(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  What was serious was the empty chair next to his own. This was to have been occupied by Mr. Andrew Craig. Never, in the long history of the awards, had a laureate who had come to Stockholm failed to appear at the Ceremony. If Craig did not appear, it would become a national insult and an international scandal. The empty laureate chair became Gargantuan. Jacobsson gave silent thanks that the programme was a long one, so that the chair might yet be filled.

  Suddenly, Jacobsson realized that the opening moment of the Ceremony was upon them. He rose to his feet and walked to the lectern where his salutatory oration lay waiting. He made his reverence to his King, and then gazed out at the audience. Could one of them know what was really in his head? Krantz was in his head. And Andrew Craig.

  Krantz led the way, and Craig followed, until they arrived at the prow of a rakish, V-bottom cabin cruiser. It rolled evenly in its canal berth, and Craig, inspecting the white oak hull and mahogany planking and raised pilothouse in the semi-darkness, judged it to be a forty-four-foot job with 110-horse-power-engines.

  ‘You go first,’ said Craig.

  Gingerly, Krantz boarded the craft amidships, letting himself down the two steps to the white pine deck. Quickly, Craig was at his heels.

  Before they could move farther, there were soft, hastening footsteps, and out of the night loomed a glowering, blond, athletic Swedish young man, attired in a navy-blue pea jacket and dungarees and white tennis shoes. His right hand was in his pocket. He recognized Krantz at once, and acknowledged him, and then glanced coldly at Craig.

  Krantz spoke hastily, but with authority, in Swedish. The young man listened, then replied, also in Swedish, almost inaudibly.

  Krantz turned. ‘It is all right,’ he said to Craig, ‘but he insists on searching you.’

  Craig shrugged. ‘He’s wasting his time, but let him go ahead.’ Dutifully, he lifted his arms, and with expert speed the young Swede patted Craig’s chest, hips, his coat pockets, and the pockets of his trousers.

  Craig lowered his arms with satisfaction, as young Swede addressed Krantz in Swedish.

  Krantz said, ‘We can go ahead.’

  As they went on, Craig noticed that the young Swede was watching them, and that behind him, indistinct in the darkness, a taller figure had appeared.

  ‘How many of them are there?’ Craig inquired in an undertone.

  ‘Two.’

  Crossing the deck, Craig noticed that the superstructure of the cruiser was polished natural mahogany. He speculated on the ownership of the expensive vessel, but decided that it did not matter. They reached the companionway. As they went below deck, Craig was aware of the nautical smells; burnished brass fittings and glazed mahogany trim, scrubbed decks and fresh paint, gasoline and oil, and the stimulating fragrance of salt water from the Baltic.

  The corridor below was claustrophobic.

  ‘Where are they?’ Craig wanted to know.

  ‘Walther Stratman is in the main stateroom. Miss Stratman is resting in the little bedroom adjoining it.’

  ‘Let me see her first.’

  Krantz, scrambling to oblige after his complete surrender, guided Craig past a locker, past the galley with its four-burner stove, to the gleaming knob of the bedroom door. ‘In here,’ said Krantz.

  ‘How do you know she’s in there?’

  ‘They sedated her,’ said Krantz reluctantly. ‘The shock of seeing her father was so great, she fainted. They gave her something to quieten her down and let her rest.’

  ‘All right, let me see her.’

  They went inside.

  The bedroom gave the impression of an elongated, well-lit wardrobe, furnished with a chair, bed-stand, and single bed, and no more.

  Emily lay curled on the bed, beneath a small oblong window that passed for a porthole, her back to the door. Because the heater was on, and the confined bedroom warm, she had pushed the thin white cotton sheet that covered her off her shoulders and down to her hips. She was attired in a light grey sweater and blue skirt, and the two pieces had separated, so that the curved ridge of her spine and a portion of her bare back and the elastic waistband of her pink panties showed. Her pumps were at the foot of the bed, and her heavy coat placed neatly on the chair.

  Listening, Craig could hear her shallow breathing. Eckart’s promise was confirmed: she was alive and apparently unharmed.

  ‘You see,’ Krantz was saying eagerly, ‘nothing is wrong.’

  ‘No, not much,’ Craig said, ironically.

  ‘You wait a moment,’ Krantz said. ‘I must go to the next room and explain to Walther Stratman.’

  There was a door to the left. Krantz went to it and disappeared.

  Alone with Emily, Craig quickly joined her, kneeling beside the bed. She had turned on her back, and now her hands were folded across her bosom. He took one hand, loosening it from the other, and his fingers felt her pulse at the wrist. The count was normal. He released her wrist, and then, gently, he shook her shoulder. At first she did not respond, and then she stirred, and he caressed her shoulder, and then, at last, she awakened.

  Her head came around on the pillow, eyes sleepy, features reflecting confusion.

  She recognized him. ‘Andrew—’

  ‘Yes, darling, I’m here.’

  Her gaze shifted to the ceiling of the bedroom, then took in the rest of her surroundings. When she found her voice, it was caught low in her throat and thick. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Still in Stockholm. You were brought to your father.’

  ‘I remember—some of it—’

  ‘Are you all right? Did they hurt you?’

  She tried to think, but her mind and its answers were halting. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Only the shock and the—’ Her eyes met Craig’s. ‘Where is Uncle Max?’

  ‘He’s fine, better than ever. He’s probably at the Ceremony now.’

  ‘I—I forgot—I’m mixed up.’

  ‘Rest.’

  ‘Andrew—why are you here? How did you—?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll tell you later.’ He studied her. ‘You’re sure they did nothing to you beyond the shot?’

  ‘No, they—yes, I’m sure—nothing. Papa was so kind.’

  ‘Good.’ He stood up. ‘Try to sleep again, let the drug wear off. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Emily. You’re in the bedroom of a motor cruiser—’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘—and you’re safe now. I have to take care of something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  ‘But Uncle Max—Papa—what will—?’

  He placed a finger on her dry lips. ‘It’ll work out. Now—sleep.’

  When he withdrew his hand, her eyes were closed. With love, he remained standing over the innocent face, so much now a part of him, and when the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts beneath the sweater told him that she was soundly asleep, he left her.

  The door behind him had been softly opened, and the diminutive physicist, holding his top hat, gestured with it for Craig to come into the other room.

  As Craig approached, Krantz said, ‘I have explained everything. Professor Walther Stratman will see you now.’

  Craig hung back for a second, trying to organize his thinking. He had struggled hard for this meeting, and now that it was here, he had no idea what he would say. He knew what he had intended to say, but at once it seemed less possible. All that he was positive of was that the meeting was in some way necessary and critically important. But then, as he started towards Krantz, he wondered: important for the sake of Emily and Walther and Max Stratman, or important, selfishly, for himself?

  He passed before Krantz into the main stateroom.

  It was a good-sized room, luxuriously furnished with a wardrobe that had sliding doors, a dresser, a blond Swedish desk, a lavatory on the starboard side, and a brightly covered cot. Drawn up to the cot was a small round table, and behind the table, seated on the cot, was the hunched figure of a red-faced, big-headed el
derly man with thin white hair neatly combed. He was in shirt-sleeves with old-fashioned armbands, the shirt striped, its collar open, with the stringy maroon tie knot drawn down. When he stood, bones cracking, his trousers, open at the belt, became baggier.

  Krantz had guided Craig to him. ‘Professor Walther Stratman, this is Mr. Andrew Craig.’

  Walther’s left hand held a half-filled glass, but his heavily veined right hand was extended. ‘So you are the formidable Nobel winner from America. I am proud to meet you.’

  Craig shook hands awkwardly. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, sir.’ He could see nothing of Emily in this weak old man with the prominent nose. Rebecca, he thought. Emily must the image of her mother Rebecca.

  ‘Draw a chair, sit down with me,’ Walther was saying, as he settled on the cot once more. He held up his glass—too rapidly, for some of the drink splashed and spilled on his trousers, and Craig, seasoned in such matters, guessed it was not his first drink—and then he pointed to the bottle on the table.

  ‘I am celebrating my freedom,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Vodka. Not so potent as what I have known in captivity, but it will do. Have some, Mr. Craig—a little sunshine for the stomach, as my Russian friends like to say.’

  For some reason that he could not fathom, Craig was perturbed by the sight of the alcohol and the idea of drinking at a time as critical as this. Then, out of fairness, searching himself further, he realized that his disturbed reaction was based on his personal guilt. In his own life, there had been so many times of crisis in recent years, and he had always avoided them by burying his head in a bottle. Now, with more sympathy for Walther, he had the urge to warn the old man of the consequences of this weakness—like all reformed drunks, he told himself—and at once he felt easier and more understanding.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Craig said to Walther. ‘I’m saving myself for the Nobel party tonight.’

  ‘Umm, party, yes.’ Walther looked up. ‘Dr. Krantz, do give our visitor a chair.’

  Krantz obliged instantly, and then melted into the bench at the dresser and occupied himself with a metal puzzle, pretending not to listen.

  As Craig took his place across from Walther, the old man swallowed his drink, hiccuped, and said loudly, ‘So—it is a pleasure to meet the good friend of my brother and the suitor of my only child.’

  Something about this dismayed Craig slightly. Perhaps it was Walther’s unexpected exuberance. He had envisioned meeting a beaten and hollow derelict of a man, a slave and sufferer, one long yoked and broken by the Soviets, and instead he found himself confronting a hale and boisterous hostage. Craig realized that the façade of weakness he saw was one he had built in his own mind and imposed upon Walther. It had no reality. Craig felt cheated.

  ‘I’m not really a good friend of your brother’s,’ he found himself saying, ‘but I would like to be. We’ve only met here in Stockholm.’

  ‘But my daughter—ah, you will not deny that.’ Walther Stratman winked, and poured himself a new vodka.

  ‘No, I will not deny that, sir. I’m extremely fond of her.’

  ‘And she—what does she say to this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Walther grinned in a conspiracy of his making. Two gold teeth shone. ‘Well, we shall see. Once we are all in America—we shall see—you will have a friend in court.’

  Walther’s reference to America dismayed Craig further. It anticipated and smashed his line of attack before he could launch it. He was left without an alternative plan.

  ‘—extremely pleased with her,’ he heard Walther saying. ‘She has developed as I hoped on that day we were torn apart. She is the pride of my old age.’

  Craig nodded. ‘Yes, I agree. Max has done a wonderful job.’

  Walther’s head came up from his glass. ‘Max, you say?’ He was about to make some comment, but appeared to recall it and alter it. ‘Max has done well, yes. But I hold heredity more dominant than environment. So—you will give me some of the credit?’

  ‘I certainly will, sir.’ Craig paused, and determined not to continue in this fashion. He must make clear the object of his visit. ‘You must have been extremely surprised to be brought here from Moscow—’

  ‘Leningrad.’

  ‘—from Leningrad, on such short notice.’

  ‘I was,’ agreed Walther. He stared at Craig, and at once his eyes filled and filmed, and his lower lip worked. ‘I had long ago given up hope of seeing Emily again. Or freedom, for that matter. I thought I would live out my years and die in that hell.’ He was thoughtful and sadder for quiet seconds. ‘How often, how constantly, my mind would go back to the happier days before the war, and then the miserable days when Max and I worked for the Nazis to keep Rebecca and Emily alive in Ravensbruck. Still, in the war days, there was always hope. But once the war was ended, all hope ended—there could be no hope. The decision I made, that night in 1945, to let Max go free—escape to the Americans, in my place—was both calculated and emotional. It was calculated because, at that time, Max was further advanced in his work than I was, and I knew he would offer more to the cause we both believed in. It was emotional, because Max was my younger brother, and I felt it my duty to see that he survived. After that, when the Russians had me, I thought they would punish me with death since they suspected I had aided Max. But then they had my records, and decided I would be more useful alive. They are a most pragmatical race, the Russians, with no emotional foolishness or waste as in America.’ Walther sipped his drink. ‘They sent me seventy miles away from Moscow to the place called Dubna, where they have their Nuclear Research Institute. It was their intention that I resume nuclear work, but then, in examining me, they learned of an early scientific paper on the bubonic plague that I had once published, and they demanded that I become a member of their biological warfare research unit under Dr. Viktor Glinko. I found this abhorrent, and at first I refused. I pleaded that I was a physicist, not a bacteriologist. I told them I had only an amateur’s knowledge of bacteriology. They would not be put off. They said that I knew enough already, and that I would be taught mo re while I worked. I saw that I had no choice, so reluctantly I entered the project. During our first test, there was a tremendous accident, a blast, a fire, in the adjoining nuclear plant. Many on our project were killed or maimed. I was fortunate enough—as it turns out now—to survive. While I was hospitalized, the B.W. project was reactivated with greater funds. Once more, I saw that I would have to participate, but this time, shrewdly, I bargained with them. I agreed to do this work—co-operate, I said—if they, in turn, would bring me some news of Rebecca and Emily, my links to sanity. The Russians obliged, and I then co-operated, and have been forced to do the work ever since—despite my hatred of it—under the name of Dr. Lipski. The name was given me in the hospital, when we made our bargain—a political nonsense—so that those in the Western world, who knew of my old paper, could not put two and two together, and deduct that experiments were being made to develop a mutant type of disease.’ He stopped, and fell to reflecting on what had happened, and then he swallowed his vodka. ‘So—I have served my sentence, and here I am.’

  ‘Did you know exactly why you were being flown to Stockholm?’ Craig inquired.

  ‘Yes, yes, it was all made clear.’

  ‘The trade for your brother?’

  ‘Of course. It is not a happy condition, but in some ways reasonable enough.’ Then he added defensively, ‘Max has had his milk and honey, thanks to me. Now it is my turn. I look forward with all my heart to this new freedom. I feel exactly like Edmond Dantès when he replaced the corpse of the Abbé Faria, and acquired freedom from the Château d’If and the riches of Monte Cristo. You understand?’

  Craig felt traitorous to this old man, who did not know the purpose that had brought Craig to this stateroom. ‘I understand,’ said Craig. ‘Still, it must be difficult for you. I mean, you’ve been through enslavement, and now you know what you are sending your own brother into.’

  The blotches on Walthe
r’s cheeks seemed to deepen. ‘It is not so bad as all that,’ he said loudly. ‘Do not be deceived by propaganda. Do not be victimized by the reactionary press of the Morgans and Rockefellers. Max will be treated well in Russia.’

  ‘In East Germany, Walther,’ Krantz’s voice piped from the rear.

  ‘Yes, East Germany,’ agreed Walther. He faced Craig again. ‘But to return to the situation in the Soviet Union a moment. Our family lives well in Leningrad.’

  ‘Your family?’

  Walther blinked at Craig. ‘That is what I said—our family of German scientists. They respect us as America or England would not. We are the élite.’

  A prick of annoyance—unfair, after all this old man had been through—urged Craig to a defence. ‘Scientists are as well respected in the United States. Your brother is a prime example.’

  ‘An exception—an exception,’ insisted Walther. ‘Izvestia ran a series of articles on the life of your scientists in America. It was enough to curl my hair.’ Suddenly, he laughed. ‘Or it would have, if I had had more hair.’ Then his face became solemn. ‘No, young man, I am not worried for Max. He may have more wealth and luxury in your country. But he does not have the proper respect and honours. In Leningrad, he will—’

  ‘In East Berlin. He is coming to East Berlin,’ Krantz interrupted frantically.

  Walther glowered at Krantz. ‘Stop with that sham, Dr. Krantz. East Berlin—Leningrad—Moscow—it is all as one for the Germans, and you know it.’ Walther returned his attention to Craig. ‘You see, I am not interested in artifices. Max is a Nobel winner today. He will have his free dacha, his free laboratory, his student apprentices, his preferred treatment from the Presidium, his place and extra roubles in the Academy of Sciences. If I know Max, he will love it, the fussing, to be treated like a Czar. And the work—it will not tax him—some solar experiments if he wishes—if not, they will use him as an academic showcase in Berlin, to attract the young ones. I have no guilts, Mr. Craig. I am not sending my brother to a Devil’s Island or Alcatraz. It is a small price for the debt he owes me, to know I will be with my daughter again. And we can both be satisfied Max will be thriving, yes thriving.’