He stood about five feet away, booted feet planted well apart. His back was to the moon so his face was in shadow but the moon gleamed on something else: on the blue barrel of the weapon in his hands.
He gave a quick jerk of the rifle, ordering me from the cradle, then stood back as I climbed gingerly out on to the Holm's thick grass surface. Another jerk of the rifle had me moving away from the edge, walking awkwardly backward, my arms raised. He didn't speak. When he'd got me where he evidently wanted me, near the middle of the flat top of the stack, he pointed to the ground, making me sit. He bent, picked up something from the ground and stepped back a pace or two before he took a fresh onehanded grip on the rifle and fumbled awkwardly with the other hand until a slender length of metal appeared. A radio. He was one of Marasov's men. He spoke quickly, in Russian, and I saw him 'look at me carefully as he talked, presumably giving a description. It didn't take long, and he snapped the aerial back in place, lowered the radio to the ground and took a proper grip of the rifle before he came closer again.
`How on earth did you know about this?' said.
No reply. He wasn't talking. His mouth was flat and hard and wasn't going to open. Or maybe he didn't speak English. I thought about it and worked out for myself how Marasov knew about the Holm. He could only know because Alsa had told 'him, and Alsa knew because Anderson had told her. That told me two things: first that Alsa was probably still alive; secondly that the man who'd impersonated Schmid had possibly been right when he'd said Alsa intended to marry Anderson. At least they were very close. So Marasov, knowing about this place, had simply put a man here to wait. If Anderson came, fine. If he didn't, it was merely a short spell of sentry-go. Marasov, it was becoming increasingly obvious, was very well-organized indeed. Then another question reared in my mind. I was wearing two heavy roll-necked sweaters, the top one navy blue. Also dark trousers and
boating boots. A wholly different rig-out from the one I'd been wearing when I was pitched into Lerwick harbour and Marasov dragged me away. How then would this man have described me? My clothes? Well, it was a rough working rig-out. He'd say that I was in my mid-thirties, on the fair side. Anderson was about the same age; I knew that from the photograph. Might this man think I was Anderson? If he did, Marasov would come tearing over here like a terrier after a rat. And when he got here, he'd decide that if my ideas were no forwarder than his, he might as well dispose of me now as later. Which made it very urgent indeed that I do something. But what?
Up there we were exactly like two flies on top of a jam jar, except that one fly had a sting and neither could fly away. The only way off the Holm was by the cradle, and my captor would clearly wait until the other side of the rope-way was manned before sending me across. He was armed and standing, I was unarmed and sitting. All the advantage to him. I move, he fires. I thought about-it. Wait a minute . . . would he shoot? Not if I was Anderson he wouldn't, because Anderson was vital! They wanted Anderson very badly indeed. Suddenly the memory of the men who'd shot to frighten me in the Valley of Fire came back, Elliot's men, bloody vivid in my mind. Firing dozens of shots, all going wide. Orders to miss?
Maybe.
It was a hell of a chance to take. I'd taken that chance in the Valley of Fire and been right. But you could only be wrong once.
What if I didn't try? Well, then Marasov would come and say to himself, it's only Sellers and Sellers is patently no use any more. In that case there was the nice, high cliff of a remote island all too close to hand! Farewell Sellers. And goodbye Alsa, too, because there was no-one else to care except Anderson, and Anderson could have no real knowledge of the set-up. Nor could he know that the only possible end was sudden death all round. If Marasov
found Anderson and said, it's a fair exchange, the trans.. parency for the girl, Anderson would jump at it. And thereby sentence the pair of them.
I'd screwed my courage to the sticking point before and it had taken a ghastly act of will. By rights it should have been easier this time. Same scenario. Same act of lunacy required. But it wasn't easier. It was almost impossible. One part of my mind ordered my legs and arms to move, while another part, the sensible part that deals in selfpreservation, said don't believe a word of it. Inertness is the watchword. Disobey this fool! But somehow -I made myself stand. And stretch. In spite of the cold, my back ran with sweat. He stared at me, stone-faced, and I'd have given everything I had to know what was in his mind, what his orders were.
He gestured angrily at me to sit down again. I pretended I didn't understand, fixing an idiot look of puzzlement on my face and looking at him with my head to one side like an inquiring dog. But it was a gesture to sit that he made, not a threat to fire. Significant?
My God, but I prayed it was significant. I made myself stretch, as though to loosen tired muscles, then bent and rubbed at my calves, giving him a rueful half-grin. Hell climbing up the island isn't it? He was still making that sit-down gesture. If I'd obeyed it before, why wasn't I obeying it now? I straightened, shrugging my shoulders, hugging myself, doing the isn't-it-cold act, stamping my feet to emphasize the point. He scowled at me and gestured more furiously with the rifle. I pretended I suddenly understood, pointed at the ground, gave him another inquiring look. He nodded vigorously and I began to lower myself, bending my knees, letting my body bend, until almost at the point of sitting I'd got myself down nearly into the on-your-marks position. He was five feet away. Six perhaps. Two good strides while he made his decision to kill me or not. There wasn't time to pause and ponder. I hurled myself forward, low and rising in the tackle taught to me and practised endlessly long ago and far away on greener grass than this. Get his legs! Two hard stamps with my feet, driving up from the crouch, aiming the shoulder for the thigh. What if he'd played Rugby in Rumania or somewhere and could sidestep like Gerald Davies? Crunch! Hard into the thigh with my shoulder, arms round his legs, feet driving on. No shot, and he was over backwards and we were crashing down together. I swarmed over him like six All-Black forwards and behaved much the same way, all knees and elbows, gouging and thumping. An explosion of energy I'd never have believed I could raise. Side of the hand up under his nose and a highly rewarding shout of pain, thumb to the eyeball, knee to the groin. Gotcha! He tried to fight me, but too late. It was over. I chopped at his exposed throat and he whimpered and gagged and when the second chop landed he stopped moving.
I rose, grunting, and stared down at him. He wasn't shamming. He was badly hurt, possibly even dead. And I wasn't going to waste time finding out which. Where was Anderson's bird-watching hide? If he'd been here . . . but no, he hadn't been here, couldn't have been. All the same, John Sellers, find it, and look. I found it and looked. It was empty. A couple of notebooks, ropes, cameras, binoculars, two sleeping bags, spirit stove and Thermos, a few provisions, a torch. I took the torch, switched it on and headed back towards the. ropeway.
The torch seemed to give out an uncanny amount of light, much of it in directions in which it wasn't pointing. Turning, I saw that the seaward edge of the Holm top was silhouetted in a blast of light from below. I crossed quickly towards the edge, went flat on my stomach, crawled to the edge and looked cautiously over. Instantly, the light halfblinded me. Dazzled, I lay still, waiting for the light-burn to fade from the retinas of my eyes. It seemed to take an age of rubbing before I could see at all. But when some vision had returned, I played it differently, watching the beam as it moved, choosing the moment when it swung away a little on the sea's movement to raise my head. And what I saw brought bile into my throat, even though