That was when the next act of the nightmare began. It was uncanny and for a moment I didn't believe it, but it was there, the sound was there: clear and unmistakable high above. A helicopter came clattering over the Noss cliffs!
I watched it in bewilderment. Elliot and Willingham? What were they . .? And then I knew suddenly, and realized
that the men on the fishing boat would be watching the helicopter, too. Briefly, perhaps but they'd watch it. With a last, long desperate thrust I reached the edge, gripped it, and hauled myself over. For a moment, breathless and exhausted, I lay flat on the top pf the Holm.
But that moment was all I could afford. I couldn't, daren't stay there. I stared up at the helicopter as it veered across the sky towards me. It had followed the boat ! That was how it had got there. Now the helicopter was going to land up here. I crawled away from the cliff edge, then tried to stand up and found I couldn't. I took a moment or two to untangle the reason from my own confusion. But it was simple enough. The Jumars and the belt still held me to the rope.
Desperately I fumbled with the belt buckle, released it and set off at a stumbling run across the surface. Above me the helicopter was slowing, beginning to hover in preparation for landing. What had Anderson said? Fifteen paces from his hide towards the point where he'd secured the rope. I got to the hide, turned back and started counting. Then a shot came from above, a single sharp crack amid the engine's roar. Christ, they were shooting at me, too ! Elliot and Willingham!
From nowhere a mammoth voice boomed, 'Stand still, Sellers.' But I didn't stand still. The helicopter must have some loudspeaker equipment. It boomed again. Twelve paces, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I dropped to my knees, searching, and found it. A plastic bottle, just as Anderson had said. Tucked in a little depression. I shook it and heard the water gurgle. The transparency was in the water.
`Stand still or we fire!' the great voice boomed.
I ignored it, stood up and, clutching the bottle, sprinted for the cliff edge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There was about twenty yards to go. Twenty-one would be a disaster and my physical state didn't make for fine judgment. Ten feet short of the edge I flung myself flat and began to kitten-crawl forward. At the edge I stopped, put the water bottle down, and turned to watch the helicopter. The thing was huge, with long rows of passenger windows along its sides; one of the oil company machines I'd seen on the tarmac at Sumburgh and which were used to carry men out to the deep sea drilling rigs. The roaring monster came down slowly and carefully, bringing its own fierce gale that seemed to be buffeting me towards the edge. Its coloured lights turned and flashed eerily in the now deafening darkness. It looked like some vast insect predator, come to ingest me. The wheels touched and the massive rotors continued spinning, but the pitch diminished, then a door in the side opened and Elliot stepped down and waited for Willingham to join him. They were both armed.
As I watched them walk towards me, I rapidly unscrewed the stopper of the plastic bottle. They stopped no more than ten feet away and stood looking down at me. 'All right, Sellers. Give me that!' Willingham bawled against the helicopter's racket. I shook my head and shouted back. 'Get back into the bloody thing and fly off.'
They came closer, both with pistols levelled. Elliot called. `We'll use these, Sellers. Don'
t doubt it.'
I held up the bottle. 'If you do, it goes over the edge. The stopper's off. It'll sink straight away.'
Elliot yelled, 'How do I know it's in there?'
Ìt's there,' I shouted. 'Now go. For Christ's sake, go!' Stalemate. Elliot and I stared at each other. I shouted, 'If you shoot me, it falls. If you come near me, it falls. Get into your bloody helicopter and go!' It was Elliot I was addressing, Elliot who was in charge, Elliot who stood looking at me doubtfully. I deliberately ignored Willingham—and I almost lost everything in doing so. I should have expected it; knowing him, but I certainly wouldn't have expected his speed. He hurtled at me from the edge of my vision, diving to try to pin me to the ground. At the last second I saw him coining and rolled over desperately, lashing upward with my foot. It was sheer instinct that made me kick, sheer blind luck that I made contact, sheer disaster that my foot caught him as it did : hard and clean in the face. The impact was doubled by his own onward rush. He thudded to the ground right beside me, with a harsh yelp of pain. I lashed out again, heard his sudden scream and didn't understand for a second what had happened. But the scream continued and died away and I suddenly knew and felt myself shiver. Willingham had gone over!
I looked quickly at the bottle neck. As I'd rolled, had the bottle tipped? I shook it and listened to the water gurgle. No. It was still there.
What about Elliot? For God's sake, where was he? I looked up and saw he was still standing there, open-mouthed now, but the automatic still pointed at me. 'Go!' I yelled at him.
He remained perfectly still for what seemed a long time, then shrugged, turned and walked slowly back to the helicopter. I watched him climb aboard, listened to the rising clamour of the rotor blades, and then the chopper's wheels lifted and it soared upward. Cautiously I crawled away from the cliff edge, then paused to restopper the bottle. The helicopter was a couple of hundred feet above me, beginning to circle slowly. Elliot had gone away all right, but not very far.
What the hell could I do now? I'd won a pause, but no more than that. Before my crazy climb up the rope there had at least been a scheme of sorts. Anderson and I would inform the Russians we had the copy and use it to bargain
for Alsa's release. But now the Russians would probably have guessed why we had returned to the Holm. By now, they'd perhaps even have caught Anderson and be certain. For me, and for Alsa, the alternatives were bleak and fatal. Frying pan or fire?
Americans or Russians? Either way, Alsa would . . .
I crouched alone in the darkness on top of that two hundred foot rock pillar and tried to find a way out. Above, Elliot's helicopter still waited. Below, there, was the Russian boat. There was nothing, nothing I could do!
I stood shakily and looked helplessly around me. Then I saw a dark shadow on the grass near the middle of the surface. I frowned, remembering the Russian who'd captured me last night. I hadn't been sure then that he was dead. I walked slowly towards him. Now there was no question about it. He lay as I'd left him; those blows I'd chopped into his throat had killed him. Now Willingham was dead too! Two men dead. And Alsa would also die; they'd never release her now.
Then I saw that something lay beside the Russian. I bent to look at it. Of course – the radio he'd used! I scooped it up, switched on my torch, and looked at it. A simple walkietalkie gadget. On-off switch, probably single wavelength. Could I make use of this in some way? I sat down and thought about it for a bit, then went quickly to the hide and found what I wanted.
A couple of minutes later, I flicked the switch and spoke into it. `Marasov,' I said. Nothing happened. I went close to the edge, raising the aerial so that it projected - over into space. I repeated Marasov's name several times. Perhaps the damned thing had been smashed when the Russian fell?
Then a voice replied in Russian. I said, `Marasov, Marasov,' and waited. There was a little hiss of static.