‘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 Professor 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.