‘If you don’t tell me, it’ll be the end of you anyway.’
‘I do not care. I will take my chance. My word against Daranyi’s-but the police, no.’
Craig’s instinct about the human animal told him, at once, that even a beast at bay can be pushed only so far. He had gone the limit with Krantz, and he must take advantage of him within that boundary. He relented. ‘All right, then, not the police. You don’t have to tell me where they are. But take me to them right now. So I can see that Emily is all right.’
‘She is all right.’
‘And Walther-I want to see him, speak to him, see if I can talk him out of this.’
‘Just that? Nothing more?’
‘What more can there be? I’m alone. You say there are guards-if they’ll let us through-’
Krantz nodded. ‘Yes, that would be no problem. But you understand, Craig, if I take you there, once you know the location, you will have to remain until late, when the exchange is effected-or perhaps the boat will be moved-so do not expect-’
‘I only want a few minutes with Walther.’
Krantz edged nervously from the wall. His top hat wobbled. His shrub-covered lips puckered. ‘And if I do this, you will not implicate me?’
Craig studied the crafty, servile thing with distaste. ‘I won’t make any promises. I’ll say simply that if you refuse, I’ll take you to the authorities. If you direct me to the boat, well-we’ll see. At least, there’ll be one affirmative act in your favour.’
Krantz hesitated no longer. ‘I shall take you.’
He led Craig out of the apartment and to the elevator. On the way down, neither spoke. At the landing, as they emerged, Krantz seemed to have an afterthought. He broke the silence. ‘I must inquire-are you here alone?’
‘No. Someone drove me. A friend.’
‘Dismiss him. There can be no one else. That is our bargain. The two of us.’
Craig agreed at once. ‘Okay. But remember this. My friend may not know our destination, but if anything goes wrong, he’ll know where to find you.’
‘Yes-yes-never mind about that.’
They went through the building and outside into the cold of the Norr Mälarstrand. The portly chauffeur had opened the rear door of the limousine, and he stood beside it at attention. Craig looked off to his right, and then to the left he saw Gottling rise up out of the driver’s seat of the station-wagon and wave.
‘One second,’ Craig told Krantz.
He hurried past four parked cars, and joined Gottling, waiting for him at the kerb.
‘What happened?’ Gottling wanted to know.
‘It’s all settled, friend. He folded fast. He’s agreed to take me where they are-but only if I’m alone.’
Gottling scratched a shaggy eyebrow and squinted his bloodshot eyes in the direction of Krantz. ‘I don’t like it, Craig,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t trust that weasel.’
‘I’ve already warned him. If I’m delayed too long, you can spill the whole affair to Jacobsson.’
‘If you’re not around to enjoy it, what fun’ll it be?’
‘Gottling, I’m only going somewhere to have a short talk with a nice old man, and then I’m leaving. If I get lucky, he’ll be leaving too-in another direction. If I strike out, well-I’ll have to tell Professor Stratman, and it’ll be his turn at the bat.’
‘Good luck with those bastards,’ said Gottling.
Craig started away, then stopped. ‘And don’t get any crazy ideas about following us. You’ll screw up the works.’
‘Do you think I’m a horse’s ass? I’m going home where it’s warm and where the whisky is-and I’ll be watching your empty chair on television.’
Craig returned to the building entrance and found Krantz still waiting, blowing condensed air and apprehension.
‘He will not follow?’ Krantz demanded.
‘No. You’ll see for yourself.’
‘We must hurry. The Ceremony-’
Krantz started to enter the rear of the limousine, then withdrew, thoughtfully. He spoke to the chauffeur in Swedish. The chauffeur seemed to protest, but Krantz persisted. With a shrug, the chauffeur closed the rear door, and opened the front one.
‘I must leave him behind,’ Krantz told Craig. ‘I will drive myself. You come in the front seat.’
While Krantz got behind the wheel, Craig went around the long car, caught a glimpse of Gottling on the far kerb ahead, and then he entered the limousine and sank into the deep seat. Krantz, barely able to sight over the wheel, had started the motor.
The car went around in a clumsy U-turn, Krantz battling the wheel, and then the vehicle leaped forward. Ahead of them, Norr Mälarstrand stretched briefly free of traffic. Krantz jammed down the accelerator, and the limousine smoothly gained speed. Craig read the speedometer: ninety kilometres an hour. Automatically, he translated this: fifty-six miles an hour. Good, he told himself. Krantz was as anxious as he to conclude the business of the winter afternoon.
‘Where are we headed?’ Craig inquired.
Krantz’s eyes darted at him, as if trying to detect trickery.
‘Just in general,’ Craig added. ‘I wouldn’t know exactly where that damn boat is anyway.’
‘Pålsundet,’ said Krantz.
‘Is it far?’
‘It is the section of canal across from us, between Södra bergen and Långholmen, about five or ten minutes from here, if the streets are clear-twenty minutes, maybe more, if there is heavy duty traffic on Västerbron-the bridge. Pålsundet is a fine part of our city. Many of the wealthiest families keep their cabin cruisers and small craft moored there.’
Krantz stopped speaking and strained to soften the brake. A string of cars and a trolley loomed a block ahead, bisecting their path, crawling at snail’s pace.
Krantz muttered into his goatee in Swedish. ‘That is our turning-we go left there over the Västerbron-and it is filled with traffic.’
But by the time they reached the traffic, and Krantz imperiously took advantage of the limousine’s size to force his way into it, Craig’s mind had gone back to the events that had brought him to this moment.
‘I’m still curious about something, Krantz,’ he said. ‘About Emily’s father, Walther Stratman. He was thought to be dead. Of course, Eckart knew all the time that he was alive.’
‘No, that is not so,’ said Krantz from the wheel. ‘Dr. Eckart was puzzled always that Walther was missing, with no evidence of death, yet he accepted the legal verdict that he was dead. That is the way it was until yesterday.’
‘What happened yesterday?’
‘Daranyi gave me the results of his investigation of the various laureates and their relatives. I, in turn, handed them over to Dr. Eckart. I must say, for all of his-his shortcomings-Dr. Eckart is very clever. He seized upon Miss Stratman’s dossier-’
‘Emily Stratman?’
‘-yes, as most useful to his purposes. I repeat, I had no idea what was in his mind, certainly no belief he would do anything so diabolical. Emily Stratman’s dossier contained the photocopy of an American army psychoanalyst’s report on her. Attached to this were photocopies of a curious correspondence between departments of the American military and the Russian military.’
‘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.’