Terror's Cradle

by Duncan Kyle

I said, 'You've missed the point. It's a lousy copy and the lines have faded, but the flags are supposed to be stuck in a map of European Russia.'

  He looked again. 'Yeah. I see it now!' There was excitement in his voice. 'Any ideas what the flags represent?' 'None.'

  His excitement, flattened. 'If she was gonna put pictures in those slots, what pictures would they be?'

  'I don't know. Maybe the flags represent cities. But it's not accurate finished artwork. It's a freehand job.' Then I noticed something. I'd missed it earlier, in the plane, when I'd studied the thing. 'But look at these. Look at the flag-sticks. The pencil lines are precise, aren't they? A neat finish to each stroke. No, hang on !' I picked up the paper and held it to the light. 'Look at the start of each stroke! That's precise, everything else is rough pencil, but not that ! Whoever drew this started the stroke at the bottom, at a precise point, and drew upward only a little way, then the line goes free again. No artist would do that, until he was doing the finished job.'

  Elliot turned to Willingham.. 'Go get a map. Any kind of map. An atlas will do.'

  Willingham looked unhappy. 'It's half-past eleven. Where the hell–'

  'I don't care where,' Elliot said savagely. 'It's your country we're in. Get one. We waited ten minutes, then there was a knock on the door. Elliot opened it and the station sergeant came in with a blue school atlas in his hand. 'You want this, sir?'

  'Yeah, thanks.' Elliot took it quickly. 'That's all, sergeant.'

  'Yes, sir. Just one thing, sir. It belongs to my lad. I went away home to get it. He'll be needing it for the school tomorrow.'

  'He'll be – !' Elliot gave a short surprised laugh. 'Okay, sergeant. He'll have it. Thanks a lot. Where's Mr Willingham?'

  'Downstairs, sir. Said he'd be up in a moment.'

  `Right.' Elliot opened the dog-eared atlas, which looked as though it served more often as a classroom weapon than as an instrument of learning. 'Okay, here we have it. European Russia.' He picked up the photocopy, laid it over the map

  and grinned. 'Wrong scale, naturally.'

  I said, 'We can work it out, I think. Fetch that desk lamp over here.'

  I bent the spine of the atlas back, holding all the other pages out of the way, then told him to hold the map of Russia against the lamp. I picked up the photocopy. The paper was thickish, but it might still work. I held it up and moved it back and forth until the line of the eastern border of the Soviet Union and the shapes of the Gulf of Bothnia, the White Sea and the Black Sea coincided. Then I tried to hold it steady and see what places on the map coincided with the flagsticks. It took a few minutes. Each time I identified a city Elliot marked the atlas with a pen, then we started the alignment all over again and picked out the next place.

  Finally I could put the photocopy down and together we

  He was running his eyes over the names again. 'Moscow. Orel, Sumy, Kremenchug, Gorlovka, Zaporozhye, Pervomaysk, Vinnitsa.

  `Well?'

  Elliot scowled. 'Small places, most of these. Some I never even heard of.'

  `So it's no help?'

  He was running his eyes over the names again. 'Moscow. Okay, Moscow. Anything could be happening there. But these others. We'll need to get a real analysis done on this. See what collated intelligence makes of it. And that'll take time, damn it.'

  I said, 'Maybe it's just a layout. No more.'

  `Maybe.' Elliot's tone meant he didn't believe it. I didn't' either. '

  `Missile sites?' I asked in my innocence.

  Àh, hell no. We know the missile sites.' He read the words aloud again, one after the other, trying to worry sense out of the string of names. The type in the, school atlas was small and Elliot had bent close to the paper to read it. It occurred to me suddenly that I could hit him and try to get away. I straightened and stood listening as he pronounced the Russian names. He said without looking up,

  `Don't try it. You'd never make it.'

  'I suppose not. See anything?'

  `No.' He straightened. 'Not a damn thing.'

  But quite suddenly I saw it. Perhaps because I was looking at the map from a range of four feet rather than a few inches. I said, 'Give me your pen, quickly!'

  `What is it?'

  `Hand me the book over there.'

  Puzzled, he handed it to me. I used the book as a straight edge and drew a line from Moscow through Orel, Sumy and Kremenchug. Then another, connecting Gorlovka with Zaporozhye. Finally a third to join up Vinnitsa and Pervomaysk. When I'd done that, I went back to each line and extended it until all three lines met. The book's bulk prevented Elliot's seeing what I was doing until I'd finished. When I'd done, I laid the book aside and looked at him.

  He was staring at the map in astonishment. After a moment he said, 'My God, it can't be that simple !'

  The three lines made an arrowhead. They converged on a place close to the Black Sea. Elliot bent to look again and I saved him the trouble. 'Nikolayev,' I said. 'Does Nikolayev mean anything in your sweet young life?'

  But there was no need to ask. He repeated the word slowly, with a kind of awe, staring at the atlas with wide eyes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  For a few moments he stood there, perfectly still, with the kind of look on his face that Lancelot would have given the Holy Grail. Then he turned to me suddenly. The holy joy faded and his face hardened. 'Listen to me Sellers, and listen good. There are priorities and priorities. This is grade A class one, understand? Don't get in my way. Don't get in anybody's way! This is so important it's—'

  I said harshly, 'Simmer down.'

  He stared at me, then spoke more softly, but excitement still throbbed in his voice. 'I mean it, Sellers. You give us full co-operation, or else. I want every scrap of information you have. I want it now and I want it fast.'

  `For Christ's sake! Who pointed it out to you! I'm cooperating.' •

  He closed his eyes tightly for a second, he was calming himself deliberately. I said, 'What about Nikolayev?'

  Òkay. I'll tell you. If you understand how important this is, maybe you'll be less of a son of a bitch. It goes like this. Nikolayev is a ship-building town. Right?'

  Ì don't know.'

  Àccept it. It's true. They build warships there. All kinds of warships. And we've watched them for years with photographic reconnaissance satellites. A year or two ago, they roofed in one of the construction yards. Roofed in the whole damn thing. And they've been building something under that roof.'

  `What?'

  He grinned without humour. 'Yeah, what? That's What we want to know. What we do know is that it's big and that it's top secret. God knows what that roof cost. But that's all we know, really know! But we suspect, and brother if it's what we suspect . . .!' He drew in a long, hissing breath.

  Òne ship?' I said. 'Can it be as important as that?'

  He gave that grin again. 'There's rumour, there's suspicion. There's conclusions and extrapolations and educated guesses. The ship they're building may be an aircraft carrier!'

  I blinked at him. `So they're building another aircraft carrier? So what?'

  He said, 'Not another aircraft carrier, Sellers. They only have one, the Kiev and she's small. A trial ship, that's all. This one may be a big attack carrier!'

  It still hadn't reached me. 'I'm no student of naval strategy,' I said. 'What's sp significant about that?'

  Ì'll tell you,' Elliot said softly. 'The Russian navy has

  always remained basically a defensive force. They've built it up fast. It's modern and efficient. But its chief function has been to deny the US unrestricted freedom of the seas, particularly in waters within Polaris range of the Soviet Union. And to limit US options for intervention in areas where the Soviets also have an interest.

  `But understand this. If they've started building attack carriers, there's only one reason.'

  I said, 'I thought carriers were out of date.'

  `You did, huh? Look, Sellers, if they're building attack carriers, it shifts the capabilities of the
Russian navy from defence to offence. It means the Kremlin's extending its global reach. Attack carriers mean they're equipping their navy with seagoing airpower. And that means they're out to contest the US Navy's dominance at sea. They haven't had aircraft at sea before. Now maybe they're going to.'

  Ì told you, I'm no strategist,' I said. 'They're changing their strategy. I see that. I even see the implications of an offensive posture as against a defensive one. But –'

  He looked at me as though I were an idiot. 'Sellers, do you have any idea . . .? No, you don't do you? Listen,-if it's an attack carrier, one is no damn use at all. They'll have to build six or eight, maybe more, because each of their fleets will have to have at least one, otherwise there are weak points and the whole deal's stupid. Now, the cost of building even one attack carrier is so enormous, and the technological requirements so taxing, that it's likely to overstrain their whole technological capacity, slow down the space programme, everything. That's true, Sellers, even if you do have trouble believing it. Britain's phasing out carriers because she won't, soon, be able to afford even one. You know that?'

  `No, I didn't.'

  Òkay, think about the decision. In the minds of the Russian leaders, it's a massive decision, right? It's a crucial, historic choice. The demand on resources would be gigantic, the project would take maybe ten years of murderous effort and concentration of materials and manpower. It means they cut down on consumer manufacture, jack up steel production — Christ knows what it means. The internal political effects are big. But more important than that, it shows their intentions, long term intentions. Expansion of their spheres of influence. • Change of posture from defence to offence.

  `Sellers, look. You asked me if one ship meant so much? This ship, this one ship, is probably the most important ever built. Not for itself, but for what it tells us. If the Russians are building an attack carrier, it means they're embarking on the next massive phase of Communist expansion internationally. It means a whole sweeping change in everybody's outlook; massive changes in international strategy.'

  I watched him, fascinated, not doubting the truth of what he said. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow when he stopped. But even then he hadn't finished. 'If the ship under the roof at Nikolayev is an attack carrier, we're playing in a whole new ball game, all of us.'

  I stood very still, absorbing it. Then I said soberly, 'You honestly believe Alsa brought that information out? '

  Elliot took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. 'If it's from Nikolayev,' he said, 'It could be the answer. You may never have heard about it, Sellers, but this is international armaments mystery number one. And not just armaments either; it's economics on a critical level. Theirs and ours.'

  Òurs? You said we couldn't afford—'

  `You can't. Not Britain. I'm talking about the American shield, the big umbrella. Look at the other side of this and try to think some complicated Russian thoughts. They may be building the carrier. But maybe they're not. Maybe they're just pretending! Listen, they know all about photo-reconnaissance satellites. They should; they've sure put plenty up there. So some smart cookie in the Kremlin some place has this bright idea. 'Let's roof in a ship construction yard, comrades,' says this smart guy. 'They'll see it and then they'll start wondering what's going on undereneath, right? They'll wonder why all the extra secrecy. We build subs and everything else in open yards, so what's with the roof? They'll conclude we're building carriers,' he says. 'And if they think we are, they'll have to do something about it. Like build some more of their own.' You see the pattern, Sellers? It all works in reverse. If the Soviets are building themselves some attack carriers, then we have to build more, just to stay ahead. The cost to us is almost as stupendous as it is to them. Huge additional arms budget, big diversion of resources and material — the whole shebang. They've got us guessing and they know it. Carriers take years to build and if they've started already, we've got to start soon; strategically we daren't wait until they actually start launching.

  `But, Sellers — and it's the hell of a big but — if all they're doing under that roof is building some tanker and taking their time about it, well then we're going to. be spending billions of dollars. We're going to be wasting billions of dollars. Right now they got us both ways. If they're building and we don't, the whole strategic balance changes. If they'

  re not building but they succeed in forcing us to build, then they smack us a real economic sucker punch. And meanwhile all the dough they don't spend on a carrier goes into some other little sweetheart, like anti-missile-missiles -or anything else you can think of.'

  Ànd all this,' I said, 'comes for the price of . one tin roof ?'

  Elliot gave a little shrug. 'Those bastards don't play all that chess for nothing. So now you know the big question. Is that tin roof a little ploy with a pawn? Or is the goddam thing a queen?'

  There was a knock on the door. Elliot turned, walked over and unlocked it, and let Willingham in. I didn't like the expression on Willingham's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Elliot got in first. He said just one word: 'Nikolayev.'

  Willingham's mouth suddenly opened a good deal further, then closed with a snap and he said quickly, 'I don't think we need him any more.'

  Why?'

  Willingham gave me a glance of malevolent triumph `There's an Anderson here. And a Jarlshof. And a Sandness.'

  It had been bound to happen. I was so tired now, so battered by the day's rampaging events, that defeat seemed to cover me suddenly with a wet, black blanket. They knew it all now, the whole damn lot. I'd nothing in reserve, no hope to cling to. It was the finish for me and probably, and much more tragically and totally, for Alsa, too. Then, from somewhere in my tired mind came the realization that I was still ahead. There were still things I knew and they didn't. And Elliot's argument, cogent and convincing as it was, hadn't shifted the balance of my own values. The information was important, all right. It was important to a great many people : to governments, to politicians, to strategists. Even maybe to me. But not as important as a life I valued. If it was one life against all this, I'd settle for the one life. If there were some way to save her. Alsa didn't matter a damn to Elliot and Willingham. She mattered a lot less to the Russians. But she mattered to me, even if the Russians had been right and she intended to marry Anderson.

  I said, 'There was a fire tonight. At Jarlshof.'

  Ì know that, sweetheart,' Willingham said. 'Did you start it?'

  Às a matter of fact, I did'

  Èxcellent. We'll get you for arson, too.'

  Elliot said quietly, 'Why did you start it? '

  `Because,' I said, 'the house was lousy with Russians.'

  While they were still digesting it, gaping • me, while expressions chased one another across their two faces, I said harshly to Willingham, 'Did the police tell you a postman had been attacked?'

  He nodded slowly.

  Elliot said, 'By the Russians? That's what you believe?'

  Ìt was on the Sauciness Road. I don't have facts to prove it was the Russians. But I know it. West Mainland is full of old people. All the mail going that way will be personal. No money, or very little. Not worth the effort for any criminal.'

  `They've got it back, then,' Willingham snarled.

  I let them think for a moment. It was Elliot who spoke. `What time? Which came first?'

  `The attack on the postman came first,' I said. 'Otherwise they wouldn't have been lurking around Anderson's house. So they can't have got it, can they?'

  Elliot came towards me, put his bony face close to mine, and said very quietly, 'W ere is Anderson?'

  `The' Russians asked e that.'

  `Where is he?'

  Ì don't know.'

  Willingham said, 'The galley shed. What the hell were you doing there?'

  `Looking for him. Not finding him.'

  Elliot turned away. 'Willingham, we need police help. W.e need to know how the mail comes in. Get the head cop up here!'

/>   The head cop turned out to be the sergeant, because the local police inspector was away on a three-day course in Edinburgh. Elliot was clearly disconcerted by the lack of heavy rank. 'What's your name?'

  `McAllister, sir.'

  Òkay McAllister. Get on to the postal authorities. If there's any fresh mail on the island now, it's got to be checked. Anything, anything at all, addressed to Anderson, Jarlshof, Sandness, or to a girl called Alison' Hay, at any address, has to be found. Arrange for tomorrow's mail, when it gets here, to be checked too.'

  McAllister was a square, phlegmatic man built like a shovel blade. He said. 'What do you expect to happen, sir?'

  `Who knows? Maybe an attack of some kind. Just do it, huh?'

  'If it's to be, an attack, sir, we'd better warn British

  Airways. Mail comes up by air from Aberdeen.'

  Òkay.' Elliot nodded approval. 'And ask the post office people in Aberdeen to search at their end too. Get going.'

  McAllister stayed where he was. 'I doubt they'd do that on my say-so sir. You'll need to get authority, maybe the Chief Constable of Aberdeen. Can you arrange for that sir?'

  Ì'll fix it,' Willingham said. He hurried out and I heard his footsteps descending the stairs. Ànd what about outgoing mail?' McAllister asked quietly.

  `Jesus, yes!' Elliot said. 'Get that looked at, too. Same names. Anderson and Hay. Any letters to anyone of either name are to be held for examination, right?'

  `Right, sir.' McAllister turned to leave.

  `How many phone lines have you, sergeant?'

  `Three, sir.'

  'I got to call London.' Elliot began to follow the sergeant towards the door, then stopped and turned to look at me. He said, 'Get a man up here to stay with Mr Sellers, sergeant.'

  Àye, sir. I will.'

  McAllister removed the key from my side of the door and went out. The lock's click was loud in the room. '

  I went over and looked out of the room's other window. The room itself was on a corner of the building. I already knew one window overlooked Lerwick harbour, that it was high above the ground and that there was no easy way down from it. Disappointingly, the same was true of the other. I had a nice view of the modernistic library building and the Town Hall, but the drop was a good twenty feet. I'd break my neck if I tried it. And anyway, I didn't have time. The lock turned again and my guard was with me. Like McAllister he was a broad, hard-looking man, thirtyish, accustomed to handling drunken trawlermen, I guessed, probably two or three at a time. He gave me a little nod that somehow or other contrived to be a warning, too.