Terror's Cradle

by Duncan Kyle

  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 w
ere 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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There could have been two Schmids, of course. But that possibility was disposed of quickly. This was the real Inspector Schmid, the only Inspector Schmid, the genuine article. And he was far from amused: impersonating a police officer was a very serious matter. Presumably impersonating two was doubly serious. Schmid demanded immediate descriptions of the impostors and sent Gustaffson off as soon as I'd given them, to make sure the descriptions were circulated at once to the whole Gothenburg force. When that was done, he looked at me grimly. 'I have here a note to telephone you, Mr Sellers. I would have done that.'

  Ì had a feeling the other man wouldn't,' I replied. Ànd I was right.'

  Òkay.'

  We went over the whole business and Schmid was very far from happy. I got the impression he was accustomed to clearing his cases quickly and efficiently, and liked continuing mysteries no more than I did. When I told him about the rooms on either side of Alsa's and the lift direct to the garage, he said yes, he was aware of the possibilities and was pursuing inquiries with some vigour. Messieurs Maisels and Cohen were, it seemed, salesmen. He'd spoken to both

  next morning; they'd known nothing and said they had heard nothing, and were leaving for home forthwith. He'd had no reason to keep them in Sweden and had had to let them go. Mr and Mrs Scott were tourists and had stayed only one night, leaving for a Lake Vattern resort next morning.

  It was all very pat. I said so and Schmid didn't disagree. Schmid was a familiar type, a hard-nosed and patient professional, not especially happy to see me, but perfectly prepared, since I was there, to find out if there was anything I knew that he didn't. We went over the whole ground several times. Then he said, 'You think she was carrying something, do you not?'

  `Depends what you mean. I don't believe she was a courier. Certainly not intentionally.'

  Ìntent is not involved. She may have been carrying something.'

  Ìf she was, she didn't know,' I said.

  `You are wrong. Okay?'

  `Go on.'

  He looked at me speculatively. 'You are also right.' I said, 'Just tell me.'

  `You are right about part of the time. Wrong about the other part. Look at it this way, Mr Sellers. She had spent nearly two weeks in Russia. I am told there was no trouble.'

  I nodded, thinking about the sudden search at Sheremetyevo Airport. Maybe Schmid didn't know about that.

  He went on. 'She arrived here in Gothenburg and behaved perfectly naturally?'

  `Yes.'

  Tor a while. Describe to me what she did.'

  Àll right. She went out to the printers'. To Strom Brothers, with Marasov.' I was watching him as I spoke. Marasov's name wasn't news to him. 'They worked for a while, then she left and returned o the Scanda Hotel with Marasov. They had one drink, then Marasov left.'

  `Your deduction from all this?'

  I said, 'All right, she was behaving normally'

  `She was. But afterwards, no. Afterwards she telephones London. She even telephones to America. To a Mr Sellers, person-to-person. Okay?'

  Ì didn't get the call,' I said. I didn't enlarge on it. Schmid nodded. 'Does she often telephone you like that?' `No.'

  `You are her lover? Fiancé?'

  `Neither. A friend.'

  Òkay. She is not able to speak to her friend. She leaves the hotel. Alone.'

  `Where did she go?'

  ' 'I do not know. But she was out for quite a long time. Nearly three hours.'

  `Having dinner?'

  `Perhaps. But not in any restaurant in Gothenburg! `You've checked them all?'

  We are thorough. Not inspired, perhaps, but thorough. If she left the city it was not by taxi. We checked that, too. When she returns, she goes to her room. Half an hour passes. Then she telephones the police and says she believes her life is in danger. What does that mean?'

  I said, 'You believe it means she had found something?' Èxactly.'

  `When?' I asked. 'If she'd found something, when did she find it? Before she went out, or after?'

  `That,' he said, 'is a problem. Logically it was when she returned. It is sensible? She returns, finds what it was she carried, and telephones the police.'

  `Because her life is in danger. But what made her think that? Why did she believe she was in danger?'

  Schmid said, 'Perhaps it was the fire.'

  I must have looked as surprised as I felt. 'What fire was that?' I demanded. Àt the Scanda Hotel. The letter box. A small quantity of phosphorus was placed in the letter box, Mr Sellers. All the letters were burned. You did not know.'

  `No,' I said. 'I didn't know. Had she posted a letter?'

  `We do not know. The heat of burning phosphorus is intense. Nothing was left except small ash.'

  I remembered the workman in the hotel foyer, working on a cupboard. I said, without thinking. 'She'd phone. She wouldn't write letters.'

  `No? A birthday card to a relative? A postcard? The British send many postcards.'

  I said, 'Or whatever it was she'd found. Perhaps, when she found it, if she found it, she put it in an envelope and posted it. Postal services are secure.'

  Schmid nodded. 'Very secure in Sweden, as in most countries. But not until the letter is collected. The letter box was not secure. Okay?'

  Òkay.'

  Òkay. If she posted the thing she found. If it was destroyed . . .' He paused and left me to finish.

  `You mean, why was she kidnapped?'

  Ìf she was kidnapped.'

  I said lamely, 'Yes.' I could see his problem very dearly. `So you see.'

  `Were there,' I asked, 'any indications at all that she had been in another room? The ones on either side, for in-, stance?'

  Schmid shook his head. 'No trace. We took what we believe are Alison Hay's fingerprints from some papers. There were no such fingerprints in either room, though there were many in her own.'

  Àmericans one side, Jews the other.'

  `Frenchmen,' he corrected. 'Possibly Jewish. You have thought they were Israeli? Why?'

  I shrugged helplessly. `No reason. I'm trying to find some reason for it all. You've had trouble with' Arab terrorists in Sweden.'

  `We have trouble with Germans and British and Americans, too. Also with Russians and Greeks, Norwegians and Danes. This is a cosmopolitan ci
ty. Ìt's not the same thing!'

  `No, Mr Sellers, it is not. But conclusions cannot yet be

  reached. There are too many possibilities.'

  I said bitterly, 'Okay, it's a bloody fine intellectual exercise. Meanwhile, where the hell is she? Who's got her? And why?'

  His answer didn't help. 'We have a small population and a big country, Mr Sellers. There are more places to hide than could ever be searched.'

  Àll right then. Let's start at the beginning. Who could have used her to bring something out of Russia?'

  The question was rhetorical and stupid and a product of frustration. Schmid answered counting on his fingers. 'American, British to begin. Sweden, since this is where she came. France — we have Frenchmen, okay? The Russians themselves.'

  `Why the Russians?'

  `Who knows,' Schmid said, 'why the Russians do things?' Àll right. I'm sorry.'

  `Do not be. We are not inactive, Mr Sellers. I wish you to believe that.'

  Ì believe it. Can I see Alison's room?'

  `No.'

  `Why not?'

  `Because that room isall we have. I have examined it. There appears to be nothing—'

  `There may be something I'd notice that you wouldn't.'

  Àgreed, Mr Sellers. But I think not. Understand please that my work is progressive. We find one thing, then another. Perhaps something in the room will be step two, useful when we have taken the first step.'

  Àll the same —'

  But he was wearying of it. He said, `Do the British police allow journalists to examine important evidence during an investigation? I think not. Neither do we.'

  I left him then and set off back to the Scanda Hotel, walking for once. There was no hurry; there seemed to be nothing I could do. If Gothenburg's police hadn't been able to trace where Alsa went, the night she disappeared, it was unlikely I could. Equally, if they'd found no clue as to where she'd been taken, I hadn't much chance either. But the stuff locked up in her room was different and I wanted to see it. The more I thought about it, the more I was certain there'd be something there. Alsa had made the phone call to the police because she was scared. But at least she'd had time to make the phone call. But why had she made it from her room. Why hadn't she gone down to the lobby where there were people? Because she daren't? Because she knew somebody was waiting, either outside or in the adjoining rooms? She'd returned to the hotel, spent a while in her room, then rung the police. Why hadn't she telephoned immediately, the moment she'd come in. Why had she waited? Because something must have happened after she went to the room. Either that or she'd found something.