up at Carey.
'You know what we've found?'
'What?'
Armstrong began to laugh. 'A water pipe.'
'Oh, for God's sake!' said Carey. 'Come out of that hole and let me see.' He replaced Armstrong in the hole and felt the rounded shape of the metal and the flange. He dug away more earth and exposed more metal, then he got out of the hole.
Armstrong was still chuckling, and Carey said, 'Fill in that hole and go gently. It's an unexploded bomb.'
Armstrong's laughter died away thinly.
'250 kilograms, I'd say,' said Carey. 'The equivalent of our wartime 500-pounder.'
TWENTY-NINE
They were grouped around Denison who lay prone on the ground. 'Don't move him,' warned Harding. 'I don't know what hell have apart from concussion.' Very carefully he explored Denison's skull. 'He's certainly been hit hard.'
Diana looked at McCready. 'Who by?' McCready merely shrugged.
Harding's long fingers were going over Denison's torso 'Let's turn him over -- very gently.' They turned Denison over on to his back and Harding lifted one eyelid. The eye was rolled right back in the head, and Lyn gave an involuntary cry.
'Excuse me, Doctor,' said Diana, and her hand went to Denison's shirt pocket. She got up off her knees and jerked her head at McCready. They walked back to the middle of the camp. The plan and the notebook are gone,' she said. 'He carried them in the button -- down pocket of his shirt. The button has been torn off and the pocket ripped. The question is by whom?'
'It wasn't the Yanks,' said McCready. 'I saw them well off down-river. And it wasn't the 'Other mob, either; I'll stake everything on that.'
'Then who?'
McCready shook his head irritably. 'By God!' he said. There's someone around here cleverer than I am.'
'I'd better not comment on that,' said Diana tartly. 'You might get an noyed.'
'It doesn't really matter, of course,' said McCready. 'We were expecting it, anyway.'
'But we were expecting to use it to find out who the opposition is.' She tapped him on the chest. 'You know what this means. There are three separate groups after us.' She ticked them off on her fingers. The Americans; another crowd who is vaguely Slav-Russians, Poles, Bulgarians, Yugoslavs, take your pick -- and now someone mysterious whom we haven't even seen.'
'It's what Carey was expecting, isn't it?'
'Yes, but it's worrying all the same. Let's see how Denison is.'
They went back to the rock where Lyn was saying worriedly, 'It is just concussion, isn't it?'
'I'm not too sure,' said Harding. 'Lyn, you'll find a black box in my pack about half-way down. Bring it, will you?'
Lyn ran off and McCready went down on his knees by Denison. 'What's wrong with him apart from a crack on the head?'
'His pulse is way down, and I'd like to take his blood pressure,' said Harding. 'But there's something else. Look at this.' He took Denison's arm by the wrist and lifted it up. When he let go the arm stayed there. He took the arm and bent it at the elbow, and again it stayed in the position into which he had put it.
McCready drew in his breath sharply. 'You can mould the man like modelling clay,' he said in wonder. 'What is it?'
'A form of catalepsy,' said Harding.
That did not mean much to McCready. 'Does it usually accompany concussion?'
'Not at all. It's the first time I've seen it induced by a knock on the head. This is most unusual.'
Lyn came back and held out the box to Harding. 'Is this what you wanted?'
He nodded briefly, took out an elastic bandage of a sphygmometer and bound it around Denison's arm. He pumped the rubber bulb, and said, 'His blood pressure is down, too.' He unwrapped the bandage. 'Well carry him back and put him into a sleeping bag to keep him warm.'
'That means we don't move from here,' said McCready.
'We can't move him,' said Harding. 'Not until I can find out what's wrong with him, and that, I'm afraid, is mixed up with what's been done to him.'
A bleak expression came over McCready's face. If they stayed at the camp they'd be sitting ducks for the next crowd of international yobbos.
Lyn said, 'Is he conscious or unconscious, Doctor?'
'Oh, he's unconscious,' said Harding. 'Blanked out completely.
Harding was wrong.
Denison could hear every word but could not do a thing about it. When he tried to move he found that nothing happened, that he could not move a muscle. It was as though something had chopped all control from the brain. He had felt Harding moving his limbs and had tried to do something about it but he had no control whatever.
What he did have was a splitting headache.
He felt himself being lifted and carried and then put into a sleeping bag. After a few minutes he was lapped around in warmth. Someone had tucked the hood of the bag around his head so that sounds were muffled and he could not hear what was said very clearly. He wished they had not done that. He tr
ied to speak, willing his tongue to move, but it lay flaccid in his mouth. He could not even move his vocal cords to make the slightest sound.
He heard a smarter of conversation ... still breathing ... automatic functions unimpaired . . . side . . . tongue out . .. choking . . .' That would be Harding.
Someone rolled him on to his side and he felt fingers inserted into his mouth and his tongue pulled forward.
After a little while he slept. And dreamed.
In his dream he was standing on a hillside peering through the eyepiece of a theodolite. Gradually he became aware :hat the instrument was not a theodolite at all -- it was a cine camera. He even knew the name of it -- it was an Arriflex. And the small speck of blue lake in the distance became one of the blue eyes of a pretty girl.
He pulled back from the view finder of the camera and aimed to Joe Staunton, the cameraman. 'Nice composition,' he said. 'We can shoot on that one.'
Great slabs of memory came slamming back into place , with the clangour of iron doors.
'It's no good, Giles,' said Fortescue. 'It's becoming just that bit too much. You're costing us too much money. How the hell can you keep control when you're pissed half the time?' His contempt came over like a physical blow. 'Even when you're not drunk you're hung over.' Fortescue's voice boomed hollowly as though he was speaking in a cavern. 'You can't rely on the Old Pals Act any more. This is the end. You're out.'
Even in his dream Denison was aware of the wetness of tears on his cheeks.
He was driving a car, the familiar, long-since smashed Lotus. Beth was beside him, her hair streaming in the wind. 'Faster !' she said. 'Faster!' His hand fell on the gear lever and he changed down to overtake a lorry, his foot going down on the accelerator.
The scooter shot, insect-like, from the side road right across his path. He swerved, and so did the lorry he was overtaking. Beth screamed and there was a rending, jangle of tearing metal and breaking glass and then nothing.
Sorry about that,' said Staunton. 'This would have been a good one, but Fortescue won't have it. What will you do now?'
'Go home to Hampstead and get drunk,' said Denison.
Bagley, Desmond - The Tightrope Men Page 19