Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  'So?'

  'After a while, Black September or the Red Brigade, or whatever, will hijack a British Airways plane one fine morning. The price for the return of the passengers and crew intact will be Mikali free and on his way to Libya or Cuba or somewhere similar.'

  'And you want to see him dead?'

  'When I'm ready.'

  'I could get in touch with Baker myself.'

  He shook his head. 'But you won't.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because you owe me, girl.' He touched his arm, then his shoulder and winced. 'I should be dead. That I'm not, is no thanks to you. And don't throw Jago at me. That was different and you know it.'

  She stood up instantly. 'All right, Asa. You go to hell in your own way.'

  'And you?'

  'I'll go back to London today. I'll carry on to Cambridge from there. I've had it. You and John Mikali, Asa. You deserve each other.'

  'And you won't phone Baker?'

  'No,' she said. 'Just go and play your bloody violent little games as far away from me as possible.'

  She walked away very rapidly. Morgan got up and watched her go, then he turned and went back to the farmhouse. Old George, still splitting logs, paused.

  'She has gone?'

  'Yes. What time is the next hydrofoil to the Piraeus?'

  'Ten-thirty. Impossible to catch it now in my boat.'

  'And the next?'

  'An hour after noon.'

  'Will you take me in?'

  'If that is what you want'

  Morgan walked to the farmhouse where Maria still sat sewing his jacket.

  'My shirt?'

  'On the line, drying in the sun. I have washed it for thee.' Her eyes squinted up at him from the leathery old face. 'But this, even my magic cannot put right.'

  She gave him his passport. Soaked by its immersion in the sea, it had buckled and twisted in the heat of the sun. When he tried to open it, it came apart in his hands.

  'Christ Jesus!' he said in Welsh. 'That's all I needed.'

  'Is this bad, boy?' she asked.

  'It could be, mother. It could alter everything. I'll just have to see.'

  At the villa, Katherine Riley had just finished packing when the phone rang. When she picked it up, Mikali's voice sounded in her ear.

  'Heh, you're still there. You should be here already.'

  'No problem,' she said. 'I'm leaving with Constantine now. We're using the speedboat. That means I'll catch the ten-thirty hydrofoil to the Piraeus. With any luck I should catch the one-thirty flight, our time.' Amazing how calm she felt. 'How are things going?'

  'Marvellous.' His enthusiasm was overflowing now. 'Previn's a genius - the best damned conductor I've ever worked with, but it's going to take most of today to get it right, angel. So, if I'm not around when you get in, don't worry. You've got your key. Just make sure you're in that box tonight.'

  The line went dead. She stood there for a moment, holding the receiver, then replaced it. When she turned Constantine stood just inside the door watching her. There was something in the face, in the dark eyes, as if he could see right through her. Knew everything. But that was nonsense.

  She indicated her two suitcases and picked up her raincoat. 'All right,' she said, 'I'm ready,' and went out of the door ahead of him.

  Deville, sheltering from the rain under a tree on the edge of Hyde Park beside Park Lane, watched Mikali running very fast from the direction of the Serpentine. He wore a black tracksuit, a single scarlet stripe down each leg. He came to a halt a few yards away and stood hands on hips, breathing easily.

  Deville said, 'You never let up, do you?'

  'You know what they say,' Mikali told him. 'Old habits and all that kind of rubbish.' He fell in beside him and they walked towards the road. 'So, you couldn't stay away after all? A good thing I reserved an additional seat in Katherine's box.'

  'She is here?' Deville asked.

  'On her way. I spoke to her in Hydra this morning. She was just leaving.'

  'So?' Deville nodded and went on calmly, 'Well, then, so that we may understand each other. I have not come to attend your concert, John. I have come for you.'

  Mikali paused, turning to face him, his hand sliding round to the butt of the Ceska in the Burns and Martin holder under his tracksuit tunic at the rear.

  Deville raised a hand defensively. 'No, my dear, dear friend, you mistake me.' He produced an envelope. 'Tickets for both of us. I've arranged an air-taxi to Paris, leaving Gatwick at eleven-fifteen. Ample time for you to make your appearance at the Albert Hall. I understand on the last night of the Proms, the concerto is played during the first half of the concert anyway.'

  'And afterwards?'

  'We arrive in Paris in time to make connections with an Aeroflot flight to Moscow. All taken care of. There was an item in Paris Soir today announcing that you intend to give a series of master classes to the Moscow Conservatoire.'

  Mikali stood, gazing out across Park Lane, then turned and looked down towards the Serpentine. He took a deep breath, lifted his face to the rain.

  'Marvellous,' he said. 'Early morning in London. Nothing quite like it. Unless you prefer the smell of those damp chestnut trees in Paris.' He put a hand on Deville's shoulder. 'Sorry, old buddy, but that's the way it is.'

  Deville shrugged. 'You have a whole day in which to change your mind.'

  'An entire day of rehearsals,' Mikali said. 'So I've got to get moving. If Previn's there before me he'll insist on making the tea. He always does and it's lousy.'

  'You don't mind if I use the apartment?'

  'Of course not. I doubt whether I'll have time to get back before the concert, though. If you change your mind about coming, there'll be a ticket waiting at the box office.'

  They stood at the pavement's edge waiting for the light to change and he clapped Deville on the shoulder.

  'A great night, Jean Paul. The greatest of my life, I think.'

  *

  As the Tristar started its descent to Heathrow in the late afternoon sun, Katherine Riley obeyed the request to fasten her seat belt, then leaned back in her seat.

  She was tired - more tired than she had ever been in her life before. Tired, angry and frustrated. She knew the syndrome well as a practising psychologist should. Like being in a dark wood in some childhood dream, undecided on which path to take and some nameless evil coming up fast.

  She closed her eyes and saw not John Mikali, but Asa Morgan's dark, ravaged face, the pain in the eyes and suddenly knew, with total clarity, that she was wrong.

  Morgan had said that she owed him. If that was true, what he was due was her honesty and concern and that could only be expressed in one way.

  It was like a shot in the arm, new energy coursing through her. She couldn't wait to get off the plane, was one of the first through to Immigration where she presented her passport and asked to be put in touch at once with the nearest Special Branch officer.

  It was just after half past two when Captain Charles Rourke got back to his office in the British Embassy at Plutarchu 1 in Athens. His phone rang almost at once. When he picked it up, Benson, one of the Second Secretaries with consular responsibilities, was on the other end.

  'Hello, Charles. I asked them on the door to let me know when you came in. I've had a chap kicking his heels here for almost an hour, wanting a temporary passport to get him home. His official one is in pieces.'

  'Hardly my department, old boy.'

  'Actually, Charles, I don't like the smell of it at all. He walks in here looking like a tramp and when I examine what's left of his passport, he turns out to be a serving officer if you please and a full colonel. Name of Morgan.'

  But Rourke had already slammed down the telephone and was leaving his office on the run.

  Morgan looked awful, the black, silver-streaked hair tousled like a gipsy's and he badly needed a shave. His linen suit, stained with salt, had shrunk and strained against his shoulders, seams splitting.

  'Oh, it's you,' he sai
d when Rourke came into the waiting room. 'A fine old balls-up you made of it at the airport the other day.'

  Rourke was horrified at his appearance. 'Good God, sir, are you all right?'

  'Of course I'm not,' Morgan said. 'I'm held together by blood, guts and piano wire, but that doesn't matter now. What I want is a temporary passport and a seat on the first plane to London this afternoon.'

  'Actually, I'm not too sure about that, sir. I'd have to check elsewhere first. I've strict orders where you're concerned.'

  'Brigadier Ferguson?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'So, you're DI5? That's encouraging. Maybe those lectures I gave you at the Academy back in 'sixty-nine did some good after all.'

  'You remembered me, sir?'

  'Of course I did. Never forget a face. Now, you cut along and make your phone call.'

  'Just a minute, sir,' Rourke leaned forward, concern on his face. 'Isn't that blood coming through your sleeve?'

  'I should imagine so, considering the fact that a certain gentleman tried to inflict bodily injury on me with the aid of a Walther PPK. Maybe a doctor would be in order as well, while you're at it? Only make sure he's one who can keep his mouth shut, boy. I don't want anything keeping me off that plane.'

  14

  It was almost six o'clock when Kim answered the ring at the door of the Cavendish Square flat and found Baker and Morgan standing there.

  Ferguson was in the dining-room eating alone at one end of an elegant Regency table, a napkin tucked into his collar.

  'That smells nice.' Morgan said. 'What is it?'

  'Beef Wellington. For a Gurkha, Kim has a remarkable talent for traditional English cooking. My dear chap, you look awful.'

  'I'm not as young as I was, that's all.'

  He went and helped himself to a brandy from the sideboard. Ferguson said to Baker, 'No problems, Superintendent?'

  'He nearly didn't make it, sir. Fog coming in fast while I was waiting. I should imagine Heathrow will be shut down completely in another couple of hours.'

  Ferguson took a sip from his glass of claret and leaned back. 'Well, Asa?'

  'Well, what?'

  'Come on now. You quite obviously went to Greece in search of the Cretan Lover. You deliberately gave my man the slip, then turn up four days later with a couple of gunshot wounds in you and a ruined passport, desperately keen to get back to England as soon as possible.'

  'All those tourists,' Morgan said. 'I just couldn't take it.' He emptied the glass. 'Is it all right if I go now? I could do with a decent night's sleep.'

  Ferguson nodded to Baker who opened the sitting-room door. Katherine Riley entered.

  'Christ Almighty,' Morgan said bitterly.

  'Don't be stupid, Asa. Doctor Riley has acted entirely in your best interests and under very difficult circumstances. She's told me everything.'

  Katherine Riley stood there, very pale, waiting. Morgan ignored her. 'Where is he?'

  'Mikali? Busy rehearsing at the Albert Hall with Andre Previn and Previn being the perfectionist he is, it looks as if they'll be there right up till concert time.'

  'Rather awkward for you.'

  'Why on earth should it be?' Ferguson poured himself another glass of claret. 'We could arrest him on stage now, but what would be the point? Ask the Superintendent.'

  Morgan turned to Baker who nodded. 'Sealed up tight, Asa, every entrance guarded. 'I've got over fifty men down there now on top of the normal uniformed personnel usually on duty for crowd control. Mostly in plain clothes and all of them armed. I've even got long-hairs from the Ghost Squad queuing for tickets with the Promenaders.'

  The phone rang in the hall and Baker went out. Ferguson said, 'So, as you can see, he isn't getting anywhere. Let him give his concert. The show, as they say, must go on. In any case, my dear Asa, Rachmaninov's Fourth is seldom played. To have John Mikali perform it at the last night of the Proms is a musical event of the first magnitude. I wouldn't miss it for anything.'

  Katherine Riley turned, went into the sitting-room and slammed the door behind her. Ferguson sighed. 'Women really are the most perverse of creatures, aren't they? Why is it the Mikalis attract them?'

  Baker returned with a note. 'Apparently this Frenchman, Deville, who visited Mikali at Hydra, is at the flat now. When I contacted French Intelligence about him, they thought I was crazy. He's one of the most celebrated criminal lawyers in Paris. Anyway, they did put him through the computer.'

  'And?' Ferguson said.

  'One interesting point, sir. He was a slave worker for the Nazis during the war. One of thousands shipped to Eastern Europe to work in coalmines and so on. Those who survived were returned by the Russians in nineteen forty-seven.'

  Ferguson smiled softly and turned to Morgan. 'And what would that suggest to you, Asa?'

  'KGB?'

  'Perhaps, but their main task was to infiltrate the French Intelligence system itself in the years after the war. I should have thought Soviet Military Intelligence much more likely. From the sound of him, Deville has style, something I've always found conspicuously lacking in the KGB.'

  'Even the Old Etonian variety?'

  'A fair point.' Ferguson wiped his chin with a napkin. 'But a man like Mikali. It really is quite astonishing. Why, Asa? What is his motive?'

  'I haven't the slightest idea. I can tell you where his experience came from, that's all. He joined the Legion when he was eighteen. Served two years in Algeria as a paratrooper.'

  'How very romantic of him.'

  'Excuse me, sir,' Baker interrupted. 'Might I ask about Deville? Do you want him lifted now?'

  'A moment, Superintendent.' Ferguson turned to Morgan. 'I think, Asa, it might be politic at this point if you slipped next door and made your peace with Doctor Riley.'

  'Which means you don't want me in on this discussion?'

  'Exactly.'

  Baker went and opened the sitting-room door. Morgan hesitated, then passed inside and the Superintendent closed it behind him.

  Katherine Riley stood at the Adam fireplace, her hands on the mantelshelf, staring into the flames. She raised her head and looked at him in the ornate ormolu mirror.

  'You've been in hell without a map, Asa. I couldn't leave you there.'

  'Oh, but you have a way with words,' he said. 'I'll give you that. That's what comes of an expensive education.'

  'Asa - please.' There was real pain in her voice now.

  'I know,' he said harshly. 'Passion had you by the throat and wouldn't let go. But who for? Me or him?'

  She stood there, staring at him, her face even paler now and when she spoke, her voice was very low.

  'We washed you between us the other night, Maria and I. How many times have you been wounded? Five? Six? And those are only the scars that show. I'm sorry for you.'

  She walked past him, opened the door and went into the other room. Ferguson looked up and Baker turned to face her.

  'Can I go now?' she asked.

  Ferguson glanced at Morgan standing in the doorway. She leaned forward, her hands on the dining-table. 'Please!' she demanded urgently. 'I can't take much more of this.'

  Ferguson said, 'And where would you go, Doctor Riley?'

  'I have the use of a friend's flat in Douro Place. My car's there. I just want to get back to Cambridge as soon as possible.'

  His face was very calm and his voice surprisingly gentle when he said, 'And that is what you want to do? You're quite sure?'

  'Yes,' she said dully.

  'Very well.' He nodded to Baker. Tut Doctor Riley in a car, Superintendent. Have her taken to this address in Douro Place. We can always contact her in Cambridge if we need her.'

  She made for the door and Baker went after her. As she got it open, Ferguson said, 'One point, Doctor. Please don't try to leave the country until you receive full security clearance. It really would be most embarrassing to have to stop you.'

  Kim came in with a covered dish. Ferguson said, 'Ah, pudding. I was beginning to think he'
d forgotten.' He sat down and tucked his napkin into his neck again and the Gurkha served him. 'A rather special cheesecake, soaked in Grand Marnier. Try some, Asa.'

  'No thanks,' Morgan said. 'But I'll have another brandy if you don't mind.'

  'Help yourself. Is it hurting much, your arm?'

  'Like hell,' Morgan told him, which was true and yet he deliberately exaggerated the pain in his face as he poured a generous measure of Courvoisier into a shot glass.

  As he swallowed, Baker came back. Ferguson said, 'No problem?'

  'None, sir.'

  'Good. Mikali's made no attempt to leave?'

  'No, sir, I've just phoned our mobile command post in the car park there. The most recent information is that they've just finished rehearsing.'

  Ferguson glanced at his watch. 'Six-fifteen. Let me see now. The concert starts with Debussy. L'Apres-midi d'un Faune followed by Haydn's Clock Symphony. That means Mikali will go on around eight-forty-five with the interval at nine-thirty.'

  'And we lift him then, sir?'

  'After the interval reception would be better, I think. He is guest of honour, remember. It would look a little odd if he wasn't there. Let's keep things as normal as possible for as long as we can.'

  'Let me go with you.'

  'I'm sorry, Asa. I understand how you feel, but you've done your job. Your involvement ends here. From now on this is police business.'

  'All right.' Morgan raised a hand. 'I know when I'm beaten. Presumably I can go now.'

  He turned to the door and Baker said, 'Wait for me, Asa, I'll run you home.'

  Morgan went out and Ferguson said, 'Knows when he's beaten indeed. It's when he makes remarks like that that I really worry. Take him home. I want round-the-clock surveillance of his apartment until this thing is over.'

  'I wouldn't worry, sir. The state he's in, I'm surprised he managed to walk to the door.'