"Kyle, Duncan - Terror's Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kyle Duncan)

He said, 'She told me something on the phone. When she left Moscow there was some kind of panic. They stopped her and searched her stuff. Very polite and proper, she said.'

I went suddenly cold. 'She was carrying something?'

He shook his head.

'She thought it was just funny. She'd got a pile of pictures and a lot of them were transparencies. The Russians said they thought she'd picked up die front cover of one of their magazines by mistake.'

'And had she?'

'She said not.'

'Official circles,' I said angrily, 'means MI6 or somebody, doesn't it? You let them use her?'

He didn't reply. Instead he walked to the wall, slid back a teak panel, opened a safe and took out two bundles. He always has a pile of tip-off money to hand. 'Here's five hundred. Let me know.'

There wasn't much information to be had, but I got what there was. She'd been staying at a hotel called the Scanda, and the printers were an outfit called Strom Brothers who apparently did good-quality work reasonably cheaply. Scown was trying them out on this to see whether it worked out good and cheap; if it did he planned to switch one of the women's magazines there, because Sweden was relatively free of labour troubles and he'd been strike-bound twice in a year.

After that I went back to my flat to collect a clean shirt or two and ring SAS. The next flight was a nonstop, just before five, which would do nicely, and it left me time to nip round to the bank the Daily News used and turn some of Scown's five hundred into kroner.

I landed in Gothenburg around six-thirty and took a cab to the Scanda, a straightforward modern rectangle of the type that adds nothing to the character of any city and very little to the pleasure of the visitor. I registered, went to my room, and sat down to think, which wasn't easy; I'd spent too many hours in aeroplanes for my head to be full of ideas, or indeed of anything but clogged cotton wool.

The first problem was that Scown had been warned off and I didn't know whether the Swedes knew that. If they did, there'd be no help. On the other hand, there had to be some sensible basis for the questions I was going to ask. I decided, in the end, that the best place to begin was with the hotel staff. If there was a clamp on them, it would show fast enough.

I went downstairs and into the square sideshoot that passes, in hotels like the Scanda, for a lounge, and ordered some coffee. The girl who brought it looked at me in a worried kind of way when I mentioned Alsa's name, and said that I should talk to the manager. The proffered kroner were accepted but unproductive. Simple enough; the staff weren't talking and my problem was clear: it was no good being unofficial. I went to reception and asked to see the manager.

His name was Pederson and he was as neutrally modern as his hotel: a medium-sized Swede, the darker side of fair, with the kind of bland, smooth public face which kept his difficulties decently out of sight.

'How may I help you, Mr Sellers?' He'd come to the counter.

I said, 'Do you mind if we use your office?'

'Is it necessary?"

'I want to talk about Miss Hay, Alison Hay.'

'Ah. Of course. This way, please.' He had my registration slip in his hand and glanced at it quickly. I'd left the Business or Profession space blank.

He sat me in an angular chair upholstered in French mustard, then sat formally behind his desk, instead of taking my chair's partner. 'May I ask who you are?'

'I'm a friend of Miss Hay's.'

'A journalist?'

'As it happens, yes. But I'm not here as a journalist.'

"You have some authorization?' he asked carefully.

'Do I need any?'