by Duncan Kyle
At five minutes before the hour, the three of us left the room and crossed the road. People hurried past us, heading for the procession route, a little way inland from where we stood. Bottle shapes were visible in many of the passing pockets; some of the men wore elaborate fancy dress and carried long poles capped with sacking: torches to be lit for the galley procession.
We took up our position by the Town Hall entrance and waited, looking at our watches. At six the Town Hall clock boomed out above us and the carillon began to ring out a tune I didn't know. We looked at the hurrying faces, Elliot and Willingham hopefully, I no less anxiously. The difference was that I was praying no one would approach us.
`He's not coming,' Elliot said heavily at five past.
Ìt'll be difficult to move through the crowds,' I pointed out. 'He'll come. The message was clear enough.'
So we waited. High above us the clock chimed the quarter, then at last the half. I said, '
Perhaps there's a reason. Somebody else hanging about. Maybe he's watching us now. Maybe he's waiting to be sure.'
A few minutes later, I suggested we cross the street and come back, just to underline to Anderson, if he were watching, that the Town Hall, not the procession, was our intended location.
`Can't do any harm, I suppose,' Elliot said. 'Let's try it.' He sounded deeply depressed. We crossed the road and stood for a moment, on the other side. The crowds were thickening fast, moving around us, jostling.
Elliot said, 'Okay, let's go back.'
Ànother minute,' I said. There was a big, noisy group hurrying toward us up the hill from the quay, sixty or seventy men, laughing and shouting. I waited until they were almost on us, then said, 'On second thoughts we might as well.'
Elliot turned. Willingham turned. I began to turn, let them see me begin, then stopped, took three quick steps, slid in among the noisy crowd and hurried forward. Ahead were the two long roads on either side of the playing field where the galley would burn, and they were packed. Only minutes now remained before the procession was to begin and away to my right there were already scattered outbursts of cheering. I heard Willingham'
s voice shout 'Stop him!' a few yards behind, but I was in the middle of a rapidly-moving little phalanx of men and a few seconds later the whole
group was merging into the crowd in the streets.
I separated myself quickly, then, and began to slide through the crowd, knees bent a little to keep my head down, praying that I'd slipped away successfully and heading now for the spot I'd specified in the note I'd slipped into Miss Petrie's hand. Squads of men in fancy dress lined the roads as seven o'clock struck. I was too early. I moved deep into the crowd, trying to be inconspicuous, but for once in Lerwick, sweaters and work trousers weren't standard dress. People were in their best for UpHelly-Aa. For twenty minutes I stood sweating, before the music crashed and the marching began. I made myself unpopular, then, pushing my way to the front. Suddenly a Very light soared into the sky and all along the road little lights flared suddenly as matches were struck. Then the lights grew brighter as the matches lit torches and the torches were raised high. Up-Helly-Aa had begun! I stood there in the torchlight, in the front of the crowd, trying to stick my face out. This was the designated place and the appointed moment. Miss Petrie had been given the photograph to pass to Anderson. Would he recognize me?
A squad of men in Viking costume came proudly by, torches held high, flickering flames gleaming on horned helmets decorated with glossy ravens' wings, shields bearing battle signs. Despite myself, I watched. The scene was ancient, majestic, strangely moving as a silence fell and the men marched forward in the torchlight. I didn't see or hear him approach. One moment I was watching the marching men; the next somebody was whispering close.to my ear. 'Sellers?'
I nodded.
`Follow me.'
We slipped easily back through the crowd; people were only too anxious to let someone from the front move away. A couple of minutes later, we were clear, hurrying inland, then turning and turning again, down a narrow lane and finally into a darkly shadowed yard.
Anderson was a big, rawboned, rangy man. Serious looking; physically hard. We moved close to a wall and I said quickly, urgently, 'Have you— '
Anderson stared grimly at me. 'No questions. Tell me what you know.'
So I told him. About the Soviet Jews who'd made their futile plan, had been betrayed, had tried again .using Alsa as an unknowing courier. How she'd left the lens case in the shop, and the optician, presumably knowing only one Sandnes, must have added the word Norway before posting it and that it must then have been redirected by the Norwegian postal service. He listened closely and carefully as I explained it. Then I told him why the transparency mattered so much, why Alsa had been kidnapped, who Elliot and Willingham were and why it was vital to keep them at bay. I told him about Noss and the Russian who'd waited for him there.
Ìt was you there last night?' he asked.
`yes.'
saw you, from a distance. Maybe you saved my life.' `Maybe I did. It's Alsa's life that matters. Have you got it?'
Anderson hesitated, stared at me for a moment, then nodded.
`Here? With you?'
`Yes.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little plastic case. 'There was a note from Alsa inside : just a few words. It said her life depended on hiding it safely. I didn't know what it meant but —'
A light blazed suddenly from the mouth of the yard. There were rapid footsteps and a voice snapped, 'Keep still!' We were against a wall already. There might have been somewhere to run if we'd had time, but the speed and surprise left us helpless. Four of them. And Marasov's rimless glasses gleaming above the torch. 'Give it to me.'
Anderson didn't move.
Ì said, give it to me.' Marasov raised his pistol slowly,
pointing the barrel at Anderson's right eye, holding out his hand. There was nothing Anderson could do. I watched in despair as the little tube was handed over. Marasov said, `Watch him closely!' Then he stepped back, uncapped the lens case, pulled out the protective plastic cage from inside it and extracted the tiny square of thirty-five millimetre film. He held it up against the light of his torch, threw the tube away and stepped towards us again. He was smiling. 'I knew you'd lead us to him, Mr Sellers.'
`You?' Anderson glared at me. 'You bast — '
'No,' I said, 'I didn't. They must have followed me!'
`Yes, we followed. We were patient, and now we have recovered What we lost.' Marasov fished in his pocket and pulled something out. A moment later flame flared from a lighter. An American Zippo, of all things. He lowered the transparency into the flame and we listened to the little sizzle as the film fizzled quickly to a cindery wisp. He dropped it and ground it with his heel.
Anderson was almost beside himself. 'What about Alsa?' he demanded. Where is she?'
Marasov continued to grind the burned transparency with his heel. Then he said, 'I have no idea who you're talking about.'
Anderson didn't speak. He simply flung himself at Marasov, smashing with his big fists at the little Russian's face. He got him, too, once or even twice, before the gun banged and Anderson grunted, reeled back against the wall and collapsed in a heap. I listened to the running footsteps as the Russians hurried away. My eyes had flooded with tears. The whole thing was my fault. I'd been so bloody clever, playing ends against the middle, and all I'd succeeded in doing was to ensure Alsa would be killed! Through me Anderson had been shot. Maybe killed. I didn't care a rap for Elliot's big intelligence breakthrough, but even that hadn't been saved from the universal disaster. I'd lost all the way round. Everything. The girl I loved, the whole bloody lot. Everything lay in ruins around me and I alone was responsible for the bloody shambles. Anderson groaned as I dropped to my knees beside him, groaned again as I gently turned his body so that he could lie, perhaps more comfortably, on his back. Well, at least he was alive. I'd have to leave him though; have to go ' for help. As I began to rise there came the
sound of footsteps again, running footsteps. They stopped in the alley outside and I could see the flash of hand torches. Willingham charged into the yard, Elliot a pace or two behind him. 'That shot!' he said breathlessly. 'What the hell was it?'
I said dully, 'They shot Anderson.'
Ànderson?' Willingham glared down at him. `That's Anderson? Then where — ?'
I said, 'They got the transparency, too.'
He looked round wildly. 'Which way did they— ?'
Ìt's no use,' I said. `Marasov burned it.' I pointed to the little black smear on the concrete. 'That's all that's left.'
Elliot seemed to sag suddenly. He bent and looked at the tiny flakes of ash, already scattered in the wind. 'Jesus!' he said mournfully.
`You stupid bastard!' Willingham snarled. 'You pathetic bloody clown. Do you realize what you've—'
I said, 'Anderson's been shot. He needs help. Help me carry him —'
`Carry him your bloody self !'
A moment later Anderson and I were alone. The two of them simply stamped off and left us and I blinked after them stupidly, not really blaming them. The only blame was mine and at that moment the burden of it seemed unendurable. Àlsa! Alsa!' I muttered. Beside me, unexpectedly, Anderson whispered, 'They've gone?'
I bent quickly beside him in a sudden flood of relief. `Yes. Are you— ?'
Ìt's my shoulder . . I could hear the pain in his voice. `Can you stand?'
Àye. I think ... .' Anderson held out his hand and I helped him up. He gave a sudden grunt. 'I'm all right, I think. It's just . . . let me stand still a while.'
He leaned his back against the wall and slipped his left
hand inside his coat, feeling gingerly at his right shoulder. I said, 'Let's get you to the hospital, wherever it is.' 'No,' he said.
`Come on, man! You need attention.'
He pulled out his hand. 'Bleeding, but I can manage, I think.'
'Put your arm round my shoulders,' I said. 'I'll help you get there.'
'I'll have to wait.'
'Wait? Why? There's nothing to do now.'
'Oh, but there is.' In the deep shadows I couldn't really
see his face, but there was something in his voice .. . I said, 'But they got it. Burned it. You saw them!' Anderson pushed himself away from the wall. 'Aye. They got one.'
CHAPTER TWENTY
'You made a copy of a transparency?' I said. To copy transparencies isn't easy. You need a good photo-lab and a deal of skill.
'We don't wear skins up here,' Anderson said.
'All right. Where?'
'there's a man processes my pictures. He's got a good lab. I used it.'
'I mean, where's the copy transparency now?'
His answer was to lengthen his stride. At the end of the alley he stopped, looked round the corner into the street. Satisfied, he walked quickly out. A hundred yards more, a quick turn down another alley, and he was knocking on the back door of a house. A man opened the door. Sixtyish, with a face seamed by long exposure to sun, wind and sea. He looked at Anderson, nodded, then stepped back to let us in. Anderson said, 'I have to get to my boat, Tom. But quietly.' He didn't introduce us. The man Tom nodded. 'She's in the harbour yet?' Àye.'
Àll right.' Then he noticed the way Anderson stood. `What's wrong with your shoulder?'
`Nothing. Come on Tom.'
Ì've seen a bullet hole before,' the man said quietly. Anderson sighed. 'Aye. It's not serious.'
`Maybe. A little look, that's all, Jim. Let me see.' `There isn't time!' Anderson said impatiently.
`Don't be a bloody fool !' Tom was already unfastening Anderson's blue donkey jacket. He took off the coat carefully, then peeled Anderson's sweater upward. Both the sweater and Anderson's back were bright with blood. Tom looked at the wound carefully, then moved to examine it again from the front. 'It'll no' kill you. Can you move it?'
Not much.'
`Collar bone's gone. Aside from that it's in and out and probably clean, unless fibres from your clothes were forced into a wound. Minute, Jim.'
He opened a drawer and took out a big first-aid box, applied penicillin powder liberally, then taped big wads of gauze in place, back and front. 'I heard they were looking for you. Anything I can do?'
Anderson shook his head. 'just hurry.'
Tom didn't hurry, but his broad, work-worn, spatulate fingers were remarkably deft as he worked. He pulled the sweater down again. 'You need a sling, man.' Then he buttoned the arm inside the coat. 'Can he sail?'
It was the first time Tom had shown he was even aware of me. Ìt'll be all right, Tom. Just hurry.'
A minute later, with Anderson's right arm slung and buttoned securely, his loose sleeve hanging, Tom nodded and opened a door. He led the way, Anderson followed. I brought up the rear, thinking we were going down into a cellar. Instead we entered a low corridor, a tunnel almost, with bare earth walls and roof shored up at intervals with curved staves. We went along it, crouching. At the end, Tom stood upright, slid back a bolt, eased open a trapdoor and climbed through. From outside I could hear the soft swish of water. Anderson climbed through next, then I followed. A small fishing boat was tied up hard against the wall. Tom was already bent over at the starting handle and Anderson lay on the bottom boards.
I climbed in, too, and Anderson said, Tie like this.'
I crawled down beside him and waited. The engine started, then Tom spread a tarpaulin over us and the light was blacked out.
`Where are we going?' I demanded.
Anderson said quietly, 'Tom will drop us at my boat. Maybe it's being watched. Maybe it isn't. When we reach it be ready to jump.'
`But where — ?'
He cut me off. 'Until we get there, only I know. When we get there . . .' he paused and added after a moment, 'you'll see.'
boat was moving off now. The engine puttered quietly, and water swished along the boards beside my ears. The trip took only three or four minutes. Then Tom lifted the end of the tarpaulin. 'Seems quiet,' he said softly, 'but I don't know. There's a Russian purseseine-setter half a cable away.'
`Can you see anybody on her?'Anderson asked.
`No. But . .
But there would be somebody. All three of us knew it. Anderson said, 'We'll have to try it. Go ahead, Tom.'
The engine's power increased for a few moments, then died back to a slow throb. '
Coming on her now,' Tom's voice said.
`Right.' Anderson flung back the tarpaulin and we sat up then stood, then jumped as the boat came neatly alongside Anderson's big Shetland model. Anderson put his foot on the thwart and stepped easily across. I followed a good deal less gracefully and a lot more noisily. But at least I was aboard.
`Get the anchor up!' Anderson ordered briskly, himself bending to the engine. Obediently I hauled on the chain, the metallic racket loud in the stillness as it fell through my hands into the little chain locker. Then the motor was going and we were off. I secured the anchor and went back to join Anderson and we both stared back at the lines of tied up vessels.
It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I thought savagely, that I'd been doing exactly this, trying to sneak unobserved out of Lerwick harbour. Apparent success; no success at all. I thought about the events that had followed, the ghastly cradle-ride, the desperate race over Noss, the final exhaustion from which only the helicopter had saved me. I remembered I hadn't thanked Elliot and Willingham for saving me; hadn't even asked where they'd got the helicopter or how they knew where I was. Nor, I realized then, had they ofiered to tell me! My eyes strayed involuntarily upward to search the night sky for lights, but it was dark and empty. The only lights were in the town. High on the hill I could see the glow of flaring torchlight from the Up-Helly-Aa procession. Or maybe it was the galley, already burning. Somehow in that moment it seemed a bad omen.
Tom's boat was already almost out of sight, and soon we were coming under the Bressay cliffs, leading south towards Bard Head. Anderson's face was pale and determin
ed. He was fighting shock and fighting it well, but there would be a penalty to be paid. I said, thinking of the night before, Ìs there anything aboard. Tea? Whisky?'
`Both.'
Ì'll make some tea.' I went into the little cabind and put the kettle on. The whole thing was like some nightmare
re-run of the earlier trip. The kettle boiled, I made the tea, poured it into a mug, stirred in a lot of sugar as treatment for shock and handed it out to him. When he'd drunk half, I laced the remainder with Scotch, and watched him finish it.
`How do you feel?'
Ì'm all right.'
I said, 'I didn't lead them to you, you know. They must have had a lot of men in town tonight, watching for us.'
Ì know. Forget it.'
Somehow I found myself slightly in awe of Anderson, something I don't feel often for an yone. He had the solid confidence of a wholly self-contained man, a tangible authority that seemed to come from deep knowledge of his own world. Looking at him now, at the helm of his boat, it wasn't difficult to imagine other Andersons a thousand years ago, coming confidently to these shores in the same flimsy longboats that also explored Iceland and Greenland and may even have crossed to America. I almost hesitated to speak. Almost. I told myself sharply not to be a fool, and said, `Tell me where the bloody thing is. And why you copied it.'
He glanced at me. Àlsa's note said her life depended on that one thing. It wasn't much, that flimsy wee piece of film, for the girl's life to hang on. But Alsa wouldn't have said it, if it hadn't been true. You'd know that. I thought, what if I lose it, or maybe damage it. What then? So I made a copy.'
Òne copy.'
Àye, one. I'd not lose two'
`Where are we going? And when we get there, what then?'
`Later.'
`Now!' I said. 'You can't afford to be the rugged individualist. Not any more. You've only one arm, for a start. You're going to need me.'