Terror's Cradle

Morelius was blinking even harder. 'You mean, personally . . .?'

`Not like that,' I said. 'But it's as if she were his daughter.' He hesitated. 'The police would be angry.'

I said, 'The police don't place two-million-copy print orders. Mr Scown will also be angry.'

Morelius thought for a moment. 'You will undertake to be most careful?'

`Certainly.'

Then, reluctantly he conceded. 'I show you. One moment please.' He picked up the phone and spoke in Swedish. When he'd finished, he said, 'I will be told if the police come here. If they do, you will have time to come away from the room. You will do that?'

Òf course.'

The room was plain and tidy. All magazine printers have places like it, where editorial production people can work. There were a couple of desks, a layout table, a frosted glass with a light beneath it for transparency viewing, a couple of telephones, a photo-copying machine.

`Thanks.'

He didn't want to leave me. I said 'You must have other problems.'

`Please. If the police come, you will —'

I nodded. 'Like a rat down a rope. So let's not waste time.' He left me to it. There were a few rough layouts on the desk, some black and white prints in a wire basket, and that was all. Alsa must have taken the briefcase and the artwork portfolio back to the Scanda Hotel. I sat at the desk and began to go through the material carefully. The pictures were the usual Russian

propaganda stuff: new cities mushrooming out of the Siberian vastness, kids at a ballet school, more kids doing exercises in a beautifully equipped gymnasium, watchmakers at work. A few had pencil marks on the back in Alsa's writing; she'd sized one or two up provisionally. It all seemed very innocent.

The layouts were roughs for various pages in the magazine, with type areas and pictures blocked in and not much else. A few were front-cover designs, with scribbled-in picture outlines and a few rough type styles for the title. Russian Life. They didn't look particularly exciting, though one was fairly striking: a rough map of Russia with flags sticking out of it. Alsa clearly intended to put a picture inside each flag. Nice idea if the artists didn't foul it up and the printers got the register right and didn't blur the edges. I stayed for an hour or so, and went through the stuff carefully three times, but there was nothing I could see that might give me a lead. All the same, I made quite a few photocopies in case there was something important I'd missed. When I'd finished I left everything as I'd found it, picked up the key Morelius had left on the table, locked the door behind me and went back to Morelius' office.

`No police?'

'No.' He managed a smile. 'It was useful?'

Ì don't think so,' I said. 'Sorry about the pressure. I felt I had to look.'

Morelius smiled. 'Now it is over, I do not worry. I would like to help. If there is anything

. .

I nodded. 'I'll ask. Thanks.'

`You tell Mr Scown we wish to help, please.' Ì'll tell him.'

`Where will you go now?'

I had no idea. 'Back to the hotel, I suppose.'

`We will send you by car,' Morelius said. He got up and opened the door. 'You will have spoken to Mr Marasov?' I turned to look at him. 'Who?'

He looked surprised. 'You did not know? Mr Marasov 'came here with Miss Hay. He is a press attaché, I think anyway, at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm.'

`What,' ',asked, `was he doing?'

`Miss Hay said he was helping her with some translation.' Was he, now?' I thought about that. 'Did they leave together?'

`Yes. In our car.'

Where did they go?'

`To the Scanda Hotel. The police know this. They asked the driver.'

I asked the driver myself on the way back into Gothenburg and he confirmed it. He'd taken Alsa and the Russian to the Scanda and when he dropped them, they both went inside.

`What were they talking about?'

He shrugged. 'I not listen. My English .

`You heard nothing?'

`No. Once he say he is sorry. I hear that.'

I wondered what he'd been sorry about, but there was no mileage in it. He could have been sorry about dropping cigarette ash.

I thanked the driver, watched the Volvo move away, and wandered into the Scanda's lobby. At least I now knew what to do next. I was heading for the lift and my bugged telephone when the porter called my name and hurried over. À visitor asks to see you, sir.'

Òh? Who is he?'

Òver there, sir.' He nodded towards the apology for a lounge, where a man sat quietly, smoking a cigarette. He looked up as I approached and began to rise. Ì'm Sellers,' I said.

`Pavel Marasov. I am Press Attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm.' He offered his hand and I shook it: a cold hand, limp grip. He was a bit like his handshake, too. Rimless glasses of Glenn Miller vintage. Medium height, nondescript, in a slightly scruffy suit, but with a kind of intensity around the eyes. 'I came here to see if there was news and was told you are here.'

Ànd is there any news?' I sat down next to him.

No. I asked the police. They do not know where Miss

Hay is. It is very worrying.'

I said, 'We're all worried.'

`The Ambassador himself is most anxious.'

We stared at each other for a moment or two. Then I said, `Mr Marasov, I don't know much. The police are keeping it tight. But I understand there was some problem about a transparency.' I used Schmid's trick, watching his eyes and emphasizing the word transparency.

But he didn't hesitate. 'Oh yes. It was unfortunate. We were sorry Miss Hay was troubled, but — you are a journalist, I think?'

`Then you will understand. In Moscow Miss Hay was at the Number One Magazine Publishing House.'

I said, 'I know it. I was there myself.'

He looked at me for a moment.

`So you are the, er — '

Ì'm the one you threw out,' I said.

He nodded, even smiled a little. 'I heard of it, but this is a neutral country, eh?' Then he frowned and returned to the subject. 'You understand that there is a central photographic laboratory. They do' work on many publications.'

Ì remember.'

`They were copying transparencies for Miss Hay. A great many transparencies, you know? She selected what she wanted and they were copied because it is the rule that the original transparencies are not released. You follow me?'

`Yes.'

Well, naturally there was much material in the laboratory, including the transparency which had been selected for a special anniversary edition of Soviet Industry. Miss Hay had• taken away a large number 'of transparencies and when it was found that the cover was missing, it was thought it might, in error, have been given to her. The matter was urgent for production reasons.'

I said, Ì'd still like to know what happened.'

Ìt was most regrettable. It was necessary to stop her at the airport and ask if her material could be examined.'

`Who stopped her?'

Ì believe a message was sent from the publishing house to the airport police. Naturally it was not a police matter ...'

`Naturally,' I said. I could imagine the happy moment: Alsa at Sheremetyevo Airport with a pile of transparencies and the sudden heavy hand of the Russian police. She must have been scared out of her wits.

`They search her?'

`No.' He looked at me reprovingly. `She was a guest of the Soviet people, Mr Sellers. She was asked if the material could be checked'

Ànd she agreed?' Of course she'd agree, I thought. With the plane on the runway and the Soviet police breathing heavily, anybody'd agree.

`She was most co-operative. Unfortunately the transparency was not found.' Marasov smiled ,again. 'They have to find a new cover now. It is most annoying for them.'

Ì can imagine.'

`But these things happen. Miss Hay told me she understood and did not mind.'

I said, Àlsa's a nice girl.'