It was a cheap plastic briefcase. He unfastened the zip, took out the contents. There were a few letters in their envelopes, some writing paper and unused envelopes, a number of itemized forms — stores lists or something of that sort, he decided — a postcard and a cyclostyled sheet.
Krasnov could not speak or understand spoken English, but he had an elementary schoolboy’s knowledge of the language. Enough, for example, to understand the significance of the address which appeared on each envelope:
Laundryman Fah Ko Lin,
HMS ARIES,
BFPO — Ships.16
All bore a London postmark and a franking date within recent weeks. The itemized lists were headed HMS ARIES, as was the blank notepaper with the ship’s crest. There was a Danish postcard: a photo of Copenhagen harbour, the mermaid at Langelinie in the foreground. The writing in the body of the card was Chinese but it was addressed in English to:
Mrs Fah Ko Lin,
147 Sellaby Street,
Soho,
London, W.l.
Most important of all was the cyclostyled sheets headed HMS ARIES, Visit to Copenhagen, Sept. 20-24, 1974.
Signed by the first-lieutenant, it gave the programme of events and entertainment arranged for the ship’s company during the course of the five-day visit. The distribution list at its foot had an inked tick against ‘Ship’s Laundry’.
Krasnov put everything back in the briefcase, replaced it on the shelf where he’d found it, and pushed it well out of sight. He turned off the lights, lay down on the stretcher and covered himself with the blanket.
After that he lay in the darkness thinking about his discovery.
As the pale greys of morning began to show in the sky above the broch, they heard somewhere in the distance the solitary bleat of a sheep, followed by the cries of seagulls.
‘It’ll be daylight soon,’ said Liang Hui.
Sitting disconsolately, chin in hands, elbows on knees, body bent forward, weary with waiting, stiff from the damp and cold of early morning, Krasnov ignored the remark.
Not long afterwards they heard a distant rumble, low at first but growing steadily stronger.
‘Helicopter,’ said Liang Hui. ‘Coming in from the sea.’ He stood up. ‘Stay here. I’ll take a look.’ He held the revolver in front of him, prominently, in such a way that the Russian must see it.
‘Don’t worry.’ Krasnov shrugged his shoulders wearily. ‘I won’t move.’
Liang Hui went outside and looked in the direction from which the sound was coming. Before long he saw the dark blob coming in low over the moor towards the broch, the sound of its engine an enormous intrusion on the quiet landscape. When it had almost reached the broch it hovered less than fifty yards from him. There was just enough light to identify it as a Sikorsky Sea King. He looked for markings on the helicopter’s fuselage but there were none. It looked curiously anonymous in its coat of dark olive.
He moved away from the stone tower while the Sikorsky, its engines and rotors reaching a crescendo, descended like some awkward bird, crunched on to the heather and rocked gently as the undercarriage spread and recoiled, the engines throttled back, the spinning rotors drooped. A door opened and two men in flying suits climbed out. Bending low they came clear of the Sea King and walked quickly through the dusk of early morning towards him.
‘Morning,’ said the tall man. He had the brown skin and bony features of an American Indian. ‘I guess we’d better exchange credentials. You’re Liang Hui.’
‘Correct,’ said the Cantonese. ‘And you are Vincent Strutt?’
‘Right,’ said the American. From nowhere it seemed he produced a revolver, poked it into Liang Hui’s rib-cage. ‘Get your hands up, China boy,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘And keep them there.’
Liang Hui raised his hands high above his head The thickset man frisked him while Strutt kept him covered. The frisker found the shoulder-holster, pulled the gun from it, stuck it into the pocket of his flying-suit. ‘Okay, Vince,’ he said. ‘He’s clean now.’
Strutt said, ‘Right, China boy. Take us to him. Make it fast. We’re short on time.’
Hands still above his head, Liang Hui turned towards the broch. As he did so he saw the Soviet lieutenant slip back from the entrance and knew that he’d been watching. When they got into the broch Krasnov had his back to the far wall, his arms spread. His face was drawn with fear. ‘What’s this?’ he stammered, his eyes on Liang Hui.
The Cantonese shook his head, reached higher with his hands. ‘I don’t know.’ His voice was thin, reedy. ‘Ask them.’
‘That’ll do, China boy,’ said Strutt. ‘We’ll take over. Just watch your step. You’re liable to get hurt.’ He turned to Krasnov and spoke to him in Russian. ‘Come along, Lieutenant. You’re with us now.’
Krasnov held back but they each took an arm and marched him out of the broch while Liang Hui stood watching helplessly. Once outside Strutt released the Russian’s arm. ‘Put him in the chopper, Stan,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you when I’ve dealt with our friend here.’
He came back to Liang Hui who had moved outside the broch, arms still above his head. ‘I guess we’ll be going now,’ said the American. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. They’ll be coming for me soon.’
‘How’s this guy Krasnov?’
‘He’s not a bad youngster. Treat him decently. He’s had a rough time.’
‘Sure. We’ll look after him. Have him on board in twenty minutes. In the States in a few days. He’ll be okay if he’s straight.’
‘He is.’ Liang Hui could see the Soviet lieutenant’s face pressed to a fuselage window; very white and frightened he looked.
‘Okay. Bye now.’ Strutt lifted his right hand and fired two shots at Liang Hui at point blank range. The Cantonese dropped his arms, clutched his stomach, bent double and wobbled absurdly before collapsing. Strutt ran towards the helicopter, climbed in through the open door. Before it was shut the jets shrieked and screamed up the sound scale and the Sea King lifted clear.
Lying on his side, Liang Hui watched it making off, flying low across the moor towards Ronas Voe until it was lost to sight in the morning twilight. Only then did he get up and dust himself. He spent the next few minutes hiding the shoulder-holster in the heather.
An hour later he saw a car stop in the distance. Two men climbed out and set off across the moor towards him. It was full daylight now. To the west he could see the tower of the lighthouse at Esha Ness and in the north, across the Voe, the black bulk of Ronas Hill.
As the men drew close he saw their uniform, the checkered bands round their peaked caps and the sergeant’s stripes. When they reached him the sergeant, pink-cheeked and brown-moustached, smiled in kindly fashion. ‘Ye’ll be expecting us, I dare say.’
Liang Hui looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. ‘Rada vas videt,’ he muttered.
The sergeant spoke to the constable. ‘It’s him, Andrew. But it’s nae guld speaking the English. Hell nae understand.’
‘Looks more like a Chinaman than a Roosian to me, sergeant.’