Terror's Cradle

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.'