‘Curious? In what way?’
‘The first Russian inquiry was fairly routine. It requested to know if a Mrs. Rebecca Stratman or a Miss Emily Stratman had been found alive in any labour-camp under American, British, or French jurisdiction. I say this was routine because there were many similar inquiries from the Russians to the West and vice-versa. The second letter was a reply that Mrs. Rebecca Stratman had been-been sent-transferred to Auschwitz and been liquidated, and that Miss Emily Stratman had been found alive in Buchenwald and was being treated nearby. Now, there was a third letter in the dossier, a second inquiry from the Russians, specifically asking to see the reports of Miss Stratman’s psychiatrist. This request was denied-as being highly personal and confidential-unless the Russians would explain who was making the request and for what reasons. Immediately, the Russians fulfilled this demand by explaining that their inquiry for the psychiatric report had come from a high medical official in the U.S.S.R., that his name was Dr. Kurt Lipski, and that his interest was personal. Upon receiving this, the American army psychiatrist had apparently gone to Emily Stratman and asked her if Dr. Kurt Lipski was a relation or friend or if she knew of him at all. She had never heard the name before, and so the Russian request for the psychiatric report was rejected. That was the final letter of the batch.’
‘And from this evidence Eckart decided that Lipski was Emily’s father?’
‘He was not certain. He had a suspicion. He reasoned, as he told me, that such interest in one specific young girl, a nonentity, could only come from a close relation. Also, this relation must be important, or the Russians would not have bothered. This tallied with Walther Stratman’s relationship to Emily and his importance to the Russians. This morning, when Walther arrived, he confirmed Dr. Eckart’s guess. When the Russians captured Walther in 1945, and tried to exploit his bacterial speciality, he refused to co-operate unless they helped him learn what had happened to his wife and daughter. And so, to pamper him, they undertook the correspondence that Daranyi found. In any case, once Dr. Eckart realized that Lipski might be Walther, he began to compare dates. He learned that the Lipski inquiries were made well after Walther was supposed to have been missing or died. If Lipski and Walther Stratman were one, then Dr. Eckart told himself that this person must be alive today-and, if he was alive, he would be useful as a hostage to be traded for Professor Stratman. Immediately, Eckart consulted General Alexei Vasilkov, at the Russian Embassy here in Stockholm, and Vasilkov expedited contact with Moscow. There it was seen at once that Professor Max Stratman would be more valuable than his brother, and so the brother was flown overnight to this city.’
Krantz paused, and glanced at Craig. ‘You see, I have told you all I know. I want to be co-operative. You will make a mistake to associate me, in your mind, with the Russians.’
‘You were willing to do anything to go to East Berlin and work,’ said Craig dryly.
Krantz bridled. ‘That is Germany,’ he said, ‘the old Germany I have loved. That is not Russia.’
They were midway across the Västerbron, snowbanks on either side, and the traffic began to move again, tyres grinding and slithering on the slippery bridge.
‘How far to go?’ Craig wanted to know.
‘Let me see.’ Krantz peered outside. ‘Not so far. That island right below us, on my side-Långholmen Park-and behind the hilly part is Pålsundet.’
Craig felt the invisible band tighten across his chest. ‘Krantz, if anything has gone wrong-’
‘Nothing is wrong. We are almost there.’
Craig’s nerves were raw with strain. He edged forward in his seat, leaning towards the dashboard, as they began to slow at the end of the bridge which ran into the intersection of Långholmsgatan and Söder Mälarstrand. The traffic light was flickering from green to red.
They came to a full halt at the intersection, beneath Christmas lights and stars strung high above them. The headlights of home-going cars crisscrossed before them. The comfortable familiarity of the scene, cars carrying men to their families, to wives and children awaiting them in heated living-rooms, with steaming food in dining-rooms, enveloped Craig and heightened his sense of fantasy. Before him paraded the happy, relaxed, workaday world of ordinary living people. And here sat he, ready to meet a ghost.
‘This is Pålsundet,’ he heard Krantz say.
‘Where?’
‘A block to the left.’
‘Where are they?’
‘You will see shortly. We will park on Söder Mälarstrand.’
The light had changed. Krantz drove the car forward, slowed, and then swung sharply to the left. They hugged to the outer left lane, along the quay, cruising beneath the holiday lights.
‘We will put the car here,’ announced Krantz, easing the sleek sedan into an opening on the kerb.
They quickly left the car, and Krantz preceded Craig into the unlighted recesses of a public park, empty of all life but their own, crowded with weeping willows. They crunched across the hard, snow-damp soil, into lowering darkness, as they left behind the row of apartment houses, and festive lights, and traffic.
‘It is across this park and then down to the wharves,’ Krantz was saying. ‘The boat is moored-’
‘Keep moving,’ ordered Craig.
They went on through the trees, descending and slipping often, until they reached the canal and the first wharf.
‘We are near,’ said Krantz.
‘Which boat?’
Krantz pointed to a large cabin cruiser moored to the next wharf. ‘There,’ he said. His hand shook as he pointed. ‘Emily and Walther Stratman are in there.’
It was 4.57 in the afternoon.
Outside the Concert Hall, which was ablaze with festive lighting, in the vast market-place cleared of snow, several thousand Stockholmers, bundled against the weather, still stood waiting for a glimpse of late arrivals in their evening dress. There was civic pride in the air, and a spirit of lavish holiday fun, and for an hour, the mass of onlookers had been enjoying the smooth approach of Rolls-Royces, Cadillacs, Daimlers, Facel Vegas, and a dozen other foreign cars, many with Embassy and legation flags on the front fenders, and the native Saabs and Volvos, too, as they drew up before the stone steps of the auditorium, and discharged the men in formal coats and evening suits and the women in furs and long evening gowns.
A lesser crowd, but one more densely packed and contained by numerous police, had gathered at the side stage entrance on Oxtorgsgatan, where an illuminated ‘14’ projected above the arched door. Through this door, the King and royal entourage had passed to cheers and applause, and through this the new laureates, and the old, and the members of the prize-giving academies had also passed. A sign outside read TYSTNAD!-which mean silence, but which one and all knew was observed on only minor days when concerts and symphonies were given, while for tonight there was no silence but a mass extroversion of pleasure.
The side entrance led, through a bewildering warren of passages and staircases, to the roomy backstage area of Concert Hall. There now the participants in the final Ceremony had assembled, and were being hastily formed into lines by Count Bertil Jacobsson-the representatives of the Nobel committees to the left, the laureates and former laureates to the right.
Jacobsson bustled among the laureates, directing and advising, setting each in his position, according to protocol.
He had reached Denise and Claude Marceau, to remind them of their seating, but they were absorbed in conversation, Denise’s features earnest, Claude’s contrite. Denise was saying, ‘Oui, I have your word about this one-but what about the next one? Will I ever be able to trust-’ And Claude interrupted to divert her to their laboratory work that lay ahead. He was speaking of protein and glucose molecules when Jacobsson, embarrassed, backed off, and moved up the line.
He saw that Carlo Farelli and John Garrett were engaged in an animated colloquy, He wondered if he should disturb them, but before he could decide, he felt a hand on his elbow. Jacobsson turned to find Profess
or Max Stratman staring worriedly at him.
Jacobsson followed the physics laureate off to one side. ‘Count,’ Stratman was saying, ‘I have a concern. I have not seen my niece since this morning.’
‘Surely, she is in the audience.’
‘No, I think not. I had a note this afternoon from Mr. Craig that he was taking her out-where I do not know-and that they would meet us here for the Ceremony. But where is Mr. Craig?’
‘Why, I-’ Jacobsson cast about. He had not counted noses. He had assumed that all were present. But now, he could not find Craig. ‘He must be somewhere around.’
‘I have not seen him, Count.’
‘He will be here, of that you may be certain.’ Yet now Jacobsson was worried, too.
Before he could make further inquiries, the trumpets began sounding from beyond the partition.
Jacobsson was cued into feverish activity. He clapped his hands for attention. ‘Everyone, hear me! In your places-the trumpets-the King is entering-we will follow.’
In the gigantic auditorium of Concert Hall, like the building of a tidal wave, the 2,100 members of the audience, in the rear and side balconies above, in the rectangular first floor below, rose from their red-felt seats to honour the monarch of Sweden. The uniformed soldier and sailor were finishing their trumpet fanfare, and now they lowered their instruments and stood to attention.
The Royal March, and the pomp and pageantry, began.
One of the ten entry doors to the auditorium opened, and past a white pillar came the King from his private parlour, followed closely by the members of the royal family and palace household. The King took his place in the first orchestra row, off the centre aisle, facing the flower-bedecked stage with its lectern and microphones, its four rows of empty chairs, its flags bowed forward from poles between the four alcoves of classical statuary. The moment that the King sat, and his entourage settled into their seats, the 2,100 members of the audience also sat.
Immediately, the centre doors upstage swung wide, to the blast of trumpets, and through them, two by two, Nobel committee-men side by side with laureates paraded down to the platform. As the march swelled, committee-men taking chairs on one side, laureates on the other, the King rose to his feet-the rare occasion on which he stood first before his subjects and guests-because tonight he was greeting his equals, the royalty of intellect.
Jacobsson found his place on the stage nervously. Scanning the Concert Hall, there was much to please him. He did not even mind the four detestable television cameras, two on the podium and two in the balconies. Every seat in the assembly room was taken, and the formality of the attire was gratifying. In the loges above, reserved for relatives of the laureates, he could make out Mrs. Saralee Garrett next to Signora Margherita Farelli, and beside them Miss Leah Decker. One chair was empty, and then he remembered Miss Emily Stratman.
The stage itself glittered beneath fern plants and great arrangements of white chrysanthemums. Covertly, Jacobsson examined the rows of chairs. All were filled save two, and now he no longer needed to count noses. Across the long steps, covered by Oriental carpets, that led down from the rear stage door, among the stiff committee-men, one hole gaped at him. Dr. Carl Adolf Krantz, who was to introduce Professor Max Stratman, was missing. This was disagreeable, but not serious.
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 q
uickly 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-?’
The Prize Page 89
