Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) (22 page)

He swallowed two with the aid of a glass of water, went back into the sitting-room, sat down by the window and waited.

It was just after seven-fifteen and Deville was making coffee in the kitchen of the flat in Upper Grosvenor Street when the doorbell rang. He poised, instantly alert and moved to the kitchen door, still holding the can of coffee beans in one hand, a spoon in the other.

The bell rang again. Obviously not Mikali. He would have his key, unless he'd forgotten it, but it was unlikely that he'd put in an appearance at this hour so close to the concert. It could, of course, be Katherine Riley, but it occurred to Deville that she would be more than likely to have a key of her own.

He decided to let it go and in the same moment, a key rattled in the lock, the door opened and Ferguson entered. Deville was aware of Baker standing behind him, a lock pick in one hand.

Ferguson said, 'Thank you, Superintendent. You can wait downstairs. We shan't be long.'

He wore a greatcoat of the type favoured by officers of the Household Brigade and his umbrella was damp with rain. He leaned it against a chair.

'Shocking weather for the time of year.' He smiled faintly. 'You know me, I think.'

Deville, familiar with the faces of every important Intelligence chief in the Western world for his entire career, nodded gravely.
So it had come, he thought, after twenty-five years. The moment that had always been possible. The moment they came through the door for him when least expected.

There was a golden lion fob on the watch chain that stretched from one pocket of his waistcoat to the other. He touched it casually, feeling for the catch.

Ferguson said, 'Is that where you keep it, the cyanide capsule? How very old-fashioned. They used to issue them to us during the war. I always threw mine away. Supposed to be quick, but I was once in the presence of an SS general who took one and didn't stop screaming for the next twenty minutes. Beastly way to go.'

He walked to the sideboard, took the stopper out of the whisky decanter and sniffed. He nodded his approval and poured himself one.

Deville said, 'What would you suggest?'

Ferguson moved to the window and peered down into the rain-filled street. 'Well, you could try something desperately heroic like making a run for it, but let's say you managed to make the Soviet Embassy and they shipped you home. I don't think they'd be too pleased with you. You see, at the end of the day, you've failed and I've always understood they're not too keen on that. Of course, they do have a civilized attitude towards capital punishment. They don't hang people. They send them to the Gulag instead which, if Solzhenitsyn is to be believed, is not a particularly pleasant place. On the other hand, Moscow has always asserted his works to be vicious Western propaganda.'

'And the alternative?' Deville asked.

'The French - you are a French citizen, are you not, Maitre Deville? - would have the right to demand your extradition and their Intelligence people have been highly sensitive about Russian agents since the Sapphire affair in 'sixty-eight and the suggestion that they had been penetrated by the KGB. You would undoubtedly be handed over to Service Five and they really are very old-fashioned when it comes to squeezing information out of people. They still believe in the power of electricity, I hear, especially when wired to various portions of some unfortunate individual's anatomy.'

'And you?' Deville said. 'What would you have to offer?'

'Oh, death, of course,' Ferguson said cheerfully. 'We'll think of something. Car accidents are always good, especially when there's a fire. It makes the identification usually a matter of what's in the pockets.'

'And afterwards?'

'Peace, anonymity, a quiet life. Plastic surgery can do wonders.'

'In return for the right kind of information?'

Ferguson went to the decanter and poured himself another whisky, then he turned, sitting on the edge of the table.

'In nineteen forty-three, when I was with SOE and working with the French underground, I found myself, thanks to an informer, in the hands of the Gestapo in Paris in their old headquarters in the Rue de Saussaies at the back of the Ministry of the Interior. They still believed in rubber hoses then. Very unpleasant.'

'You escaped?'

'From a train on the way to Sachsenhausen concentration camp, but it's an old story.' He walked to the window and peered down into the street again. 'It was simpler then. We knew where we were. What we were fighting for. But now...'

There was a lengthy silence before he said without turning round, 'Of course, there's still the cyanide capsule.'

'You give me a choice?'

'British sense of fair play, old man. I was a prefect at Winchester, you see.'

He turned and found Deville holding out his right hand, the small black capsule in the centre of the palm. 'I don't think so, thank you very much.'

'Excellent.' Ferguson took it from him gingerly. 'Nasty tilings.' He dropped it on the parquet floor and ground his heel into it.

'What now?' Deville asked.

'Oh, a little good music, I think,' Ferguson said. 'You'd like that. I hear John Mikali's playing Rachmaninov's Fourth at the Albert Hall tonight. Something of an occasion.'

'I'm sure it will be.' Deville pulled on his dark overcoat, took his black Homburg from the stand by the door and picked up his silver-headed walking stick.

'One thing,' Ferguson said. 'Just to settle my idle curiosity. KGB or GRU?'

'GRU,' Deville said. 'Colonel Nikolay Ashimov.'

The name sounded strange on his tongue. Ferguson smiled. 'Just as I thought. I told Morgan I thought you had too much style to be KGB. Shall we go?'

He opened the door, standing courteously to one side and Deville led the way out.

And at that moment, Katherine Riley, proceeding in heavy traffic and driving rain along the North Circular Road, swung the wheel of her MGB sports car into a side street and braked to a halt.

She switched off the engine and sat there for a moment, aware of the beating of her own heart, hands gripping the wheel tightly. Finally, the breath went out of her in a long sigh. There was only one place in the world she wanted to go now and it certainly wasn't Cambridge.

She started the engine, drove to the end of the street and turned back towards central London.

15

In the Green Room behind the stage at the Albert Hall, Mikali stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his white tie. Then he opened his dressing case, removed the false base revealing the Burns and Martin spring holster containing the Ceska. He clipped the holster to his belt at the small of his back, then put on his elegant black tailcoat with a white carnation in the buttonhole.

On stage, the orchestra was coming into the closing stages of Haydn's Symphony No. 101 in D Major, known to concertgoers the world over as
The Clock.

He opened the door and went out into the passage. The stage manager was standing at the end of the Bull-run, the sloping gangway that was the artist's entrance to the stage. He moved a little way along until he could see Previn on the conductor's stand and beyond him, at stage left, the Loggia box on the very end of the curve, that he had reserved for Katherine Riley. There was no sign of her or of Deville.

His disappointment was acute and he went back into the Green Room at once, found a coin and dialled the flat, using the pay phone on the wall. He allowed the phone to ring for a full minute at the other end, then replaced the receiver and tried again with the same lack of success.

'Come on, Katherine,' he said in a low voice. 'Where in the hell are you?'

The door opened and the stage manager looked in. 'Ten minutes, Mr Mikali. Right old crowd out there tonight, I can tell you.'

Mikali smiled brightly. 'I can't wait.'

'Cup of tea, sir?'

'My one weakness, Brian, you know that.'

The stage manager went out and Mikali lit a cigarette and smoked it furiously, pacing up and down. He stopped abruptly, stubbed out the cigarette and sat at the old upright Chappell piano against the wall, flexed his fingers and started to run through a series of scales.

The only thing which interested the driver of the police car parked outside Morgan's flat was the colour of the small Mini van which drew up. Bright yellow.
The Flower Basket
-
Interflora - 24 Hour Delivery Service.

The driver was wearing a cloth cap and a heavy oilskin coat the colour of the van, the collar turned up against the rain. He produced a large gift-wrapped bouquet, ran up the steps and went inside.

The first thing Morgan saw when he opened the door was the bouquet of flowers and then the figure in the yellow oilskin coat moved past him into the flat.

He closed the door and turned to discover that it was, in fact, a very attractive young woman which only became apparent when she took off the cloth cap.

'And who in the hell might you be?' he said as she unbuttoned the oilskin coat.

'Amy Kelso, Colonel. I've grown some since you last saw me, but we haven't time for conversation. Please put the coat and cap on. You'll find a yellow Mini van at the entrance. Get in and drive round to Park Street. My father's waiting there in a white Ford Cortina.'

'But what about you?' he demanded as he pulled on the oilskin.

'Just leave the Mini in Park Street. I'll pick it up within five minutes. Get moving, Colonel, please!'

Morgan hesitated, then pulled on the cloth cap, picked up a holdall and moved to the door.

'And keep your collar up.'

The door closed behind him. Underneath the oilskin she had been wearing a light town raincoat. Now, her hands went to the hair piled high on top of her head. She withdrew the pins quickly and then combed it down shoulder-length.

A couple of minutes after the Mini van had driven away, the driver of the police car saw Amy Kelso emerge from the entrance. She paused, looking out at the rain, then went down the steps and hurried away.

He watched her go with frank admiration, turn the corner and move out of sight. He would not have been so pleased if he could have seen her reach the yellow Mini van in Park Street, slip behind the wheel and drive away.

When Katherine Riley hurried through the glass portico and went into the foyer at the front of the Albert Hall, the first person she saw was Harry Baker talking to two uniformed police officers. He saw her at once and cut her off in a few quick strides as she made for the box office.

'Now then, Doctor, what's all this?'

'There's a ticket waiting for me.'

He shook his head, took her by the elbow and propelled her firmly outside again. An anonymous-looking van was standing in the small official car park, the Special Branch headquarters for the operation. Ferguson's car was parked beside it. He was seated in the rear with Deville.

The Brigadier opened the door and got out. 'What happened to Cambridge?'

'I changed my mind,' she said. 'I decided I wanted to hear him play again.'

'And that's all? No foolish ideas...?'

'Of what, Brigadier? Warning him? And where could he go?'

'True.' Ferguson nodded.

She looked beyond him at the Frenchman. 'You, too, Monsieur Deville?'

'So it would appear, Mademoiselle.'

She looked again at Ferguson. 'May I go now?'

'Yes, you can go, Doctor. You deserve your last act if anyone does.'

She turned and hurried back to the entrance. Ferguson leaned into the car. 'He should be starting at any moment. Would you like to go in now, Maitre?'

Deville shook his head. 'Not really, Brigadier. You see, strange as it may seem in the circumstances, the piano, as an instrument, has never appealed to me.'

In the Green Room, Mikali adjusted his tie in the mirror while Previn waited by the door. There was a knock and the stage manager looked in.

'Ready, gentlemen.'

Previn smiled and held out his hand. 'Good luck, John.'

Mikali stretched his arms wide. 'Who needs it? To the great Mikali, all things are possible.'

The Albert Hall was packed from floor to ceiling and besides the second-tier boxes, the Loggia, the Balcony, the Stalls, there were fifteen hundred Promenaders, many in the Gallery, the bulk packed into the Arena in front of the stage, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, crowded against the rail, mainly young people and students in fancy dress, the common tradition on this, the last night of the Proms.

And when Previn led the way out on to the stage followed by Mikali, the roar was like nothing Mikali had ever known, sending the blood racing through his veins, filling him with excitement and emotion.

He stood there, bowing again and again and Previn was laughing, applauding also and then Mikali turned and glanced up to the Loggia box on the end of the curve just across from the stage and saw Katherine Riley sitting there.

He threaded his way through the orchestra, plucked the carnation from his buttonhole and tossed it up to her.

She caught the carnation, held it, staring down at him as in a dream, then kissed it and threw it back to him. Mikali replaced it in his buttonhole and blew her a kiss in return. The Promenaders howled their delight as he went to the piano and sat down.

All noise in the hall faded. There was total silence. Previn, as was commonly the case, preferred to conduct a concerto from the stage itself and stood very close to the piano.

He half-turned to Mikali, face serious now. The baton descended and as the orchestra began to play, Mikali's fingers fused with the keyboard.

Kelso turned the Cortina into Prince Consort Road and pulled in at the kerb. He kept the engine running and turned to Morgan.

'Anything more I can do, Colonel?'

'Forget you ever saw me if you know what's good for you.'

'That'll be the day,' Kelso told him.

Morgan, who was wearing an old trenchcoat and tweed cap provided by the sergeant-major, got out and leaned down at the window.

'Thanks, Jock. Now,
get
the hell out of here.'

The Cortina drove rapidly away and Morgan raised the collar of his coat against the rain and moved towards the back of the Hall. He paused by the Prince Consort's statue and looked across at the rear entrance. There were three uniform police standing there at the bottom of the steps. In fact, at least one on duty at every other door he could see, caps glistening in the rain.

At that moment, a truck came round the corner and pulled up outside the artists' entrance. It carried the name of one of the best-known breweries in London on the side panel. As Morgan watched, three or four porters came out wearing caps and coats against the rain and started to unload crates of beer while the two policemen on duty at that door looked on.

Morgan darted across the road and stood in the shadows at the side of the vehicle, waiting for an appropriate moment. The two young policemen had their heads together, laughing. A porter came out, picked up a crate and turned back inside. Morgan, without hesitation, moved round the tailboard, picked up the next crate, hoisted it on to his shoulder and made straight for the door.

There was a burst of laughter from the policemen, but it was already behind him. He passed the stage-doorkeeper's office on his left, turned right into the corridor and kept going, aware of the porter a few yards ahead of him, obviously making for one of the bars.

He came to an open door on his right giving access to a staircase. He moved through quickly, dumped the crate in the shadows and mounted to the next landing.

He could hear the orchestra very clearly now and the piano, somewhere close at hand, and emerged on to one of the long curved corridors so typical of the Albert Hall. There was a door marked
Exit
opposite. He opened it, stepped inside and found himself at the head of the gangway leading down to the stairs and the Arena at the left-hand side of the stage. And there, at last, was John Mikali.

Mikali, close to the end of the final movement, was waiting, flexing his fingers as the orchestra carried the theme through, breathing deeply, priming himself for the enormous physical effort that would be required in the final moments.

He looked up at Andre Previn, watching him closely, waiting, and in the same moment saw, beyond the conductor, the exit door at the top of the gangway open and Asa Morgan step through.

The shock was so enormous that, for a moment, he sat there as if turned to stone. Katherine Riley, who had been watching him closely, followed his gaze, but Morgan had already stepped back through the door and disappeared.

My God, Mikali thought. He's alive. The bastard actually managed to survive and now, he's come for me.
A line from the
Bushido
flashed through his mind.
No deeper loneliness than the Samurai's. None but the tiger's in the jungle perhaps.

He was not afraid, but filled with a fierce joy, a kind of exultation. As Previn nodded sharply, Mikali plunged into the dramatic finale of the concerto which of all in his extensive repertoire, he had made peculiarly his own, playing as he had never played in his life before.

And at the end, there was a roar from the audience such as he had never heard in his entire musical career. They were all applauding. The orchestra, Previn, the Promenaders pressed up against the rail, reaching towards him. He looked up at the Loggia box, saw Katherine Riley standing there, gripping the rail, staring down at him, then Previn had him by the elbow and was pushing him down the Bullrun.

The stage manager was standing outside the Green Room, a glass of champagne in each hand.

'I've never heard anything like it,' he said as the noise increased, the Promenaders starting to chant Mikali's name.

Mikali swallowed warm champagne and grinned lightly. 'Was I good, Maestro, or only in places?'

Previn, obviously greatly moved, toasted him. 'My dear friend, occasionally life has its great moments. Tonight was very definitely one of them. I thank you.'

Mikali smiled and drank some more champagne, looking beyond him to the end of the passage where it joined the main corridor and thought of Morgan, at large in this old rabbit warren of a building, probably waiting just out there in the shadows.

And at that confrontation in the villa at Hydra he'd said he wanted Mikali for himself. No reason to think any different now. Nothing, after all, had changed.

The roaring grew more insistent. Previn said, 'Come on, John, if we don't go back they'll invade the stage.'

When they emerged again, the crowd began to chant, 'Mikali! Mikali!' and flowers started to sail over, university scarves, hats. The entire audience was standing now, applauding. Thanking him for allowing them to share a unique experience.

He nodded, smiling, waving both hands, blowing a kiss up to Katherine Riley and all he could think of was that there was only one way off the stage, which was straight down the Bullrun to the corridor beyond where Morgan would be waiting - had to be.

And then it occurred to him that that wasn't quite true. He turned and shook hands with the First Violin, moved past him and close to the rail. Below, twelve feet down, was the gangway leading to the Arena corridor.

He leaned forward, waving to the front line of Promenaders. 'You're really too much,' he called. 'Too beautiful for words. I don't think I can take any more.'