The Prize

12

IT had snowed all the night through, gusty flurries of large flat flakes, dry and adhering to where they fell, and on the early morning of December tenth, it was snowing still. The flurries had ceased, Count Jacobsson observed from his parlour window above the Foundation, and now the crystalline flakes floated lazily downward like confetti, and clung to every surface, and built one on the other, so that Sturegatan and the park below, and all the city of Stockholm encompassed by the eye, lay snug and white under a powdery blanket that rose and fell into the darkness beyond sight.

We are regally cloaked, thought Jacobsson, majestically covered by a royal cape of white to herald our climax day of Nobel Week.

He heard, behind him, the ponderous movements of his stout housekeeper, who came three times a week to clean his bachelor quarters, and listened as she set his breakfast on the oval table. He waited for her to leave, continuing to enjoy the snowfall, and when she was gone, he turned from the window and took his place at the table.

He had been too preoccupied with the problems of the big day ahead to think of breakfast, but now his appetite was whetted by the hot tiny sausages and scrambled eggs, the toast spread with red whortleberry jam, the choklad, and he began to eat ravenously. After he had devoured the sausages and eggs, and begun to sip the cocoa and munch the toast, he opened the three morning newspapers piled at his right hand. Each, he noticed, had picture spreads and long stories about the afternoon Ceremony, on its front page.

It was only after he had finished his cocoa that he opened the green ledger containing his Notes of a decade ago, now lying to the left side of his plate. Upon awakening, and welcoming the celebration of snow, he had remembered the entry he had made that decade ago. It had been made shortly after reading a memoir by Rudyard Kipling, and this morning had reminded him of that old entry.

Lovingly, he opened his ledger, scanning the endless waves made by his pen on every page-how firm his hand had once been!-flipping the pages, seeking what he had remembered, until he found it at last.

This entry in the Notes contained some reminiscences of King Oscar, who had awarded the prizes at the first six ceremonies held in the years just before his death, then touched upon his successor, King Gustaf V, with whom Jacobsson had become so friendly. Then the Notes continued:

I have finished reading Rudyard Kipling’s recollection of his trip to Stockholm, of his arrival in our city immediately after King Oscar’s death. I am setting down some of Kipling’s impressions as he came here for his Nobel Prize in 1907. He wrote: ‘Even while we were on the sea, the old King of Sweden died. We reached the city, snow-white under sun, to find all the world in evening dress, the official mourning which is curiously impressive. Next afternoon, the prize-winners were taken to be presented to the new King. Winter darkness in those latitudes falls at three o’clock, and it was snowing. One half of the vast acreage of the Palace sat in darkness, for there lay the dead King’s body. We were conveyed along interminable corridors looking out into black quadrangles, where snow whitened the cloaks of the sentries, the breeches of old-time cannons, and the shot piles alongside of them. Presently, we reached the living world of more corridors and suites all lighted up, but wrapped in that Court hush which is like no other silence on earth. Then in a lit room, the weary-eyed, overworked, new King, saying to each the words appropriate to the occasion. Next, the Queen, in marvellous Mary Queen of Scots mourning; a few words, and the return piloted by soft-footed Court officials through a stillness so deep that one heard the click of the decorations on their uniforms. They said that the last words of the old King had been, “Don’t let them shut the theatres for me.” So Stockholm that night went soberly about her pleasures, all dumbed down under the snow.’

Softly, Jacobsson closed his ledger, evoking his memory of the myopic, forty-two-year-old Kipling strolling through the Old Town in 1907, and conjuring up a picture of the city on the Ceremony day of that year, a field of snow then, as it was this day. But Jacobsson reminded himself that this day there was a difference. This day there was no mourning, except as men everywhere mourned the advent of the frightful nuclear age-in 1907, there had been reason to award a Peace Prize, and now there was no reason at all-but at least, this would be a better day, the city would not be ‘all dumbed down under the snow’, and there would be festivity and formality and new fodder for his precious Notes.

Glancing at the time on his clock-the numbers were Roman numerals and the clock had belonged to his grandfather-Jacobsson saw that the beginning of this long, ceremonious, climactic day was at hand. Pushing himself from the table, carefully, to avoid the twinge of pain that often came from his back, he regarded his person in the gilt mirror, and was satisfied that his tie was correct. Taking up his cane, he plodded out of the parlour to the chillier staircase, and then descended on foot to keep his meeting with the select members of the foreign press.

When he entered the conference room of the Royal Swedish Academy of Science, he observed, with satisfaction, that the response had been excellent. The oxhide chairs, used by the judges, were now filled by the press, the majority of those seated being ladies. The men, smoking and conversing, were standing all about the green room.

Jacobsson’s entrance brought all fourteen occupants of the room to varied degrees of attention. Jacobsson accepted his manila folder from Astrid Steen, and as he passed the length of the green room, nodding courtly but vague greetings, he recognized Sue Wiley across the table before the marble ledge, and beside her an older Frenchwoman who represented a French periodical, and he recognized also correspondents from London and Manchester and New York and Hamburg and Barcelona and Tel Aviv and Calcutta.

At the foot of the table, beneath the oil portrait of the donor, one painted in 1915, Jacobsson took his position and surveyed the gathering.

‘The Nobel Foundation welcomes you to the final day of Nobel Week,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I trust you find the weather agreeable. You will see that of the three bronze busts that decorate this conference room, one is missing this morning. The bust of Alfred Nobel was moved, last night, to the stage of Concert Hall, so that he may, as ever, in spirit if not in fact, be present during the Ceremony late this afternoon.’

He paused, opened his manila folder, and extracted a three-page, duplicated schedule with the heading: ‘Memorandum. Dec. 10th.’

‘Before replying to any questions you may have,’ said Jacobsson, ‘I will read to you the official memorandum we have sent to each one of the six prize-winning laureates. Mrs. Steen has extra copies of this memorandum, and they will be available to you as you leave. I shall now read you the contents of the official memorandum.’

Holding the duplicated schedule close to his face, he read it aloud in a deliberate and dry monotone:

‘The festival ceremony in connection with the distribution of the Nobel Prizes will take place in Concert Hall-Konserthuset-beginning 5 P.M. sharp. The persons invited have been asked to occupy their seats in the large assembly hall not later than 4.50 P.M.

The Nobel laureates with their families will please enter Concert Hall through the side entrance-Oxtorgsgatan 14-about 4.45 P.M. They will be escorted to the place from their hotel by two attendants, both attachés. Owing to the possible congestion of traffic around Concert Hall, it may be advisable to start from the hotel at 4.20 P.M.-not later. Autos will be reserved for the purpose and will be in waiting before the hotel at the fixed hour.

At 5 P.M. sharp His Majesty the King, with the members of the royal family accompanying him, is expected to leave the parlour reserved for them in Concert Hall and enter the large assembly hall. Their arrival will be announced by trumpet calls, thereafter they are to be greeted by the royal hymn.

When the King and the members of the royal family have occupied their seats, the Nobel Prize laureates will enter the platform of the assembly hall through the centre doors, conducted by the representatives of the various Nobel committees. This procession will be joined, as well, by the Nobel Prize laureates from previous years present at the Ceremony, and the other members of the Nobel committees which have proposed the award of the Nobel Prizes for this year, their arrival being likewise announced by trumpet calls. The members of the procession will please proceed in the following order-the Nobel Prize laureates to the right-Professor Max Stratman, Mr. Andrew Craig, Dr. Claude Marceau, Dr. Denise Marceau, Dr. Carlo Farelli, Dr. John Garrett, with respective representatives of the matching Nobel committees to their left.

The laureates, after making their reverence to the King, will please occupy the seats reserved for them on the right-hand side of the platform, looking from their entrance door to the centre.

After the salutatory oration by Count Bertil Jacobsson of the Nobel Foundation, the proclamation of the laureates will take place in speeches held by one representative of each prize-giving academy. The speeches are to be held in Swedish but followed by a short address in the language of the respective laureates. The laureate thus addressed will please rise, and will be asked at the end of the short speech to step down from the platform in order to receive from the hands of H.M. the King the Nobel gold medal, the diploma and an assignation for the prize. Due to a change in schedule, the acceptance speeches of the laureates will be made upon their return to the platform, instead of at the banquet held afterwards in the City Hall, as had been customary.

After the ceremony the laureates may, before leaving the assembly hall, deliver their medals and diplomas to the head attendant, who brought them into the hands of H.M. the King and who will afterwards bring them to the City Hall, where they are to be exhibited during the evening. At the conclusion of the Ceremony, cars will be in waiting to convey the laureates and their families to the farewell banquet in the City Hall.’

Having finished the official announcement uninterrupted, Jacobsson returned the duplicated schedule to his manila folder. From the pitcher before him, he poured a glass of water, drank, then set down the glass.

‘Now, if you have any questions concerning the afternoon Ceremony at Concert Hall-?’

A hand went up, and Jacobsson acknowledged it.

‘Will the proceedings be televised?’

‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson, unhappily, for he remembered better days and felt the modern monstrosity of the camera as intrusive as a circus act. ‘This is an innovation begun by the Swedish Broadcasting Company in 1957. The entire Ceremony will be shown on government television.’

Another hand went up. ‘How many people have been invited to attend the Ceremony? To whom were the invitations sent?’

Jacobsson took another sip of water. ‘Besides His Royal Highness the King and his family, the laureates and their families, members of the Nobel academies and committees and their families, winners in previous years, invitations have been posted to members of the diplomatic corps-with priority to those nations represented this afternoon by prize-winners-and to accredited members of the press. That is the limit of the invitations. The general public is allowed to apply for tickets to extra seats on a first come, first served basis. By five o’clock this afternoon, there will be approximately twenty-one hundred persons in the assembly or auditorium of Concert Hall.’

Sue Wiley was standing, one arm half lifted, and Jacobsson nodded in her direction and braced himself for a livelier question. He was not disappointed.

‘Count Jacobsson,’ said Miss Wiley, ‘this is my first visit to a Nobel Ceremony. I am told, by those who have previously attended, that the occasion is always impressive but very stuffy and exact. Doesn’t anything exciting ever happen?’ A titter went through the conference room, and Sue Wiley smiled to those around her, and then added, ‘I mean, are there any embarrassing moments or any blunders or anything like that?’

Everyone waited now upon Jacobsson’s reaction, and he, eager to have the friendliness of the press, ransacked his memory for something harmless and yet possessed of colour.

‘Well, Miss Wiley, there is never perfection,’ he said. ‘From time to time, we do have our-our trifling embarrassments. I do recall the time that our late beloved King Gustaf V, who had known Queen Victoria and was giving out Nobel medallions and diplomas when he was in his nineties, and who had become extremely near-sighted in his advanced years, gave a Nobel Prize to his own secretary instead of the laureate by mistake.’

There was friendly laughter in the conference room, and Jacobsson felt encouraged. ‘King Gustaf-the Mr. G. of so many tennis tournaments-presented more Nobel medallions and diplomas than any other one of our monarchs. Every laureate left with admiration for his obvious nobility yet democratic bearing. I remember that Anatole France had just become a Communist when he met King Gustaf. It was thought that Anatole France might have some resentment for royalty. But King Gustaf’s simplicity won the old laureate over completely. Afterwards, Anatole France said, “The King of Sweden is a Bernadotte. He is accustomed to power. A President, on the other hand, always strikes one as a little new at the game.” As a sidelight, it may interest you to know that of all the many laureates that King Gustaf met and awarded prizes to, his favourite was the Irish poet, W. B. Yeats. On more than one occasion, I heard the King say that he admired Yeats the most because the poet had “the manners of a courtier”.’

Jacobsson realized that Sue Wiley was still standing, and he addressed himself to her. ‘But you were inquiring about excitements and embarrassments, were you not, Miss Wiley? I can think of one excitement where embarrassment was cleverly avoided. You know, on Ceremony afternoon, this afternoon, it is protocol that a laureate, after receiving his award from the King, retire backwards from the orchestra and up the steps to his seat on the platform. I remember that Mrs. Pearl Buck was much concerned about this. Dr. Enrico Fermi had received his award before her, and had made his way backwards to his seat with no difficulty. Pearl Buck wore a gold evening gown with a long train, and was distinctly handicapped. Nevertheless, her backward march from the King was made successfully amid thunderous applause from the audience. She had managed it, she told a friend later, by memorizing the pattern of the Oriental rug at her feet and following the design to her chair on the platform. However, another embarrassing incident took place at one Ceremony when two British laureates-it would be improper to identify them-accepted their awards from the King, forgot protocol, and turned their backs on the King as they went back to their seats. The Swedish people in the audience were deeply offended. In surprising contrast to omissions by democratic laureates, the Russians have always been unfailingly correct, their courtesy impeccable, their bows to His Majesty the deepest. I recall distinctly that in 1958 the Soviet nuclear authority, Dr. Igor Tamm, who was one of the three physics laureates, bowed so deeply that he almost dropped all his awards. Beyond such trifles, I fear I have nothing else, Miss Wiley. Our Ceremony usually takes place without incident, as you shall see for yourself at five o’clock this afternoon.’ He looked about him. ‘Are there any more questions?’

A hand fluttered high. ‘Count Jacobsson-’

‘Yes?’

‘What about the laureates today? They must be nervous, waiting for the Ceremony. Do you know what they are doing?’

‘I know what they should be doing,’ said Jacobsson. ‘They should be on their way to Concert Hall for a half-hour’s informal rehearsal of this afternoon’s Ceremony. However, yesterday the rehearsal was cancelled. So I am certain they are almost all resting at the Grand Hotel.’

‘Why was the rehearsal cancelled?’

‘Two laureates were unable to attend. There will be an announcement about this early in the afternoon from the Caroline Institute. I am permitted to say only this much-Dr. Farelli and Dr. Garrett are not resting-are engaged, this very moment, in an activity connected with their specialties…”

It was 10.52 in the morning.

In this outskirt area of Stockholm, the structure weirdly framed behind the steadily falling snow-as if Seurat had pecked out a building in pointillism, white-dotted dabs on transparent glass instead of canvas-was the Caroline Hospital. Blending with the moving snow were the shimmering rows of yellow lights shining through the winter morning from the infirmary corridors and wards.

Inside the Caroline Hospital, inside the third-floor surgery room, the banks of lights were the brightest, not dull yellow like the corridor bulbs, not stark white like the falling snow, but silvery clear and steady as the luminosity of a summer’s day in the early sunrise.

On the operating table, partially exposed but otherwise draped and shrouded, lay the unconscious patient, Count Rolf Ramstedt, seventy-two-year-old relative of H.R.H. the King of Sweden. Seconds ago, divested of the failing old heart that had been ravaged and weakened by atherosclerotic coronaries, he was being kept alive only by the five-thousand-dollar heart-lung bypass machine that supported his body tissues with oxygenated blood, while the gaping pericardium waited to be filled.

Bent over the patient now, in the disguise of the modern image of the Creator-gauze mask, gown, rubber gloves-was Dr. Erik Öhman, preparing to suture the living calf’s heart to the great vessels of the host. Flanking Öhman, also masked, gowned, and gloved, were the three young Swedish nurses and the lanky anæsthetist, now checking blood pressure.

Far away, the minute hand of the ivory clock ticked and jumped ahead.

At the foot of the table, performing his role of observer, Dr. John Garrett exhaled tension through his mask and knew that the cardiac surgery, scheduled to last an hour and a half (after the long interlude of hooking the patient to the bypass machine), was at the midway mark. Soon, all too soon, Garrett would be able to return his attention to the taller, bulkier gowned figure of Dr. Carlo Farelli beside him.

Earlier, in Öhman’s office, in the dawn indistinguishable from the night, he and Farelli had met face to face without the exchange of a single cordial word. Öhman, sensitive to their animosity, had deftly come between them to seek their advice in charting the difficult cardiac transplantation. Except for two interruptions-one by a colleague on the telephone to discuss some youngster’s congenital heart defect (cor triloculare bi-atriatum), and the other by another colleague, who had poked his head in, fretting, to report on the impending miscarriage, this morning, of the wife of a mutual friend-the team of three had worked steadily. Garrett had soon become absorbed in the preparations that had taken place, especially in the record of Anti-reactive Substance S administered.

They had debated all of the problems, so familar and elementary to them, of the new surgical technique for removal and replacement of the heart, putting special emphasis on preventing clotting within the blood circuits, and on fastening of artificial materials to the blood vessels, so that there would be leakproof connections that would also discourage clotting. Garrett had brought up the possible discrepancy in the blood vessel sizes-those of the calf’s heart might be smaller than the ones to which they must be attached-but Öhman had anticipated this and described his nonreactive adaptors. Farelli had brought up the advisability of a heterotopic transplant, but both Garrett and Öhman had supported locating the new heart in the normal anatomical position. Three mammalian hearts, only hours old, had been stored, and Öhman, Farelli, and Garrett had unanimously agreed upon the one to be grafted.

At last they had been summoned to surgery, and Count Ramstedt had been wheeled in. Everything had been efficiently readied. The patient had already been anesthætized, chest shaved and prepped, and merthiolate applied. The patient had received mild hypothermy to cool his system to 30° C. and he had received heparin intravenously to prevent clotting. The huge heart-lung machine stood ready, and the 4,000 c.c. of whole blood, cross-matched, awaited use in the event of emergency.

In his concern for the patient, Garrett had forgotten the presence of Farelli. At first, what was so well known to him-materials, procedure-seemed strange and otherworldly because of the quick singsong of the Swedish words that went from Öhman to his nurses and aides-läkaren and hud and bröstkorg and blod and ådra and skoterska and bedöva-and once, pulsen är mycket oregelbunden, which Garrett understood to mean that the pulse was irregular-and constantly, over and over, hjärta, hjärta, hjärta, which Garrett came to realize was heart, heart, heart.

But then, as Öhman flexed his fingers in the rubber gloves, and took the slap of the scalpel, complaining that there was a troublesome halation on the instrument and having one light adjusted, and then, as he performed the median sternotomy-the incision from the neck base down the middle of the sternum to the bottom of the breastbone-there was nothing any longer strange or otherworldly to Garrett.

As he observed what followed, Garrett’s pride swelled. This was his discovery, his immortality. Critically, yet with continuing inflated ego, Garrett watched a son of Hippocrates attempt to raise a Lazarus from the dead. Garrett watched, his head involuntarily nodding its approval… the rubber-shod clamps… the open chest wall… the anticoagulant… the endless connecting of the plastic heart-lung apparatus to provide oxygenation of the blood and to remove carbon dioxide… the withdrawal of all blood from the major venous return before it reached the ailing heart, bypassing heart and lungs, diverting the blood through the pump and then returning it to the arterial circulation system… the crucial minutes of surgery with the delicate excavation of the old heart, transecting the pulmonary artery and the aorta beyond their valves and cutting across the region of the atria at the back portion…

It was 10.52 in the morning.

The strain began to leave Garrett as his protégé inserted the cooled fresh calf’s heart-two young mammalian auricles and two ventricles-and then sutured the walls of the atria together, avoiding separate anastomoses of the veins leading to the heart. Now, for the final suture by the Russian vessel instrument, woven dacron to hook up the aorta, the pulmonary artery, the four pulmonary veins, the superior vena cava, the inferior vena cava.

Garrett and Farelli looked on tightly, as Öhman completed the transplantation. With the new heart freed of air to avoid air embolism, Öhman released the aorta to permit fresh oxygenated blood from the great plastic outer machine to pass into the coronary vessels. The new mammalian heart warmed and was filled with fresh oxygenated blood. Gradually, gradually, the new heart began to contract, to take over circulation on its own, receiving and pumping plasma. The patient breathed on. Lazarus alive.

Garrett’s gaze narrowed. Rhythm excellent. No electrical defibrillation necessary. He was about to speak up-there was another thing-he must remind Öhman to administer Polybrene to neutralize the heparin and to allow the resumption of normal blood clotting, but then he knew it was too soon and Öhman would not forget, anyway.

The lanky anæsthetist spoke. ‘Oxygenation satisfactory. He is also maintaining satisfactory blood pressure.’

Seventy beats a minute, thought Garrett, and 5,600 c.c. of blood pumping a minute-with a transplanted heart! His own private heart swelled once more.

‘Go off bypass,’ said Öhman.

The glass cardiopulmonary heart-lung machine was disconnected. The new heart was on its own.

Only three times, in English made awkward by emergency, had Öhman consulted with Garrett and Farelli in the hour gone by, and three times they had confirmed what he had planned, once both supplementing his ideas with ideas of their own, and now, at last, the transplantation had been successfully accomplished. All that remained was the routine removal of clamps and catheters, the closing of the chest cavity, the addition of Polybrene, the injection of growth-inhibiting hormones to contain the calf’s heart, and finally, the observation of life renewed and extended.

Öhman turned to the Nobel winners, and Garrett thought that he might be smiling wearily beneath the mask. ‘His Majesty will be relieved,’ said Öhman in an undertone. ‘It is done.’

‘Benissimo,’ said Farelli. ‘Felicitazioni!’

‘Congratulations, Dr. Öhman,’ said Garrett.

‘No-no-it is I who congratulate both of you for this,’ said Öhman. ‘I can handle the rest myself. Why do you not wash up and wait in the office? Nurse Nilsson will show you the way. I shall join you very soon.’

He had already returned to the patient, and the tiniest of the three nurses came towards Farelli, and Garrett followed them out of surgery into the antiseptic, tiled washroom of the Caroline Hospital. The nurse hung back as Garrett and Farelli worked free their rubber gloves and removed their surgical masks, and then, still unspeaking, bent over separate basins to scrub the starch from their hands with nylon brushes. Drying his hands, while Farelli still washed, Garrett was relieved by the presence of the nurse.

When they both were ready, the nurse said, ‘This way.’ They went with her into the corridor, and then into a small office, barren of all but a cigarette-scarred table holding several ashtrays and surrounded by five straight chairs.

But then, to Garrett’s dismay, the nurse left, and he found himself alone with Farelli. He extracted a cigar, and made much of preparing it, and when he looked up, he saw that the Italian was already drawing deeply on a cigarette as he stood by the window.

‘Still snowing,’ said Farelli.

Garrett said nothing. Now that the surgery was over, now that the worth of his discovery had been dramatized so remarkably and would soon be known around the world, the exhilaration had gone out of him. There could be no pleasure, he knew again, because Farelli existed, and somehow the transplantation would not be Öhman’s or even Garrett’s, but Farelli’s own, just as the discovery itself and the Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine this afternoon would be Farelli’s own.

As long as Farelli lived, Garrett’s instinct told him, Farelli would be the savant and the man, and he, himself, would be the shadow. Yet what could be done about it? He had tried everything, and everything had failed. There was only one hope. Öhman had been against it. Craig had deterred him from it. Or perhaps what had restrained him, actually, had been neither one of them, but his own good conscience.

Yet now this conscience of his did not seem good, but a weakness that would relegate him to eternal obscurity. But for this conscience, he would not have to live out the remainder of his days as pretender to the throne. Except for this conscience, he would have the throne.

He studied Farelli’s smug profile against the frosted window with undisguised contempt. There would never be another opportunity like this one. If he was not man enough to speak now, there would not be another chance. By late tomorrow, after they had their cheques from the Foundation, Farelli would be off on a triumphal tour of the continent, gathering all the laurels from here to Rome, and he would go back to Pasadena with his limited success, and his grief that only Saralee and Dr. Keller and the group would know. If he attempted to expose his enemy next year, it would be too late, like pelting a Nobel idol with minute sour grapes. It would have to be now or not at all.

How to begin? Casually, he decided, cautiously. No blunt accusation. Rather, the responsibility of power. Toy with the mouse, do not destroy it with one swipe of the paw, but let it destroy itself in its consternation and fear.

To begin, then. ‘The King will be happy with the result,’ said Garrett.

Farelli came around from the window, surprised to hear Garrett’s non-combative tone. ‘He will be extremely happy,’ said Farelli.

‘I heard you had breakfast with him yesterday.’

‘I was extremely pleased. I had taken the liberty to volunteer our-’

‘I know. I heard all about it.’ Garrett paused, wondering how the opening would come. ‘What did you find to talk about?’

‘He was gravely concerned about Count Ramstedt. I tried to reassure him by explaining details of the surgery. I told him of our experiences with-’

‘Your experiences,’ said Garrett. It was a small point. But Garrett wanted every point correct.

‘No, ours. I had read your papers and had some knowledge of your specific cases. He was gracious enough to inquire about our medical backgrounds. Here, I could only speak of myself.’

This was the opening, and blindly, his voice wavering, Garrett struck. ‘You told him about your-your visit to Dachau concentration camp, I presume? I mean, as part of your medical history?’

At once, Garrett saw that he had scored, and the thrill of impending mastery coursed through his veins.

Farelli’s Latin face was fixed in an attitude of historic wonderment, the face of Julius Caesar in the Senate chamber beneath Pompey’s statue, astonished by Tillius who had ripped the toga from him, the face of Caesar who saw Casca with the dagger of truth. Garrett waited on his lofty perch, almost expecting the Italian below to shout the classic ‘Casca, you madman, what are you doing?’ Then, at last, he would show him the madman’s full design.

But for all his wonderment, Farelli’s first voice was mild. ‘Did you say Dachau? How do you know about that?’

‘Oh, I just know it. Things get around.’

‘Something like that does not get around, as you say it. I have never spoken of that.’

‘I can’t say I blame you. In your boots, I wouldn’t speak of it either.’

Farelli shrugged. ‘There are some moments of one’s life one prefers to forget.’

At last, Garrett had his dominance. He addressed Farelli with the complacent censure of the superior to the weak. ‘What I want to know is this-how could you go through with it?’

‘How? Because I was forced to go through with it. I was a prisoner of the blackshirts in Regina Coeli, and I had no choice. It was a gamble to survive.’

‘But there are limits to what a man-’

‘One does not weigh or examine, under the choice of life or death. It is easy now, so far away in time, to be logical about what is unreal. But when the OVRA gave me the immediate choice of the firing squad or the experiment at Dachau-well, Dachau was an unknown quantity. I had heard, I had read-but I did not know. The muskets of the firing squad, I heard every morning at daybreak. I told myself-say no to the OVRA, Farelli, and you are surely dead-but say yes, and who knows what waits at Dachau. I was promised it would only be temporary, several days, no more. So I went through with it.’ He paused. ‘I do not think of it often any more. They brought five of us to Dachau-’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Garrett with scorn.

‘You know? I still am puzzled how you know.’

‘Dr. Brand of Berlin, Dr. Gorecki of Warsaw, Dr. Brauer of Munich, Dr. Stirbey of Bucharest-and you.’

Farelli’s bewilderment showed. ‘You are correct. That is correct. Poor Brand and Brauer, they had the worst of it. They were Jews, and I believe they were meant to be killed anyway. They died-terribly.’

‘How long after the experiment?’ asked Garrett. It was all coming out now, easier than he had expected, and Farelli was sealing his own doom.

‘After the experiment? No, they both died during it, each in their first time. I was made to watch them through the window of the Sky Ride Wagon-that was what the high-altitude box was called, the Sky Ride Wagon-Brauer, such a decent young man, his lungs rupturing, and Brand choking, until his heart failed.’ Farelli had become excited. ‘You can imagine how I felt when they forced me into the high-altitude chamber. I thought I was the next victim-’

Garrett was positive that Farelli had made an error. He raised his voice, interrupting, voice cracking. ‘You-they-you say they put you in the experiment chamber-inside it?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Farelli. ‘What have you heard? I thought you knew the entire story.’

‘Some of it, but-’

‘The Nazi Fascists had been using Jews, Polish and Russian prisoners for their guinea pigs, and one day Himmler wrote that instead of common prisoners, it might be wise to obtain five qualified doctors, heart specialists, who were also Jews or political prisoners, and try the experiments on them. The idea was that we would undergo fifteen-mile-altitude tests, without equipment, and be brought to the point of death, but not quite. Then we would be revived, and be made to set down our reactions and judgments, as physicians who had endured this, in medical papers, for the benefit of the Luftwaffe and the Medical Service of the Waffen-SS. I was the fourth one that day. Brand and Brauer had died, and they dragged out Stirbey half-dead-he is in a sanatorium in Vienna still-and then, it was my turn-’

Garrett reached blindly for a chair, and found himself in it. God Almighty, God Almighty, he thought, and felt like a man who had slipped to the brink of the Grand Canyon, and been snatched from the fall by an unseen hand, and still had not recovered from what might have been.

He had missed some of what Farelli had been saying, and with effort he tried to hear the rest above the pounding in his ears.

‘-and they kept pumping the air out of the chamber, and there I was, strapped in the pilot’s seat with the electro-cardiograph equipment attached to me, and the altitude gauge rising and rising, and-but what is the use to remember it now? At thirteen miles altitude, I gave up breathing and blacked out, as the aviators say-there was blood all over my face-and those animals carried me out, and I lived because I am a dray horse and will not die like that.

‘I was in the Dachau infirmary three weeks, too ill to be of use to them, and when I recovered, I said I was still too weak to write their medical paper, but pledged to write it for Dr. Rascher and Himmler if they sent me back to my beloved prison in Rome. So they sent me back, but then everyone was busy with the landings, and I never wrote their paper. I also never recovered. I am still under medical care. Just as Dr. Stirbey and Dr. Gorecki are. I heard from old Gorecki the week before I came here, congratulating me, and recalling the horror of that day. He will write a book about it, he says. I hope he does. Someone should, to show the thin borderline that divides the doctors of Hippocrates from the sadist doctors of Satan. You know, I often think, it is not that men of our profession indulged in such bestialities that troubles me, but that not one man of our profession, in all of Germany, had the courage to raise his voice against these human experiments. Ah, well, it is past.’

For Garrett, at first his brain so long fastened to the obsession that Farelli had been the prosecutor of the evil and not its victim, the turnabout had been too dizzying to comprehend. But once comprehension came, there came with it the relief of self-preservation, that he had not leaked a falsehood, to be denied and disproved and to make of him an ostracized leper. Now that Farelli was through speaking, one last emotion gnawed through Garrett, and that emotion was shame.

Because he had to live with himself, he now tried to tell himself that even if he had been so wrong about this, his conscience-his conscience and Öhman and Craig-had not permitted him to go ahead with the canard. Too, the other irritations still existed-Farelli’s use of his discovery, although his wrongness about Dachau made him doubt himself about this point-Farelli’s self-promotion, although even here… but now, Garrett saw that these rationalizations were of no use. Shame sat fat and mocking on his head and shoulders. He had been a victim of himself. What would Dr. Keller call it? Paranoia. He knelt to the truth.

Raising his head, meaning to say something, anything, that might be placating to Farelli, he realized that Farelli had turned sideways from him and was staring at the door. He followed Farelli’s gaze, and then he, too, saw Dr. Erik Öhman in the door.

He had never seen Öhman like this before. His picture of Öhman was of a reddish granite person of zeal and indestructibility, and now the picture was shattered. The reddish granite had been pulverized, and zeal had been crushed also, and what stood in the doorway was the representation of all anti-strength-in one person frailty, lassitude, bafflement, nullification, repudiation, and embodiment of every loss on earth.

‘He’s dying,’ Öhman croaked. He came unsteadily into the room, limply carrying his surgical mask. ‘Count Ramstedt is dying. The transplantation has failed.’

He tripped slightly, and Farelli grabbed him, and helped lower him into a chair.

Garrett scrambled to his feet, beside Farelli at once.

‘What do you mean?’ Farelli was demanding. ‘What do you mean by that? Speak some sense to us!’

Öhman looked up blankly. ‘I cannot explain it. The immunity mechanism, the white cells and other agents, they are destroying the foreign tissue. There is activated rejection. All the signs-cyanosis-tachycardia-hypotension-’

‘But you can’t know so soon!’ Garrett found himself shouting, ‘There must be a mistake-it takes three weeks to know!’

Öhman shook his head. ‘Dr. Garrett, you go in there-you can see-he will be dead by nightfall.’

Garrett felt faint, and gripped Farelli’s arm to right himself. Farelli alone stood strong, but the news had drained his countenance.

‘Something must have been overlooked, something in administering the serum, or the surgery-’ Farelli began.

Once more, Öhman shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘If-uhhh-if I had performed this myself-uhhh-I would think so-my inexperience-but both of you were present-you witnessed every move-you supervised-you saw me-you assisted-’

Garrett tried to think, reviewing each step of the transplantation in his mind, but nothing had been omitted or been different, every move had conformed to the grafts he had made in the past. He realized that Farelli was reviewing the surgery, too, and that Farelli’s conclusion coincided with his own. It had been perfect. The transplantation had been merely a routine extension of their own discovery and their own experiments and successes. Because they had proved its worth, they had won the Nobel Prize, and now suddenly, inexplicably, it had failed, and all that had come before or might be planned ahead was blackened by doubt. ‘Proved’ had been stamped over by the old Scotch verdict ‘Not Proven’-meaning neither guilty nor innocent but simply Unknown (with Some Doubt).

‘It can’t be,’ murmured Garrett. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘There is always the exception one fears,’ said Farelli, more to himself than to anyone.

‘We’ve got to do something!’ cried Garrett. ‘Why, if this gets out-’

The same thought, and projection of it, seemed to strike Farelli at the same time, for he turned to Garrett, and their eyes met in a common bond of fear.

‘It has got to get out,’ said Öhman helplessly. ‘Half the members of the royal family are in the waiting-room. I must report to the King-’

Garrett articulated the common fear first. ‘But the prize,’ he said. ‘It’ll discredit our prize.’

‘Uhhh-yes-yes, I have thought of that already. This will support the minority of the Nobel Medical Committee, who felt the vote for you was-uhhh-premature. The moment this is in the newspaper there will be controversy-a scandal, if you accept the prize this afternoon. You must-must turn it down-refuse the award before the Ceremony-send a joint note to the committee explaining more work will have to be done-but the prize is out of the question now.’

‘Are you crazy, Öhman? Che diavolo!’ Farelli was in a temper, unreasoningly furious with the suggestion. ‘What about Dr. Garrett’s years of experimentation and my own-our discovery-our proved successes?’

‘Please-please-it is not in my hands,’ begged Öhman. ‘I am telling you what will happen. If your discovery had a hundred proved successes, and the hundred-and-first was a failure, by the same method, it would mean-in the eyes of the medical world-the public-your discovery is not infallible-not fully proved-is-uhhh-open to doubt. They will let you gracefully withdraw from accepting the prize-there will be talk about next year or the year after or someday-but if you refuse to withdraw, they will be forced to disgrace you by withholding the prize. They will do this, because they do not dare to have a repetition of the Dr. Koch fiasco.’

Garrett leaned over Öhman. ‘Dr. Koch fiasco? What is that? What the devil are you talking about?’

‘Uhhh-Dr. Garrett, my friend-we are friends, believe me-I owe what I am to you-I am not the prize-giving committee or the public, so do not blame me.’ Öhman rubbed his forehead. ‘I owe you the truth, before the world falls on your head, on both of your heads. Were there many medical discoverers in history greater than Dr. Robert Koch, of the Berlin Institute for Infectious Diseases? Consider his work with infections, anthrax bacilli, the solidifying media for bacteria-his discoveries, in eight years, of the tubercle bacillus, cholera bacillus, tuberculin. As you know so well, Dr. Koch found the bacillus that causes tuberculosis, and then he found the miracle drug, tuberculin, that might cure it. The whole world was in a fever of excitement, and the Kaiser commanded the nomination of Dr. Koch for the Nobel Prize, even though Dr. Koch wanted more time to experiment. So-in 1905 we made him a laureate, gave him the Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine “for his investigations and discoveries in relation to tuberculosis”-which the world knew was for his discovery of tuberculin. Dr. Koch took his-uhhh-medal and diploma and money and went back in triumph to Berlin-and six months later his serum, hailed because it cured, suddenly began to kill. Hundreds of tuberculosis patients were killed by the serum, because tuberculin was not ready, except for cattle, and maybe Koch knew it. When he died, five years later, I am sure he died of-uhhh-of-uhhh-grief. And the Caroline Nobel committee was made to appear accomplices to murder, and scientific dunces, and since then, they have been conservative, always conservative. Now, this morning, the first time since 1905, what happened to Dr. Koch has happened again-a great discovery-my life is devoted to it-I believe in it-but now, there is an important patient in my surgery, expected to benefit from it, but now dying because of it-and soon, the truth of the failure will be everywhere.’

Farelli had begun nodding during the last of this painful recital, and he was nodding still. ‘Yes, Dr. Öhman,’ he said, ‘you are trying to help us, you are a decent fellow. We will behave correctly, have no worry. If the patient is to die, we will die with him. We will know what to do. I am certain Dr. Garrett is as one with me.’

‘You are speaking for me,’ said Garrett quietly. ‘We’re in this together.’

‘I do not want to lose the Nobel Prize, when I am hours from winning it,’ said Farelli fervently to Öhman. ‘Is it only the prize money and honour I will lose? No, it is a life of work, and every hope I have. I know what I say. If we take the prize, and the Count dies, it is a scandal, and if we do not take the prize, and he dies, it is a sensation. Either way we lose, because the world loves to prick bubbles, tear down idols, discredit. It is history. It is true. I know what awaits Dr. Garrett and myself-infamy-as if we had foisted on the public a hoax, a lie. We know better, but we will not convince mankind in a lifetime. Only when we are dead, and others live because of us, will we be honoured again. No, I repeat, it is not the loss of the prize alone that troubles me. It is the loss of our standings, our grants, our co-operation, our future work. A generation will suffer for this one man’s death. Dr. Garrett and I do not go down alone. Progress in medicine goes down with us.’ He halted and stared from Öhman to Garrett. ‘I want to prevent that regression. I want to fight for that one man-because that way, we fight for all men.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Garrett.

Farelli looked at him. ‘For the same reasons?’

‘For none other.’

Öhman had been observing the exchange with awe. He felt Farelli’s hand on his arm.

‘Dr. Öhman,’ said the Italian, ‘go back to the surgery where you belong. Keep an eye on the patient. Do what you can. Dr. Garrett and I wish to consult on this privately. Make no announcements. Show no white flag. Stand by your post. In a while, Dr. Garrett and I will come to you-for better or for worse.’

Dazed, obedient, Öhman came out of the chair and left the room.

The second that the door closed, Farelli wheeled towards Garrett. ‘I meant every word I said to him.’

‘I know you did,’ said Garrett.

‘I could not tell him everything, but to you I can reveal. I know very well what you have thought of me this past week-that I am an egotist, a promoter, a self-seeker who wishes too much credit for himself. It is not so, but it must appear that way to you, who are so quiet and self-effacing, an honest man of the laboratory. I was raised in Milan, Dr. Garrett. It is a busy and prosperous city, but not if you are poor and outside. My father sold spoiled fruit for what you call pennies. My mother scrubbed other people’s dirty clothes. We lived in a shanty, six of us, wearing rags and sick from malnutrition. I robbed and cheated and procured for pimps, as a street boy, to go to school and escape and be better. The whole story is too long-but when you come from that, Dr. Garrett, you are always insecure, you want never to go back, you live in fright, and your body emits the stench of fear. I was so driven that I was made twice the man I was-and by perseverance and fright and a good Lord in the heaven, I made my discovery which is truly ours. But for all of this-and I swear it-I would willingly sink back to the past, if that one old man in that room could be made to live. It is because today I realize, maybe the first time, I am more a healer than an opportunist who wants self-survival above all else. That old man must live-and to devil with this prize and all prizes-because our work must not die. That is how I feel.’

Garrett tried to smile his understanding but could not. ‘I have stopped thinking of two people-Farelli and Garrett-and begun thinking of only one-Count Ramstedt. My personal concerns have left me. They’ve been made too small to live on a morning like this.’

‘But now, what is to be done, Dr. Garrett? I told the Swede I want to fight for that one man. It was bravery without arms. I can think of nothing. I depend on you.’

Garrett received Farelli’s dependence upon him without feeling superiority, but with all the comfort that collaboration often produced. He had left the butt of his cigar in an ashtray, and now he retrieved it, and lit it, thinking all the while. His head had never been clearer.

‘One idea keeps recurring,’ said Garrett, as he slowly circled the room. ‘Even though we have learned to neutralize the rejection mechanism with Anti-reactive Substance S, I have had my secret fears about potential steroid dangers-the side effects, that is. And so I always sought to improve it. I have never written this in a paper, but once, for a period, I experimented on dogs with another version of the serum, an anti-histamine I called Anti-reactive Substance AH-and the early experiments were remarkably effective.’

‘Substance AH?’

‘Yes. While it’s been somewhat less reliable than the steroid version in blocking phlogistic response, it has been far superior in other respects-more selective-more effective in holding off the rejection, yet permitting immunity, strong immunity, against infection.’

‘Would it be possible?’ Farelli wondered.

‘I have never tried this mixture on a human being,’ said Garrett. ‘I intended to do more experiments on animal specimens when I returned to-’

‘Dr. Garrett, I would be willing to take the chance here, now,’ said Farelli suddenly. ‘Can it be prepared here?’

‘Easily,’ said Garrett, but his mind was elsewhere. ‘If only we had some insurance,’ he mused.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If there were something else in the event that this failed.’

Farelli pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘We could try a modified outside pump, a portable pump-’

Garrett shook his head. ‘Too impermanent. I am thinking-you know-possibly-’ He halted, privately weighing something.

‘Possibly what?’

‘Something else is on my mind,’ said Garrett slowly, ‘something more permanent. I hesitated, because it is premature. Still-at a time like this-’

‘Please-what is it, Dr. Garrett?’

‘In this last year since our discovery, I have gone along on an entirely new offshoot, new tangent, of cardiac grafting. I have not published preliminary data, because I have not gone far-there has not been time-but I must openly confess what I have in mind. As you doubtless know, there is one tissue that can survive the rejection mechanism-I refer to living embryonic tissue. It is virtually nonreactive-it doesn’t have any antigenic specificity. I confirmed this, to my satisfaction, with recent tests on rats. I determined to attempt a pancreas transplantation. I started by transferring a mature pancreas from one adult rat to another, and it wouldn’t grow at all, it was rejected. Then I did something else. I typed a rat’s estrogen cycle to find out when the rat was pregnant, and then-listen to this-at an early stage, I took pancreas tissue out of the fœtus-although pancreatic tissue per se was not the object-and grafted this embryonic tissue into another rat, and, Dr. Farelli, it grew healthy and strong. It was not rejected at all. I kept wondering if the same could be undertaken, successfully, with an embryonic heart.’

Farelli was staring at Garrett, his mind bounding ahead, his temples corded with concentration. ‘But why not?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Let us say that a pregnant mother miscarries in the first trimester-’

‘Remember the obstetrician who looked in on Öhman early this morning? He has a miscarriage he is handling, under this roof, in the fourth week of gestation.’

Farelli could hardly contain himself. ‘We take this tiny four-week-old heart tissue and hook it up with an external circulation pump, induce speedy growth-even apply the new growth hormone those men down in-’

‘Wait, Dr. Farelli, you’ve given me a better idea. Why develop this four-week embryonic heart externally? Why not internally? It won’t be rejected. We graft this embryonic heart into Count Ramstedt’s groin-the way kidney transplants have been placed in the neck-a heterotopic graft. We put the embryonic heart in the inguinal area, because the blood vessels there are twice as big as-don’t you see? We hook it into the arteries and veins-we keep Count Ramstedt on Substance AH as well as Anti-reactive Substance S while the embryonic heart grows. Shortly after, as it develops, we-or Öhman, for that matter-begin to waltz it-move it into the abdominal area where it can work on bigger blood vessels.’

Garrett flung his cigar aside, and paced a moment.

‘Yes, Farelli, it is possible,’ he resumed. ‘There would be no discomfort. A woman’s pelvic site accommodates a large mass in pregnancy, enough to hold a full-grown human heart in her twelfth week. A man with a stomach tumor suffers greater displacement. Why not an embryonic heart? Then we keep injecting the new growth hormone. In four or five months, the embryonic heart, unrejected, is full-grown. It is ready for a final transplantation. Now we have everything in our favour. We keep Ramstedt alive with the anti-reactives and booster pumps. If Anti-reactive Substance AH works, we let Ramstedt go on with the calf’s heart Öhman put in this morning, plus the secondary human heart in his abdomen-they do not have to be synchronized in their beat-but, if Substance AH fails, we have this new heart-raised from an embryo-of sufficient size to transplant into the chest. It gives us our insurance-and a definitive experiment that can open an entire new avenue in the field of-’

Farelli had his big hands on Garrett’s shoulders, rocking him with love. ‘Dr. Garrett, you are a genius, a genius! When everything is lost, there is nothing more to lose-but now, I can only think of what can be gained. We will work as we have never worked before. I will get hold of Öhman and obtain that embryonic heart tissue from the miscarriage-’

‘And I’ll start preparing the new anti-reactive serum.’

For an instant, Garrett’s mind was not on the serum, but on his recent past. He had the curious feeling that he would never know the end to Mrs. Zane’s amorous dilemma. He was sorry for that-that, and the loss of Dr. Keller, crutch and friend-but suddenly he knew he did not care. For the first time in what seemed eternity, he felt released of the genetic shackles that had bound him to shadowed ancestors. He wanted to sing, but he did not, for he could never carry a tune. So he sang inside, ever so briefly, until Farelli’s musical voice blended in to conduct him back to the present.

‘We will do this wonderful experiment together,’ Farelli was saying, with enthusiasm.

‘Yes,’ said Garrett, smiling at last, ‘for better or for worse.’

It would not be until three hours later that the electric duplicating machine in the clerical office of the Caroline Hospital began to revolve, imprinting Öhman’s official release to the press:

On behalf of His Royal Highness the King, the directors of the Stockholm Caroline Hospital are pleased to announce that a heart transplant has been successfully performed on Count Rolf Ramstedt, seventy-two. The graft was dramatically accomplished by the two current Nobel Prize winners in medicine, Dr. John Garrett, of Pasadena, California, and Dr. Carlo Farelli, of Rome, assisted by Dr. Erik Öhman, of the Caroline staff. Early complications were overcome by the two brilliant visiting laureates, working side by side as a team, through improvisations based on their earlier experiments. As a result of the Ramstedt case, the directors of the Caroline Hospital believe that a new method, to supplement the Garrett-Farelli method that is being honoured in Concert Hall this afternoon, has been found for cases where organ transplantation is rejected by the immunity mechanism which…

It was 11.14 in the morning.

Andrew Craig, one knee pressing his tan, lightweight valise to his bedroom floor, grunted as he tightened and fastened the straps of his luggage. Tired of awaiting Leah’s return from Dalarna, Craig had begun to empty his drawers and cupboard ten minutes before, throwing his effects helter-skelter, without care or economy, into his luggage. Now the necessary task was finished. What remained was to telephone the portier downstairs and request a boy to move his bag, and the formal evening suit he had left out on its hanger for the afternoon Ceremony, to the single room he had arranged to have for his last night in Stockholm. After that, there were two pieces of writing required of him-the curt, decisive note to Leah, and the speech he must create before five o’clock.

He lifted himself off the valise, carried it into the sitting-room, and then started back to his bedroom telephone, when the front door buzzer intercepted him. He expected it to be Leah, at last, and he would be spared writing the note to her. But it was a young page, instead, offering him a sealed envelope on a silver tray.

Somewhat mystified, Craig took the envelope, and told the page to wait a moment. Walking back to his bed, to find a one-krona tip in his sport jacket pocket, he tore open the envelope. On a single sheet of hotel stationery was hastily scrawled a brief message:

DEAR ANDREW, I have been thinking about everything, and I would like to see you once more, if you want to see me. I have something important to tell you. I’ll be in my room at 12.30 sharp. Ring me then. EMILY.

Craig came alive with hope. He read the message again, and then reread it a second time. Why had she put a boundary to their reunion-‘would like to see you once more’? And what was the ‘something important’ she had to tell him? His immediate elation now became earth-bound. Was this to be a courtesy farewell, a more sensible explanation as to why she would never see him after Stockholm? But then, he tried to see the brighter side of it. After an emotional breaking-off, she had reconsidered. She would see him. The message was almost affectionate. She would see him, and that was all that mattered, and after that, it would be up to him.

He remembered the page at the front door, quickly separated a one-krona coin from his copper and silver change, and hurried back to the bearer of good tidings.

Paying the page, he inquired, ‘Who gave you this note to deliver?’

‘A lady, sir.’

‘A pretty lady with dark hair and green eyes?’

‘I did not notice her eyes, sir, but she was very pretty.’

‘Was she coming in or going out?’

‘She was going out, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Craig closed the door, read the note a fourth time as he returned to his bedroom, and decided that there would be no use in trying to get in touch with Emily earlier than she had suggested. She was out, probably last-minute shopping, and hope would have to be deferred until 12.30. Then he realized that he had forgotten to ask the page to move his valise and evening clothes.

Before he could reach the telephone, he heard the front door slam. He stopped short, listening. He heard footsteps. Someone was in the sitting-room. Was it the chambermaid, or was it-?

He went into the sitting-room.

Leah Decker was removing her hat and coat before the mirror, and when he emerged from the bedroom, she saw the reflection of him join her in the mirror.

‘Andrew-’

She dropped coat and hat in the nearest chair, and turned towards him, her severely bunned hair glistening from dried flakes, and her face pinker and ruddier from the outdoors than he had ever known it to be.

She started towards him. ‘Andrew, it was divine up north. You simply haven’t been to Sweden until you’ve seen Lake Siljan in the winter-everyone ice skating and skiing-and tobogganing-like back home-only so much more fun. I think we should-’

Her eyes had gone past the tan valise, bulging, strapped, travelled back to it, considered it, and then met his own gaze with puzzlement.

‘You packed by yourself. Why the hurry? We aren’t leaving until tomorrow night.’

He knew that he would not be writing the note to her. ‘You are leaving tomorrow night-by yourself. I am leaving when I please-by myself. Starting right now. This is our last time together.’

‘Andrew! Have you been drinking or what?’

‘Get off it, Lee.’

Suddenly she made the pretence of understanding his motive. ‘Oh-I bet I know what’s got into you. You tried to see your German girl friend, and she told you I-’

‘I won’t even bother about that,’ said Craig. ‘God knows, that was bad enough-but the other thing you’ve done is infinitely worse. You’ve behaved like an unbelievable weekend bitch in an old Broadway play. You’ve saddled me with a lie I never deserved. I won’t forgive you for it, and I never want to set eyes on you again.’

Leah was a study in confusion. ‘Andrew, I haven’t the faintest idea what’s-’

‘You haven’t? You really haven’t? You can’t think of one rotten thing you’ve done to me in the last-’

‘No, of course not!’

‘How convenient-Instant Amnesia,’ said Craig bitterly. ‘All right, maybe I can help refresh your memory. Ever since Harriet’s death, you’ve led me to believe I was responsible. I had some drinks, and lost control of the car, and I killed my wife. That’s been the story, hasn’t it?’

Leah’s eyes had widened, and involuntarily her hand had gone to her cheek, elbow extended, as if ready to avert a blow.

Craig went on relentlessly. ‘All that time, you knew the truth. You had the report from the police. About the tie rod breaking under my car, and swerving us into the skid. All that time, you knew it was an accident, and that you were supposed to have reported it to me, and you didn’t. The police thought you had told me-as any normal human being with compassion would-but you did not. You burdened me with a false guilt instead. You lied to Lucius and you lied to me. Why, Leah? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

Leah’s face had transformed before his eyes to something lame and hunted. ‘Who says that’s the truth? Where did you hear that cock-and-bull story? It’s not the truth at all. Ask Sheriff Hollinder if you don’t-’

‘Sheriff Hollinder,’ he said savagely, ‘Miller’s Dam-what in the hell does he know? But I know who does know. We cracked up just over the line, in Marquette County. The record of the accident is in the police files in Pikestown. A photocopy of the accident report you kept from me is right here in Stockholm.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, weakening, not believing herself.

‘How could you be so stupid? Couldn’t you know that nothing on earth is ever secret-no truth, no lie-as long as we are born in public, and live and die in public, as long as we are part of a community? And how could you be so vicious? That’s the part I don’t understand. Wasn’t my loss, my grief, enough for one man to bear-without the added guilt you superimposed on these last three years? I might have drunk myself to death, shot myself.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t. You have too much-’ But then she stopped, for she had conceded his truth, and realized it, and had more defence.

‘I think I’ve understood you since I’ve learned the truth, but I’ve hated to face this insight into you. You were willing to sacrifice me for yourself. You wanted me in total servitude, didn’t you? You wanted me entirely beholden to you-a prisoner to your commands and whims-or was it something else? Was it that you wanted security?’

Leah asserted her last claim to self-respect. ‘I didn’t need you. I had Harry Beazley in Chicago all the time, and you know it.’

‘Well, you have him now, Leah, and you latch on to him while you still can. You go back to Chicago and marry that poor bastard, and put a ring in his nose and nag him and try to make him what you want him to be and drive him to drink-make him inadequate you to make yourself-’

The last frame of her composure had crumpled, and she was bared to every thrust. ‘Oh, Andrew, please don’t-’

He had no more stomach for this one-sided carnage. ‘I’ve taken another room. You can stay for the Ceremony. I’m changing our flight tickets. Your plane stops at Chicago. Don’t bother to come to Miller’s Dam. I’ll send you your things.’

‘Andrew-?’

‘I’m getting rid of the place-the house, furniture, guilts-one tidy parcel. I’ll miss Harriet, but she’s in my heart, not in Miller’s Dam, and I’ll miss Lucius-and for the rest, to hell with it.’

‘What are you going to do? You can’t-’

‘I’m going to do what I started to do before I met Harriet. I’m going to find a spot on a high hill over the Pacific-not an artists’ colony, but a place-and I’m going to write.’

‘Write? That’ll be the day. From inside a bottle-’

He stared at her and was sick of the sight of her. ‘Right now, I’m going to ring for a page.’

He strode into his bedroom, and she knew that it was the end, and was right behind him, trembling. ‘Andrew, listen-listen-’

‘Listen?’ He had whirled about to confront her one last time. ‘The way I’ve been listening for three years? The way Emily Stratman listened? You have no talent but for destruction.’

‘Andrew, hear me-don’t be cruel. You’re a writer, you’re supposed to have understanding-try to understand me, let me live by understanding me.’

He hated this, but sensed that he must endure it to be rid of her.

‘You’re wrong,’ she was saying, ‘so wrong about why-why I did what I did. I don’t know why really-or maybe I do now-but it wasn’t to make you my slave, owing me something, or to hold you down or keep you under my thumb. It was-it was something else-’

She choked, and had a spasm of coughing, and he waited.

‘What was it, Leah?’ And he realized that he had ceased to call her Lee. ‘What made you-?’

‘From the beginning-with my father, my mother, the relatives-it was always Harriet-Harriet this, Harriet that-Harriet because she was older, smarter, better-looking, always being praised-when we were kids, when we went to school-and even boy friends and career-Harriet was the one-the shining one. And when she got married, I knew it would be that way again-she with somebody famous and rich-a professional man, a writer-and me scraping along in some hole with an underpaid, nobody schoolteacher-always the one they almost forgot to invite-or write-or think about. It would be poor Leah, let’s not forget Leah, now remember Leah. And then-then-’

Her bosom heaved and settled, and she tried to go on.

‘And then the horrible thing happened to Harriet-to my sister-and I felt shame for all my years of wishing her dead-for all my days of secret envy-and then, almost naturally, because there was an opening that fitted me, and there was no one else, I was there in Miller’s Dam, in her place, in her kitchen and cupboards and garden-and, I don’t know how to explain it, it was like a dream-to be Harriet, have all her advantages, the position, the security, a husband whose name was in the papers-to overnight be Harriet, not poor Leah, it was like a miracle-like God giving me a chance to change my life over-and when you got well, when you recovered, it was like the clock striking midnight, and all my dreams falling away, because then I knew I wasn’t Harriet but poor Leah, and the house wasn’t mine, and Harriet’s husband wasn’t my husband-and I got scared-I was never more scared in my life. You’d leave, I kept thinking, go back to your kind of people, and someday find another Harriet-and I’d have no chance, because I wasn’t in Harriet’s class, I was an impostor, a fake Harriet, and you’d see it-and I couldn’t bear the idea of having tasted what I had, what I’d dreamt of all my life, and then losing it forever.

‘And then some kind of craziness came over me, because you weren’t gone yet, and I began to imagine that maybe I could be Harriet-maybe I could show you-maybe it would work-and so-I don’t know-at first, I didn’t mind your drinking, because it made you depend on me like when you were convalescing and mourning-it made you need me-and then I started to hate the drinking, because it made you not you, not Harriet’s you, and our life wasn’t Harriet’s life, and you didn’t even know I existed as Harriet or Leah-and still, I would not let go-that’s why I couldn’t show you the accident report-I always meant to-but the lie slipped out, and then I couldn’t take it back-maybe didn’t want to-but this is why it all happened the way it did-for no other reason-and I’m sick with remorse-and I admit it-and I want your forgiveness, Andrew-your forgiveness, please, that’s all.’

This had gone beyond a cry for compassion and charity. This had been a plea for clemency of the soul. Craig recognized it as such, and knew that he could not condemn her to a lifetime in purgatory.

‘I’m sorry, Lee, you know I am. I forgive you, of course. If I were a judge, I’d simply say-I sentence you to yourself. There are worse things.’ He paused. ‘You do know who you are now, don’t you, Lee?’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘It’s not so bad being Leah Decker, person, if you will be true to her. Do as I’ve told you. Go to Chicago, and go to that man Beazley. He’s waiting. Enjoy what he has to offer and what you can be. Yes, Lee, I forgive you and wish you well, I truly do. We’ve both lost Harriet, and we needn’t forget her, but it’s no use living any longer with a ghost. One day, when it is all forgotten, I think we might be friends.’

‘I want to be friends, Andrew. I’ll need that.’

‘All right, then. We’ll both say farewell to Harriet. She had her time on earth. Let’s enjoy what is left of ours. I don’t know if we can any more, but let’s try. Shall we?’

‘Yes, Andrew.’

‘Good-bye, Lee.’

‘Good-bye.’

She backed off, and ran to her room. Craig sighed, lifted the receiver, and asked for the portier’s desk.

It was 12.26 in the afternoon.

Emily Stratman, invigorated by the sharp, white winter’s day, came back to her uncle’s suite breathless. She had taken a taxi from Kungsgatan, repeatedly consulting her wristwatch. At the portier’s desk, accepting her key, she had been impatient when the clerk delayed her to report that there had been three urgent telephone calls for her uncle in the last half-hour, but no messages. ‘The party was most insistent,’ the portier had said. ‘He wanted to know when you or Professor Stratman would return.’ Emily had hesitated a moment. ‘Are you sure Professor Stratman isn’t in? He intended to be.’ Then she had dismissed it, and started for the elevator, calling back. ‘I suppose something came up. Anyway, I’m here, so put his calls through to me.’ In the elevator, she had chafed at its slowness, then hurried down the corridor, fearful that she would miss Craig’s telephone call.

But now she was here on time, in fact with several minutes to spare. She dropped her gift parcels on the entry table, lifted a foot to push off one of the overshoes she had borrowed, and then the other, both still wet from the snow, and thinking all the time of what she had done and what might come of it.

She had sent the message to Craig this morning, on an impulse born of the meeting with Lilly at Nordiska Kompaniet. For hours in bed the night before, she had lain awake, examining what Lilly had told her, examining her own life and character, examining her feelings towards Craig. Eventually she had slept, but by breakfast, she had known that she must see Craig once more. Nothing could come of it, she knew, but her affection for him was too great to allow their memories of each other to recall only the last meeting. He deserved more of her, and it was necessary that she explain herself to him. She would not reveal all of herself. That would be impossible. She never had to anyone, not even Uncle Max, and she never would in her life. But she would try to communicate something of it, some part, to Craig, so that he would know why she had acted as she had, and why she could never go on with him.

She had not sent for him immediately in the morning because she had wanted to be by herself, in the clear air, on the snow-lined pavements, to sort out her thoughts and decide what she must say to Craig. Shopping had been the lesser activity, the self-subterfuge, and so she had walked and absently shopped and given her memory rare freedom. Now she was ready.

Going into the sitting-room, unbuttoning her coat, the possibility arose that Craig might not call her at all. Perhaps he had not received her message. Or, perhaps he wanted no more of her. The last could be, but she did not seriously believe it. In any case, his curiosity would make him respond. That, and also the fact that he was a gentleman.

For the first time, she saw the note propped against the lamp on the end table, where the sitting-room telephone also rested. The handwriting was familiar:

Had to suddenly go out to a business lunch. See you soon. Room service says your gown will be back at 3. Love, UNCLE MAX.

It surprised Emily that Uncle Max had gone out. When she had left to shop, he was still clumping about in his faded woollen robe and bedroom slippers. He intended, he had said, to spend the entire day resting and relaxing, so that he would have all his strength for carrying the medallion and diploma from the King. It was terrible, she decided now, the way the Swedes gave him no rest, a man of his years. But today was the last day of it, and then there would be fewer obligations.

Inevitably, her mind went out to Craig. Anxiety mounted. It was 12.29. He should be calling her any second.

And then the telephone on the end table rang.

She snatched up the receiver, but tried to keep her tone calm. ‘Hello?’

‘Miss Emily Stratman, please?’ It was not Craig’s low, mellifluous voice, but a thin high Swedish voice.

‘This is Miss Stratman-’

‘Miss Stratman? Do not be alarmed. I call for Professor Max Stratman. At lunch, he suffered from the effects of a mild heart attack.’

‘Heart attack? Oh, no-’

‘Do not worry, Miss Stratman. He is in the best hands. He is having medical attention this moment.’

‘What happened? How is he? Is it serious?’

‘A mild coronary, Miss Stratman. He has asked-’

‘Who is this? Where is he?’

‘I am one of the attending physicians-Dr. Öhman-and Professor Stratman is now resting easily. He has asked to see you. I think it would be wise if you-’

‘Where? Tell me where. I’ll be right over.’

‘If you will be so kind as to write this down-’

‘Wait-wait-’

Blindly, she sought for her pen in her coat, then remembered that it was in her handbag, and she found it and returned to the phone.

‘Go ahead-please hurry-’

‘Take a taxi to Sahlins Sjukhus. It is a small private clinic on the way to the Southern Hospital-two blocks before, on Ringvägen. Your driver will know exactly. I will be waiting for you.’

‘I’ll leave immediately.’

‘Miss Stratman-one point more. Professor Stratman reminds me it is imperative that you mention this emergency to no one. He is most desirous of avoiding publicity. I believe you understand.’

‘Tell him not to worry!’

She hung up, tore off the bottom of Uncle Max’s note, where she had written the name of the clinic, clasped her handbag tightly, and rushed to the door. As she reached it, the telephone began to ring again. She knew this was Craig, but could not wait to explain-and remembered that her uncle wanted no one to know-and she let the phone continue its monotonous peal, and kept going, half running, to the elevator.

When she emerged from the hotel lobby, almost falling on the slippery pavement, she started to call for a taxi, but at once a small Volvo with a meter drew up before her. She hurried inside it, as the uniformed doorman saluted her and closed the car door.

The driver, a gentle, elderly man wearing a chauffeur’s cap and rimless spectacles, turned inquiringly.

‘Sahlins Sjukhus-a clinic before you reach the Southern Hospital-do you know?’

‘Yes, fröken, I take you.’

‘Please hurry.’

He bobbed his head, shifting the gears, and the car jostled and they were off.

The city sped by, white on white, the dim sun in the grey sky and the snowfall spent and the air blue-clean, but Emily was hardly aware of it. All that she could think was that Uncle Max had suffered a heart attack in this remote, faraway land, this foreign place, and that she was frightened for him and alone. Once she wondered if his visits to Dr. Ilman had been about his heart-she had always thought it strong and immortal-but none of that mattered, for now it had happened. She wondered if the Swedish doctor had told her the truth. Was the coronary a mild one? Was Uncle Max even alive? Yet he had sent for her. He must be conscious.

And then, before she realized it, the taxi had drawn up to a kerb, and from the window she could see a narrow brick building, two pillars, two windows, a black door between. The elderly driver had come around to help her out, but she was through the snow and then on the pavement, before he reached her.

She fumbled for her change purse and gave him a five-kronor note. ‘Never mind,’ she said.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said, touching his cap visor. He pointed. ‘In that door, Miss Stratman.’

She had already started towards the door, but she stopped now. ‘How did you know my name?’

The driver bowed. ‘The doorman of the Grand Hotel has pointed you out to us.’

It did not seem odd, and Uncle Max was waiting. Hastily, she went into the clinic. She was not surprised to find a blond, brawny Swedish intern, with wrists of a mechanic, solicitude written on his features, waiting to meet her.

‘Miss Stratman?’

She acknowledged her identity.

‘I will take you to Professor Stratman.’

He led her, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet which were shod in white tennis shoes, to the end of the short hall, then opened a door. She was in a reception room. The intern held open a second door.

‘The doctor is waiting for you,’ he said.

She hurried into the office. The shutters had been drawn, and except for two lamps at the far end, the room was in shadows. She made out a chair before a glass-topped brown desk, and behind the desk, a tall swivel chair, and behind the swivel chair, his back to her, the doctor.

‘Dr. Öhman-’

‘Miss Stratman.’ He spoke before turning from the parted blinds. Unhurriedly, he reset the blinds, and at last, he turned to welcome her. ‘I am not Dr. Öhman,’ he said. ‘I am Dr. Hans Eckart. Please do sit down.’

‘My uncle-’

‘Sit down.’

She clutched at the chair arm and lowered herself to the chair edge. Eckart had come to the desk, and now he sat across from her, smiling reassuringly. She was not reassured. She had come into the office expecting a Swedish doctor, but the appearance of this doctor, unknown to her specifically, was known to her generally, had inhabited in many shapes her remembrance of times past, for the haircut, the monocle, the Prussian severity were all German, and she was repelled.

‘Professor Stratman-my uncle-where is he?’ she managed to ask. ‘How is he?’

‘He is quite well, I should presume. For an old man with a cardiac irregularity, he appears wonderfully active,’ said Eckart. ‘As to where he is, I have no more idea than you. For the last hour, I have tried to locate him.’

‘But you called-you said he had a heart-’

‘Yes, when I learned that he had not returned to the hotel, but that you had, I directed someone to telephone you. I am sincerely regretful it was necessary to frighten you with a fabrication. But it was necessary to bring you here on some pretext, so that I might speak to you. I had already spoken to your uncle some days ago. And I would have preferred to speak to your uncle again today. Since he was unavailable, it became important to have you here in his stead. As his proxy, so to speak.’ Eckart’s fingers drummed the desk, and he seemed to consider her through the monocle. ‘Yes, I am sure you will do very well. In matters like this, I am sure you and your uncle can speak in one voice.’

‘In matters like what?’

Unaccountably, Emily dreaded to hear his reply. She sat straight in her chair. No facial muscle, no body or limb muscle, moved. Only the invisible antenna of her intuition now felt malignity and malevolence.

Eckart did not answer her question directly. It was as if he savoured one more circumlocution. ‘If your uncle is ill at all,’ Eckart was saying suavely, ‘it is a moral illness that he suffers. You are here because I want you to assist us in curing him of this infirmity. I want you to assist us in making Professor Stratman recover his sense and his moral health.’

She wanted to give him no satisfaction of weakness. She knew Germans. But, despite herself, her voice quavered. ‘You are not a doctor?’

‘If you mean-medical doctor-you are correct, I am not. My doctorate is in physics. My acquaintance with Professor Stratman goes back to our early years in Berlin.’

In the deepest pit of her stomach, she was terrified. ‘What do you-what do you want of me?’

‘Little enough,’ said Eckart, as hospitable as if this were a light-hearted tête-à-tête. ‘We are not interested in you at all. We are interested in Professor Stratman. Your value to us is only as a means to an end.’

‘You still haven’t said-’

‘What we are after?’ Eckart pressed his monocle into the ridges below his brow and above his cheekbone. ‘You are correct to be so businesslike. You want to have this-this unusual drama done-so that you may return to your author friend. Yes.’ He took a chained gold watch from his vest and studied it. ‘There is not much time from now to the Ceremony, so I will be as businesslike as you.’ He leaned back in the swivel chair, and the spring protested twice. ‘Your uncle is a German who turned his back on his Fatherland in its hour of most dire need, to lend his support to exploiters and capitalists, the warmonger clique, who are the masters of so called democratic America. His genius, in a wrong cause, distresses us in East Berlin deeply. We have one object, and I have one assignment-to make Professor Stratman cease his dangerous tinkering-so harmful to world peace-for an irresponsible society, and to make him come to his senses and return to his beloved Fatherland. He is a German, and-’

‘He is not a German!’ Emily shouted.

Eckart scowled. ‘You think you can change your blood with a paper of naturalization? I did not take you for a foolish child. Your uncle himself, Professor Stratman-in the latter days of the war, when we were at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute together-used to tell a story. I have not forgotten it. His story makes my point. One day, a wealthy American businessman was strolling with Professor Charles Steinmetz, the famous engineer who was deformed, past a synagogue in New York. “You know, Steinmetz,” said the businessman, “I used to be a Jew.” And Steinmetz said to him, “Yes, and you know, I used to be a humpback.” There is the story. Your uncle is a German, and before the eyes of the world, he shall be again-when he defects from the decadent West.’

Emily heard this out with smouldering anger. ‘Nothing-nothing on earth-would make him go back to you.’

‘I hope you are wrong, Miss Stratman. And I hope I am not wrong in judging that your good sense coincides with your uncle’s good sense.’

‘About what? I still don’t know what you’re trying to say.’

‘I’m only trying to say in my diplomat’s way-forgive the verbosity-that there just may be something on earth that might help Max Stratman make the change.’

‘No.’

‘If not something, then someone. For someone, to save someone, perhaps Max Stratman might reconsider.’

Emily’s mood of fearlessness, fanned by hatred and a feeling of unreality that isolated her from this improbable interview, persisted. ‘Am I the someone?’ she asked, suddenly. ‘Are you threatening to hold me, abduct me? Is that what?’

Eckart removed his monocle, shaking his head as if genuinely offended. ‘My-my-Miss Stratman-America has spoilt you, too. I believe you are all victims of those glorifying gangster films on television and in the cinema. I promise you-we do not drop hostages in canals and such nonsense. We have more civilized means.’

‘There’s nothing you can do to me to make me or my uncle-’

‘Nothing, Miss Stratman? No barter at all? Are you so certain?’

Suddenly the self-righteous fury went out of her, and she was less certain. ‘I repeat it-nothing. You can kill me-’

‘Please, Miss Stratman, do not offend me again. I am a scientist and a scholar, not a savage. You are my guest, and I am your host. In the end, you shall see, we will both benefit from this brief meeting. You have someone I want-your uncle-and I have someone you want.’

Eckart had been leaning forward, but now he was erect in the chair, adjusting his monocle to its place. Deliberately, he rose, pulled his short suit jacket straight, and slowly he came around the desk, ignoring Emily as he went to the door through which she had entered.

Emily’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair, and the pulses of her wrists throbbed, as she turned to watch him.

He opened the door to the reception room, and he was nodding to someone out of sight. ‘All right,’ he was saying, ‘she is ready to see you.’

Eckart stepped aside, almost deferentially (how curious), like a chamberlain about to announce the entry of nobility, and at once the figure of an elderly man filled the doorway. The light of the reception room was behind him, and the office was darkened, so that momentarily he was only an outline in black.

Slowly, he shuffled-was there a barely perceptible limp?-into the room, towards Emily, the colourless black of his outline giving way to human features and figure. He came past Emily, and then hesitantly around in front of her, and a few feet before her he halted, as if to inspect her and himself be inspected.

Now, at last, he was clearly visible to her troubled eyes, a stocky old man, slightly bent beneath time, attired in a heavy dark grey unfashionable worsted suit, the suit wrinkled and rumpled as if he had travelled steadily in it and had had no time to send for the valet. She stared without embarrassment, not because he was unusual, but because he was so usual, so almost known and faintly familiar, like one whose face you cannot quite place or whose name is almost at the tip of your tongue.

His head and face held her. The head was massive on a short thick column of neck. The hair was sparse but sufficient, shining white and carefully combed sideways from a wide part above one ear. The face was chapped rough red, all symmetrical and firm despite streaks of age, except for the prominently bulbous nose, which disconcerted her because it was known to her.

Still mystified and curiously detached, Emily could see that the kindly red face-so familiar, so once-known-was alive with emotion, the eyes watery and blinking, the bulbous nose sniffling, the lips trembling.

The familiar stranger swallowed and shook his head. ‘You do not recognize me, my little goose?’

That instant she recognized him, or thought she did, and even as her knotted fists pulled her to the edge of the chair, looking up at him, she rejected the possibility. Yet the bulbous nose, the timbre of his voice, the intangible cord between them that was drawing her out of the chair and unsteadily to her feet, could not be dismissed. Above all, the phrase of endearment this stranger had used so easily, so naturally, as if this was homecoming and they had simply resumed again. My little goose. Where had she heard it before and from whom? Where… back and back and backward the years… when he had carried her round and round the old, oak-lined living-room, on his shoulders, aloft, propping her high, holding her, round and round, faster and faster, as she squealed and kicked, and he laughed and laughed… little goose, little goose… and again, again, leaving her, beribboned, groomed, starched, wide-eyed and pale, at the gymnasium with the frocked teacher… you are growing, a young lady now, my little goose… and once more, with pain, with wrenching… in the drizzle, at the door, down the steps to the street between the efficient, unsentimental brown-shirts… I will write, Rebecca, I will have you out, soon, soon… soon, Rebecca… soon, my little goose…

His caress of love. Only his. No other.

She stood before him now, clamped immobile by a paralysis of disbelief. The massive, venerable face blurred an instant and then an instant stood in bold relief, as if cut from granite and now weather-beaten: the matted white hair, the tear-filled brown eyes, the working stubbled jaw.

Eckart’s brisk voice was behind her, engulfing the incredible seconds and dim years, captioning the moment. ‘Miss Stratman-you must know him, of course-Walther Stratman, your father-’

‘Papa.’ Her voice spoke, not she, to herself, not to the familiar stranger.

‘-missing, but not dead, it turns out,’ Eckart went on behind her. ‘He’s been alive all these years-in custody of the Russians after he helped your uncle escape-working for his captors. But now he is here in neutral Stockholm. It is a miracle I have managed for you-he is free at last.’

The face of the old familiar stranger was nodding, nodding. ‘Yes, Emily, it is Walther-your papa. I know how you feel this minute-as I feel-the shock, the incredibility-but we are alive, my little goose-and together-the darkness gone, forgotten-from now on together, always. I am free, Emily.’

‘Papa,’ her voice said aloud.

And suddenly his rough red face slipped away, sucked slowly into the gaping vortex of the spinning room, and she felt herself moving into the vortex, too. Desperately, she tried to keep her balance, hold on to the something inside, the upright thing you held to keep straight, but she felt it crack beneath her, and she let go and abandoned herself to the airiness of the spinning room. For the eternity of a second, she hung suspended and legless, and then the carpet floated up into vision, and the coarse nap of the carpet was on her cheeks and mouth, and after that, the far voices and enormous shoes, and after that only blackness, star-peppered, and then blackness and blackness…

It was two o’clock in the afternoon.

Seated on the side of the double bed, in the unfamiliar single room on the fifth floor that he had moved into, Andrew Craig dropped the telephone receiver back on the cradle in despair. For an hour and a half, every fifteen or twenty minutes, he had been ringing Emily’s suite without getting a response. If she had been accidentally delayed, why had he not heard from her? The only answer was that she had regretted the message she had sent him, and was purposely avoiding the telephone.

He rose, jittery with frustration, and decided that some activity would calm him down. His valise stood on the baggage table, still not unpacked. He loosened the straps, set the suitcase flat, unlocked it, and began to throw his effects into a cupboard drawer. He passed fifteen minutes in this way, and when the valise was empty, there was nothing more to do. There was, as a matter of fact, his acceptance speech to write, but he had no interest in it.

He filled his pipe, and considered phoning Emily one last time. But it seemed pointless. She knew where he was, or could find out by asking the operator, and if she wanted to see him, she would ring.

Then, as he paced, worrying about Emily, troubled about the speech that must be written, something else occurred to him.

He strode to the telephone and asked to be connected with the portier’s desk in the lobby.

‘Yes? This is the portier.’

‘This is Andrew Craig. Tell me-the keys to the Stratman suite-Miss Emily Stratman-Professor Stratman-are both their keys in the box? I’m trying to find out if either one has returned to the hotel yet.’

‘One second, Mr. Craig.’

Craig waited, holding the receiver to his ear, and then the portier was back on the line. ‘Both keys are missing, so they must both be in. I would-one second, please hold-’ Craig heard indistinct voices, and then the portier again. ‘My colleague behind the desk tells me that Professor Stratman took his key and went up to his suite no more than ten minutes ago. And he says he believes that Miss Stratman came for her key about-it was shortly after the noon hour. So-’

‘Thank you,’ said Craig.

He hung up. That was it, then. Emily had been in her room all this while, and returned to answer his call, and had then had a change of heart and stayed away from the telephone. The important thing she had to tell him would not be told. Their reunion was not to take place.

Suddenly Craig was weary of pursuit and disappointment. If she was this way, then it was this way she would always be, and there would be no making her over. He had not the energy for these ups and downs. He would forget her. That would be for the best.

He decided that he would go downstairs, have a few drinks and a snack in the Winter Garden, and after that, there might be time enough to outline some sort of acceptance speech-a brief, conversational speech larded with the literary clichés and double-talk (where man became Man) expected on these occasions, and then, at last, it would be time to dress for the final Ceremony.

But when Craig arrived at the elevator, and pressed the button, he knew that his destination was not the Winter Garden but the Stratman suite.

Quickly traversing the red-striped corridor carpet of the third floor, he reached her front door with every intention of buzzing and knocking until Emily was forced to make an appearance and engage in a showdown, but then he found that the front door was ajar. This was better, he decided at once. He would simply walk in on her and corner her, before she could temporize and equivocate, and he then would have it out with her. As he reached for the knob, the door moved away from his touch.

A stooped chambermaid, in clean but faded green, carrying a pail of suds and brushes, a mop clenched awkwardly, was opening the door to leave.

Craig stepped aside for her, nodding politely. ‘Miss Stratman is expecting me,’ he explained, because he felt that an explanation was needed.

The chambermaid muttered an incomprehensible phrase in Swedish, and waited for Craig to enter, and then she closed the door after him.

In the entry hall, Craig hesitated on the frontier of propriety. One did not barge into other people’s private quarters unannounced, unless one was Leah, but then Craig justified his act by remembering that he had telephoned Emily often enough, and that she had wanted to see him. If she now suffered timidity or doubt, at least one of them should be the aggressor.

Nevertheless, he felt uncertain of his position as he went into the sitting-room. He looked about. The room was vacant, and quiet except for the ticking of a clock. He moved past the sofa to what he recalled to be Emily’s bedroom door, intending to call her or rap, when he was arrested by the torn note held upright between the telephone and lamp. The upper half of the note had been crossed out. It read:

Had to suddenly go out to a business lunch. See you soon. Room service says your gown will be back at 3. Love, UNCLE MAX.

Beneath these crossed out sentences was a later communique:

2.20. Liebchen-Have returned from lunch and want to rest. Do not let me oversleep. Wake me before 4 o’clock. UNCLE MAX.

Craig straightened. Emily was not in after all. He felt ashamed for having mistrusted her, and equally ashamed at this intrusion on her privacy. Whatever had detained her, he told himself, was her own business, and if she intended to telephone him, she would do so before the Ceremony. He felt better now. To hell with the Winter Garden. He would return to his room and outline the speech and wait for her.

Simultaneous with his decision came the sound of the front door buzzer. His first thought was: Emily, at last. Then his second thought corrected the first: she would not buzz, for she had a key. Well, he had no business here. He would see who it was-Emily’s gown being returned by the valet, no doubt-he would accept it, hang it up, allow old Stratman his nap, and then leave.

When he hurried into the entry to answer the buzzer, he noticed that a single sheet of white typing paper had been slipped through the crack at the bottom of the front door. He stooped to pick it up, not intending to invade privacy further by reading the typewritten message, intending only to place the message on the table, when Emily’s name leaped out of the page at him.

He read the typed words set down entirely in capital letters:

PROF. STRATMAN: IF YOU WISH TO KNOW THE WHEREABOUTS OF YOUR NIECE EMILY STRATMAN THEN OPEN THE PARCEL IMMEDIATELY AND LISTEN TO A FRIEND.

The cords in Craig’s throat constricted. The words on the sheet in his hands were bland and harmless words, but the effect was ominous. Like all Americans, so isolated from the everyday intrigues of the Old World, Craig was conditioned by lurid fiction and film, to believe that such skulduggery was as extinct as history. To even project the possibility of conspiracy, on a level lower than unreal high government circles, was to cast aside maturity and sophistication. Automatically, to one raised as he had been, all machination was the façade of what was more familiar and innocent-the practical joke.

At once, Craig rejected menace and prepared for the unfolding of the joke. He opened the front door to admit the page with his parcel. But there was no one there, which tended to confirm the joke. He poked his head into the corridor and searched off right and then left. The corridor was empty. And then his shoe bumped the parcel on the corridor floor.

Taking up the small, light parcel, meaning to place it with the ridiculous message on the entry table, he was nagged by an urgency to reread the message. Now he did so, and now he sensed jeopardy. What corroborated the threat of the message was Emily’s actual absence. She had said that she would be back in her suite at 12.30, but it was past 2.30. The thing to do, he knew, was to awaken Professor Stratman-message and parcel were directed to him-and be reproved for interrupting an old man’s rest with collegiate nonsense. His instinct was to obey the message himself, and, at worst, be accursed for a meddlesome fool. And if it was not a joke? His instinct was reinforced by a deep emotion: his stake in Emily was, by this time, as great as Stratman’s stake.

Foregoing further vacillation, Craig tugged at the strand of twine around the grey parcel, tore it off, and then peeled away the paper.

When he was finished, he held in his hand a miniature tape recorder, no more than four by five inches, constructed of black plastic. To the lower left, in white lettering, were the words ‘Record… Play… Stop’ with a tiny lever set at ‘Stop’. A slot above revealed the miniscule tape inside. And next to that was a knob with lettering beneath that read ‘Manual Rewind’. There was no trade name on the plastic machine. Craig turned it over. On the back, in a corner, imprinted black on black, were the words ‘Made in Stettin’. And then Craig saw that a coil of wire was attached to the device, and at its end, a plastic earplug, which was the speaker.

Standing in the entry hall with this novelty, Craig decided that if it was a prank, it was an expensive prank. Somehow, he did not like this, whatever it was. Indecision had disappeared. He would follow the advice in the message. He would LISTEN TO A FRIEND.

Carefully, he placed the miniature tape machine on the table, unwound the wiring, pushed the plastic earplug into his left ear, and then he switched the tiny lever from ‘Stop’ to ‘Play’.

At first, there was the rubbing of the tape, and no other sound. Suddenly, piercing his eardrum, a disembodied male voice: ‘Max, this is your old friend, Hans Eckart, addressing you. I should have preferred communicating with you in person, and, in fact, tried to do so earlier today. Since I could not locate you, I took the liberty of arranging to meet your niece. She is beside me now. Do not be alarmed in any way. She is well and the recipient of some extremely good news, which she will convey to you in a moment. Forgive my use of this melodramatic instrument, Max, but circumstances made it necessary. I might have sent Emily in person with the news, or had her telephone you, but she could have revealed our whereabouts, and that would have been troublesome. I thought to have her write you a note, but she is too excited, and moreover you might not have believed her news unless you heard it from her own lips.’

There was the briefest pause. The clipped voice spoke perfect English, yet the cadence and inflection were unmistakably Teutonic. Craig, first tense and worried when he had begun to listen, then gradually disarmed by the speaker’s informal reassurances to Max, tried to recall if he had ever heard the name of Hans Eckart. He could not remember, but before he could search his mind further, the same voice had resumed.

‘Max, as I have already told you, your niece is understandably excited by the good news that has occurred. Before I put her on-and in order to prevent any misunderstanding of what she tells you-I had better present the news first. You must prepare yourself for a shock.’

Once more, Eckart’s voice paused, and now, for the first time since Craig had started listening, an intimation of benumbing horror ran through him. He did not like ‘good news’ that had ‘excited’ Emily and would ‘shock’ Stratman. He did not like ‘good news’ that had to be transmitted in this fashion to conceal and protect the speaker’s ‘whereabouts’. He did not like or trust the ‘old friend’ unknown to him. With desperate attentiveness, he listened to the rubbing of the tape, and then the Teutonic recorded voice came on again.

‘Max, listen carefully. Your brother Walther is alive. Yes, I will repeat this for you, so there is no mistake. Walther Stratman is alive. He is here in Stockholm. He is with me in this room right now. He is seated beside Emily. They have had their reunion. I know you are stunned. I was no less amazed when I learnt the good news yesterday. When you and I met for lunch previously, it was you who declared that you had heard he was dead, killed by the Russians at the end of the war. It was I who reminded you that he was known to be missing and only presumed dead. And it was I who had to tell you that only recently he was announced as legally dead. But the fact is-by what means is of no relevance at this time-I found Walther alive and healthy in Russia. What had deceived me, all of us in East Berlin, is that these many years he has lived and worked under the name of Dr. Kurt Lipski. The metamorphosis from Walther Stratman to Kurt Lipski had been engineered by Soviet authorities immediately after the war, for reasons of security. Once I was certain of this, I convinced the Soviets that a better use could be made of a Walther resurrected than a Walther supposedly dead. I also convinced them that Walther, under proper circumstances, deserved freedom of choice as to where he wished to live and work in the future. The Soviet authorities graciously permitted Walther to be flown to neutral Sweden. He arrived this morning. He has been with me since his arrival. The moment I had him, I tried to locate you. I knew you would want to see your brother at once. Because you were unavailable, I brought Emily here, in your place, to be reunited with her father. I will now permit your niece to confirm what I have said and to speak for herself. One moment.’

Eckart’s voice stopped, as if severed by a cleaver. The rubbing of the tape was the only sound. Except for pressing the earplug deeper, Craig had made no other movement during this recital, lest he lose a single word. Even his emotions had been frozen into unnatural attitudes of diligence. He was like one who, except for ear and brain, had been turned to stone by a dark force. Craig waited and listened. But as seconds passed, his mind began to admit thoughts of Walther alive, of Emily with him, of what this must mean to Emily, of what it would mean to Max Stratman, and, inevitably, of this Eckart’s design and purpose.

The smooth passage of the tape in Craig’s ear was suddenly disturbed by a loud click, and then a female voice, more distant, came through.

‘Uncle Max, this is Emily.’ Craig was not sure. Was it Emily? He had anticipated an ‘excited’ tone. The feminine voice was lackadaisical. Craig concentrated. The feminine voice resumed. ‘Uncle Max, it is Emily. They brought me here to meet Papa. At first I didn’t recognize him, and then I did. It is Papa. Yes. There is no mistake or trick. He is well-he is-he is in good spirits, and wants to see you, too. It’s all so sudden and surprising-I’m afraid I’m mixed up. Actually, when I saw him-’

The feminine voice stopped abruptly, edited out. Now Craig was sure, more than sure, positive. The tape was true. The voice flat and low, oddly disinterested and heavy with sleep as if drugged, was the voice of Emily Stratman, and none other.

That moment, Emily’s voice dragged through the earplug, verifying Craig’s suspicion. ‘-but now, because of the way I am, so mixed up, they gave me sedation, and I must rest a little while. Uncle Max, I’m so confused I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what will happen.’ The blank tape took over, until Emily’s tired voice rode it once more. ‘Uncle Max, Dr. Eckart says the Russians have agreed to let Papa go free and live in America if you will take the job that was offered to you-the job in the university in East Berlin. I don’t know what to say. I can’t think. Dr. Eckart will explain. I don’t want you to do it. You can’t do it. But I don’t want them to take Papa back either.’ The slightest pause, and then Emily was saying, ‘They tell me to assure you I am not in danger, and whatever you decide, I will be released tonight after the Nobel Ceremony. At that time, they will either take Papa back or take you.’ Suddenly Emily’s voice pitched higher, came alive in agitation, defying her sedation, and then broke. ‘Oh, Uncle Max, they want you, but please, please-’ The next portion was edited out, and only the last of Emily’s plea was retained. ‘-what is best for you.’ The tape rubbed on and on.

Shaken, Craig stared down at the miniature recorder. Through the upper slot, he could see that three-quarters of the tiny spool had run its course, and one quarter remained to be unreeled. He waited.

The Teutonic male voice had returned, but now, in some subtle way, changed, more clipped, more positive, more confident. ‘Max, you have just heard your niece address you without coercion. Everything she has told you-about your brother’s presence, her own situation, your necessity to make a decision-is true. I will spell out our terms-let us say our offer to you-precisely. I ask you to listen with attention. It is our desire that you defect from the West and join the peace corps of scientists in East Berlin, capital of the Fatherland. You will be treated with the honours and care commensurate with your high position in the world. Between five and six o’clock this afternoon, after you have received your Nobel Prize from the King, you will make your acceptance speech. In this speech, you will announce your change of allegiance. It will be televised, and we will be watching and listening. If you agree to this, you will return from Concert Hall to your suite in the Grand Hotel after the programme. You will be contacted there, and ultimately, sometime tonight, you will be brought to me. I, in turn, will take you to your brother and niece. Before midnight, the exchange will be effected. Walther and Emily will be released in Stockholm and be free to go to America. You will accompany me-the method of transport I cannot disclose-to your new and better life. Should you fail to agree to these terms, and persist in working as a tool of American capitalism, it will mean the rejection and loss of your brother, Walther Stratman. You will not see him again in your life, and he will be returned, against his wishes, to the custody of the Soviet Russians. Since you are a man of good will, and of good conscience, I have no doubt that your conscience will guide you correctly. You will not forget, I am certain, that it was Walther’s sacrifice on your behalf in 1945 that allowed you the so called freedom that he desired, and permitted you to gain the honours and comforts tha t are now yours. To forget this, to ignore the post we offer you, will condemn your brother to continued exile in a land he hates, and keep him from finishing his years with the beloved daughter he has longed for and loved.’

There was the shortest pause, and then the voice concluded. ‘Max, we have made you a reasonable offer. Do not destroy it, or endanger those near and dear to you, by going to the Swedish security police. They will not find me. Nor will they find Walther or Emily. Act as I have suggested, one way or the other, but act on your own. Any other course will prove foolhardy. Mit herzlichen Grüssen, Max.’

There was a click, the endless rubbing, and not another word in Craig’s ear.

His hand darted to the machine, pulling the tiny lever to ‘Stop’. He hesitated a moment, the torrent of information scrambled and dancing in his head. Had he heard it rightly? Had he missed anything important? He wanted to hear Emily’s voice again, to test and judge the degree of her agitation and feeling. That, and to hear her. He gripped the rewind knob in his fingers and quickly reversed the tape. He edged the lever to ‘Play’, cupped his hand over the earplug, and listened for eternal mute minutes. There was nothing, no voice, no sound of any kind, except the mocking rasp of the tape as it wound in its circle. Finally, he realized the recorded tape had been automatically erased after it had played, through use of some unusual device. All he had heard would never be heard again. The future of the three Stratmans was in his hands-in his head, really-their predicament and the condition surrounding their future. Craig stopped the playback and removed the plug from his ear.

He stood in the entry hall and tried to think. In his entire life, he had never heard anything more stupefying, unless it had been the first news of Harriet’s death. And now, in a sense, he had tuned in on the death of a second human being, were he Max or Walther Stratman. He was overcome by an apathy induced by the impossible: to save Emily’s father and yet save Max Stratman. But quickly the apathy passed, and necessity and responsibility mothered clarity.

To whom could he go? Where could he turn? What was right? What was wrong?

There was an easy but dreadful solution, of course. He need only awaken Max Stratman, soberly repeat every detail that had been on the incredible tape, and if Stratman believed him (and Craig thought that he would), Stratman himself could carry the burden of the decision into Concert Hall in two hours. It was tempting, dangerously tempting, this notion, to awaken Stratman and let him decide between his brother’s freedom and his nation’s need.

And then, at once, the notion of what he had been tempted to do sickened Craig, and gave him the old revulsion towards himself, which he now understood more clearly. If he performed in the old, smooth way-running from a shout of distress in the night, ducking away from an uneven gang beating in the street, hiding from reality and his debt to existence by the soft coma of drink and drug and self-pity and inaction and retreat-he would leave this northern place as he had come, a riven and dismembered man, lost to himself and his time, the eternal victim of all unseen fears. The test was finally the test of his bedrock character. Victory or failure was not the criterion of the test. Responsible action was the criterion. No, of one thing he was certain at last-he would not awaken poor old Stratman.

Yet, merely to prove something to himself, he could not be careless enough to accept a dare that would trifle with another’s life. And it was more than that now, because now he knew that Emily’s future was his own, and so this had come down to self-survival at last. To whom could he turn? The Swedish security police, of course. But even if they believed his wild story-and they might, because of his Nobel stature-what could they do? Eckart would evaporate, Walther would be whisked away, and Emily would long be a corpse in some narrow alley or a hostage in her hated Germany, before the police, without clues, could pick up her trail. The slow noisy wheels of officialdom, he decided, were to be ignored.

But then, what else? There was only himself, with his knowledge, and no other. He, himself, on the trail? It was ridiculous. He had created too many books not to know of what fiction was made. In books, most often, you knew the end result, the solution, and you tried, as credibly as possible, to manipulate your characters towards it. But this was awful life, where the end result, the solution, was unknown, and therefore the hero character, taking up the gauntlet, had to go forth aimlessly in a maze, towards a destination that had no existence and towards a climax that could not be predicted. If he were writing-and an old nostalgia for that happy hideout enclosed him-how simple it would be. His writer’s mind revolved and wrote: a strange polar city blanketed in snow, a beautiful girl in hidden custody, a bizarre ransom note, two ideologies at war over the payment, and the attractive young man in the trench coat, treading his way through lonely foreign streets where dangers lurked, but always drawing nearer, as clue gave him clue, as-hell, and to hell with it!

He broke off the contrived fantasy and tried to think harder. There was no knowledge of international intrigue-euphemism for plain filthy blackmail-in the true experience of his life. Except for his reading of documented books, and hearing of occasional Communist fanatics, like the one Lilly’s Hungarian, Nicholas Daranyi, had told him about-what was the name? Enbom, yes, Enbom, the Swede with Communist sympathies who had sold secrets to the Russians-except for such true…

Suddenly Craig stiffened. His mind leaped to one sound possibility. Daranyi, Nicholas Daranyi.

Craig tried to recollect what had brought him to Daranyi. A self-confessed free-lance spy, yes, but that was as much foolishness as fiction. It was something else altogether that excited him now. It was something that Daranyi had once said of himself, and something, their last time, that Lilly had said of Daranyi. He racked his brain, and cursed himself for not having been a better listener. Daranyi had worked, was working-which?-for a Nobel committee judge-to investigate all the present laureates. He had hardly paid attention to it at the time, but now, in review, it had a foul smell. Had he himself been spied upon? And Stratman? Had someone been interested in Stratman for any reason-perhaps for the reasons that had been erased on the tape? Far fetched, and yet-Daranyi was a possibility. Even if he knew nothing of this matter, he, more than anyone, would likely know what to do about it. Suddenly, for the first time, Craig took Daranyi seriously.

He heard the clock, and he realized, painfully, that time was running out. He had less than an hour and three-quarters to act on his own. But now, for the first time, he had need to define his mission: to act on his own, yes, laudable-but to act how? And to what end? What was he after? He must reach Emily and Walther, of course. That was the goal. He must ascertain that Emily was alive and safe. He must look upon Walther with his own eyes and know that this sudden visitor was, indeed, Emily’s father. If he was not her father, the cruel hoax needed to be exposed. If the tape was true, and Walther true-and Craig had little doubt about this-then Craig must reason and plead with Walther to withdraw from this drama and end the impossible dilemma.

Momentarily oblivious to his surroundings, Craig became aware that he had found the real motive for personal action. He reasoned the motive further; Walther, father, had come back into Emily’s life as Walther, stranger. The accident of blood did not necessarily establish the sire. Rather, closeness and love and responsibility and sacrifice made the sire. By this standard, Max Stratman, not Walther Stratman, was Emily’s male parent. If Max were snatched from her now, she would be condemned to life servitude with an utter stranger. Since she would not have Craig, and could not have Max, she would have no one but herself-and this self could not survive alone. For Emily, this emptiness would be the deeper death before dying.

Standing in the entry hall, thinking, Craig was vaguely dissatisfied and wanted to rationalize his action further. There was also, he told himself, the matter of the greater good: Walther was an unknown quantity, whereas the free world needed Max, dared not lose him. Ergo: reject Walther to save Max and Emily. Ergo: find Walther, and convince him that he should go back voluntarily to where he came from. If Walther truly loved Emily-more, if he was concerned with the future freedom of mankind-he would be persuaded.

But the pretentiousness and unfairness of this determination nagged at Craig. He tried to dismiss it, yet it was there, persistently begging a hearing. Reluctantly, Craig gave the defence its kangaroo hearing. Yes, in an ancient time, Walther had played Sydney Carton to his brother Max’s Charles Darnay. Yes, Walther had suffered a long slavery under a system he abhorred, and deserved parole at any cost. Yes, Walther should be freed to enjoy his last years. That was justice. Nevertheless, for once, Craig looked upon justice as the baser choice. His emotions clung to the original impulse, go back, Walther.

Craig’s quest was now clear. If he failed in it-failed to find Walther or, finding him, failed to convince him-there would be time enough to return to Max without imperilling Eckart’s deal. The consequences of failure were automatic. He would have to return to this room and tell Max Stratman the truth and let him do what would have to be done. Max Stratman would offer himself to the exchange at once. He would offer himself because of brother love and Emily love and, most compelling of all, because of the old swollen guilt. He would do so, without second thought, if Craig returned helpless in an hour and three-quarters, and he would do so this moment, if Craig marched into his bedroom and woke him with Eckart’s news. But not yet. Craig’s passionate need for Emily, for her safety and her peace of mind and what he now knew was right for her, shook him. He was animated into action.

Pocketing the anonymous typewritten note, he hid the miniature tape recorder in the entry hall cupboard. Then, taking his pen, he added a thoughtful postscript to Max Stratman’s note left for his niece: ‘Have taken Emily out on the town. We’ll meet you at Concert Hall. Best, Craig.’ Now he lifted the receiver of the telephone and spoke to the operator. Did she have a number for one Nicholas Daranyi? He waited restlessly, and then the operator reported that there was no listing of any Daranyi in Stockholm.

Craig hung up, and promptly his mind went to Lilly. At this hour, she would be in the Nordiska Kompaniet. He would find her, and through her find Daranyi. It was the best that he could do, he told himself helplessly.

Swiftly, he strode out of the Stratman suite, hastened through the corridor, and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

The lobby was, as ever, crowded. Craig pushed through the circle of people trying to enter the elevator, jostled against the Marceaus, with no time to murmur a civil apology, and started towards the stairs leading to the revolving door and the outside.

As he reached the topmost step, he thought that he heard his name. He turned, and heard the stentorian voice again. ‘Craig.’

It was Gunnar Gottling, in his eccentric fur cap and mangy coat, his bloodshot eyes and drooping bushes of moustache, not this time hiding his outgoing affection, tramping towards Craig. ‘You old son of a bitch,’ he was bellowing, ‘I was just ringing your room. I wanted to tell you I reread all those crappy books of yours the last couple days and-’

Craig cut in. ‘Gottling, I’ve got no time for tea talk today. There’s trouble, and I-’

‘What trouble you in?’ Gottling’s face and manner had taken on the protective ferocity of a giant grizzly bear-U. horribilis-and there was no avoiding him. ‘You look pale as a spectre, and you look sore as hell. What’s eating you? Tell Gottling.’

Craig became aware that Gottling’s voice carried, and many eyes were on them. He lowered his own voice. ‘I’m not in trouble. Someone else is-and it’s a matter of life and death-so-’

He started to go, when Gottling clamped his arm. ‘I am here to help, Craig. What can I do?’

Craig had started to say to Gottling that there was nothing he or anyone could do, and then, at once, he realized that Gottling could be of help. This was his city, this Stockholm, and he was a part of the best and the worst of it, and he was fearless. The question was his dependability.

‘How much can I trust you?’ asked Craig.

‘Cut that crap,’ said Gottling angrily. ‘I won’t fall in front of any trains for you-but I’ll go damn far. What’s your trouble? Abortion, blackmail, somebody’s arm you want to break? Just say it. Since that night in the Wärdshus, I got to thinking-that tall drink of water isn’t such a bad-’

‘Have you got your car with you?’

‘You bet your ass.’

‘I’ve got some mighty important calls to make, and I haven’t got much time.’

‘Hop in,’ said Gottling.

And he thundered down the stairs after Craig, and through the spinning door behind him, and then caught up and pointed off to his compact Volvo station-wagon alongside the quay. Craig had forgotten his overcoat, but the last of the setting sun was still visible, and the air was only slightly chilled.

They trudged through the low-packed snow, and Craig began to speak of what had happened and was happening in a sort of oral shorthand. With brevity, he filled Gottling in on his relationship with Emily Stratman.

Once inside the station-wagon, Gottling looked at him questioningly.

‘Just a few blocks for the first stop,’ said Craig. ‘Nordiska Kompaniet.’

Gottling started the car, and crouched over the wheel in his near-sighted way, as Craig picked up his story. He related all he knew of Emily’s tardiness which became absence, of his visit to her room, the typewritten sheet, and then he recited what he had heard on the miniature tape machine, feeling better to know that another shared the facts, should anything happen to him.

When he had finished, Gottling belched across the wheel, and cursed classically. ‘Those friggin’ Commies,’ he said.

‘We don’t know-’

‘The hell we don’t,’ said Gottling. ‘Who wants the old man in East Berlin, anyway? Those little Prussky puppets? They’re go-betweens. It’s the big boys who want Stratman on their side. Goddammit, Craig, don’t you ever read the papers any more? Every other week some fag Englishman or little American with goggles turns up in Moscow and says peace it’s wonderful, and hands them a briefcase of discoveries. Do you think all the defectors do it just for love and money? Well, maybe most, because their heads are screwed on backwards, but dollars to doughnuts, every tenth man is blackmailed into crossing the line-they’re holding a relative or somebody-and the poor bastard scientist or diplomat-what can he do?’ They were on Hamngatan, and he swung the Volvo to the kerb. ‘Here’s your N.K. What gives here?’

Craig opened the door. Then, one foot still on the floorboard, and the other on the kerb, he explained, in rapid-fire sentences, about Lilly Hedqvist and Nicholas Daranyi and himself.

‘I know Daranyi,’ said Gottling. ‘Always nosing around for gossip. I’m one of the decadent little bastard’s pet sources. I do it to let off steam. He knows it. But I like him. I like rabbits.’

‘Do you think I’m crazy to gamble Walther’s freedom-maybe even Emily’s life-on a longshot? Should I go to the police?’

‘Police? Ha! Those crooks. For all we know, they pulled the job. Naw, play it like a one-man team, Craig, a decathlon entry-all by your lonesome and no bumbleheads with billy clubs. Go in and see that broad of yours, and find out where the slob Daranyi lives-I wish I knew, but I don’t. Now, take off, and I’ll keep my engine revved up.’

Craig pushed through a glass entrance door, and once inside the cavern of the crowded store, he tried to take his bearings. His eyes fell on the information booth to his left, and he fought through the swarm of shoppers to the pert Swedish girl in the booth. It was imperative that he see one of the assistants, Miss Lilly Hedqvist, in ladies’ wear, he pleaded. There had been an emergency in her family. The pert girl rang a bell. A slender young boy came on the run. There was an exchange in Swedish. The boy was gone. Craig was asked to wait. Ignoring the shoppers with bundles, who came and went before him, he waited, and he worried about Emily.

It was several minutes before Lilly arrived, blue eyes opened wide with concern. Craig drew her aside, to a corner near the doors.

‘Lilly, I haven’t much time. Emily Stratman is in trouble-’

‘Trouble? In what trouble? I do not understand.’

‘I won’t go into it now, but we’re trying to stay away from the police to protect her and her father. It’s all tied up with her uncle being here for the Nobel awards, and I remembered something-you told me Daranyi was investigating the Nobel laureates-’

‘It is true.’

‘Where do I find Daranyi?’

‘He should be home. I will take you there.’

‘I haven’t got time. Just tell me-’

‘No, it is better I take you. One minute. I will inform the manager my mother is very ill. Wait outside.’

Craig went outside, shivered as the breeze nipped at him, signalled Gottling to wait, and then himself stalked back and forth before the wide entrance of Nordiska Kompaniet. Lilly had said one minute, and it was literally one minute later that she burst out of the store, tugging on a bright plaid coat.

Craig hustled her into the rear of the station-wagon, and swung himself into the front seat beside Gottling, who had, as he had promised, kept his motor running. Craig blurted his introduction, and Gottling’s dissipated face bore an expression of appreciation for Craig’s taste.

‘Tell him where to go, Lilly,’ said Craig.

She spoke in Swedish, Gottling nodding, and all Craig could make of it was Mårten Trotzig’s Lane and Västerlånggatan. Gottling shifted, viewing the oncoming traffic through his rear mirror, and jolted the Volvo into a sudden skidding U-turn. Now he straightened the car, and retraced their original course, heading towards the Strommen canal, and then over the bridge towards the looming Royal Palace and the Old Town.

Once, Gottling said in English, ‘I always thought Daranyi lived on handouts. He must be loaded to live in the Old Town.’

‘He is honest and works hard,’ said Lilly, defensively.

‘I’m not criticizing, young lady, I’m envying,’ said Gottling. He glanced at Craig. ‘No use brooding, my friend. You’re doing all you can. Don’t try to outguess fate. That’s the recipe for ulcers. Let’s see what old Daranyi has to say.’

Gottling now addressed himself to Lilly in Swedish as they drove on, and Craig lapsed deeply into himself. He was sickened with fear for Emily and Walther. Actually, less so for Walther, whom he had never seen, who had no existence in his memory, who was a wraith. It came down to Emily, actually. He tried to visualize her, her glossy dark hair and green eyes and virginal bearing, and he remembered how she shrank from men and violence. And now, despite Eckart’s reassurances, the apprehension of where she was, who was with her, what was at stake, corroded Craig’s insides like a bitter acid.

Gottling bumped his Volvo recklessly, twisting and turning through the crooked streets of the Old Town, and from the window Craig caught a name on a street-sign that whisked past, and it was Västerlånggatan.

Lilly had moved forward to the edge of the back seat, and now her hand, pointing ahead like an aimed arrow, came between Craig and Gottling.

‘It is there,’ she said, ‘right there past the lane where’-and then she caught her breath-’where the ambulance is parked.’

Craig peered through the windshield. There was an ambulance-at first he had thought it a truck-against the pavement, and several dozen curious spectators, young and old, gathered around it in respectful attendance.

Gottling swerved to the kerb across from Mårten Trotzig’s Lane, braked, and the motor died.

‘What has happened?’ Lilly cried. ‘Do you think something has happened?’

The three of them were instantly out of the car and across the street, with Lilly running ahead to the ambulance. When Craig caught up to her, she was still conversing in an indistinct hum of Swedish with the white-coated driver and his assistant, who were leaning against the fender, smoking. A throng of spectators had pressed closer to Lilly and the ambulance men, to catch what they could of the talk.

Craig shoved his way roughly through the wall of people and was at Lilly’s side. ‘Lilly-what is the matter?’

She was frantic. ‘It is terrible, Mr. Craig. I was always afraid this would happen. Daranyi has been stabbed many times, and he is inside, and the physician is with him.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘Oh-they do not know.’

‘Is it very serious?’

‘Come, quick, we must go inside.’

Lilly took Craig’s hand, and the crowd parted. As they hurried into the apartment building, Gottling called to them that he would wait. Craig waved gratefully, and stayed with Lilly.

Inside Daranyi’s living-room, so bachelor-neat and Middle European, Craig found four or five people seated in repose. They were mostly elderly, and obviously neighbours who were Daranyi’s friends, and who had come to hear the worst. Lilly was addressing one squat old lady now-a shopkeeper, it turned out-and Lilly spoke in tearful Swedish, and the old lady’s replies were almost inaudible.

‘What is it, Lilly?’

‘It is bad, Mr. Craig. He was attacked in the street-half an hour ago-and the physician is examining him now. I must see. I must find out the truth-poor Daranyi-’

She left Craig and went to the bedroom door, turning the handle gently, and then easing herself inside.

A voice from behind was directed at Craig. ‘Hiya, Mr. Craig.’ He spun about, and seated on a brown leather chair was Sue Wiley. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m dying by inches, I’m a wreck,’ she said, eyes blinking, hands fluttering. ‘Can you imagine such a thing? You want the morbid details?’

Craig pulled a chair towards her and sat sideways in it. ‘I didn’t know you knew Nicholas Daranyi.’

‘We had a transaction,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘Never mind about that. Let’s say we were both in the business of information, and we found each other. Anyway, I got to thinking about the Ceremony this afternoon, and I figured I could use some more dope on it-past performances, such and since Daranyi is a historian-’

‘Historian?’

She stared at Craig. ‘Isn’t he?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. What happened?’

‘I decided to drop in on him for an interview a little while ago, before getting back to change for the Main Event. I took a taxi here, and kept it, and pounded on his door, but no one was home. So I started to leave, and just as I got outside-I happened to look up-and there he was, coming along the pavement. I started to call out to him, but before I could open my mouth-whambo!’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning two hoodlums pounced on him-in broad daylight, mind you-I guess they were hiding in that skinny little lane. They came out, one in front of him and one behind-and the bigger one in front clamped a hand over Daranyi’s mouth, and the other one behind lifted a blade-some kind of knife or dagger-and began punching it into Daranyi. Well-boy, oh boy-I stood on that pavement absolutely petrified. And then I started to yell, to scream bloody murder-and the hoodlums froze the way I’d been frozen-and then they just broke away and ran like crazy. And that little Hungarian, he flopped down in the street like a dead whale. Well, everybody was in the street by then, and my taxi-driver was calling the cops.’

Craig asked himself: why Daranyi? Was this in some way a part of Eckart’s intrigue? He was on the right trail, he felt, and then, sagging inside, he realized that he might be too late. ‘Did you recognize either of them?’

‘No. Looked like a couple of delinquents, far as I could see. Wore those fat knit jazzed-up sweaters-one was turtleneck-I already told the police all I could see. The detectives are checking the alley or lane or whatever for clues. So anyway, here I am-Sue Wiley, Ace Witness.’

‘Are you hanging around for a story?’

‘What story? A down-at-the-heels historian gets mugged by a couple of kids who want his gold watch? Nuts. I’ve got to get out of here-this is the day-but those cops want me to wait a while. I’m sure sorry for the Hungarian. Hope he doesn’t die. Sa-ay, Mr. Craig, you’re a cute one, aren’t you? I’m the interviewer, and you’ve got me doing all the talking. Who was that blonde number you were holding hands with?’

‘Daughter of friends of mine in Wisconsin,’ said Craig. ‘I met Daranyi briefly, through her.’

‘Likely story.’

‘That’s right,’ said Craig, ‘likely story.’

The bedroom door had opened without anyone’s emerging as yet, but Craig was on his feet immediately. The doctor, prematurely grey and urbane, carrying his identity badge of a black bag, came out of the room, still speaking in Swedish to Lilly who followed him. As he spoke, Lilly hung on his every word, and then abruptly he broke away and went out the entrance door. Lilly’s hand beckoned to Craig.

He joined her.

‘They are going to bring the stretcher now,’ said Lilly. ‘You are permitted to have one minute with Daranyi.’

‘How is he?’ Craig asked with concern.

‘He will be all right. He was stabbed three times, but the physician says they are only flesh wounds, not so deep because Daranyi was wriggling and squirming when they tried to kill him. There may be minor surgery. I do not know.’

She went back into the bedroom with Craig behind her, closing the door to shield them from Sue Wiley.

There was a fine old brass bed, worn but polished, and on the bed a mound of blanket, and this was Nicholas Daranyi. He was lying on his stomach, his arms up on the pillow and his head sideways within his arms, so that his face pointed towards Craig. His dazed eyes, with their sedated pupils, were on his visitors.

Quickly, Craig took the chair beside Daranyi.

Lilly knelt on the floor below the bed. Anxiously, she said to Craig, ‘Do not waste words. Even though it is not so serious, he is weak and in pain. Go to the point. I have already told him of Emily being with her father, and what is wanted of Professor Stratman. I am not sure Daranyi understood everything, but-’

Daranyi made a sound, from his pillow, halfway between protestation and groaning. ‘Lil-ly-I understand.’

‘He knows all about it, then,’ Lilly said to Craig excitedly.

Craig leaned towards the pained face on the pillow. ‘Daranyi, you can hear me-I have only an hour-a man named Eckart has Max Stratman’s brother here. He-the brother-was supposed to have been killed long ago by the Russians, but he’s alive-been brought here somewhere in this city-in order to make Professor-’

‘I-understand.’

‘Have you ever heard the name Hans Eckart?’

‘Yes,’ Daranyi answered immediately, almost professionally. ‘A German physicist, East Berlin. He lunched with Professor Stratman on December fifth.’

‘Anything more?’

‘No-nothing.’

‘Daranyi, once you told me that you had an assignment from someone connected with the Nobel Prize awards. And Lilly has told me you were supposed to dig up inside stuff on those of us who are laureates.’

Daranyi closed his eyes and grunted into the pillows. ‘Yes. I had that assignment.’ His eyes remained closed, and the mound of blanket shuddered in a slight spasm of distress.

Immediately, Lilly reached out to touch him. ‘You are suffering too much. You have said enough. You must not-’

Daranyi’s lids opened and his eyes were alert and angry. ‘Quiet, Lilly. Can I not have a pain like ordinary mortals!’ He focused on Craig. ‘I have said little, but I am going to say much. Craig, these wounds of the flesh are nothing. The real injury that has occurred is to my professional pride. I have done this work for years. This you know. Always, I have been treated with dignity, with respect, like any competent workman should be. But this time I have been insulted-insulted. To have taken on this most difficult assignment-to have done so well, delivered so much, in good faith-and to be paid not in the salary I requested but in violence. This outrageous breach I shall not forgive. If I cannot have money, I will have revenge. Craig, I pray you can extract such payment for me.’

‘I’d like nothing better.’

‘Good.’ Daranyi tried to lift his head, groaned, and dropped his head to the pillow once more. He sucked his breath, and then he said, ‘Craig-what-what was on the tape? What did Eckart say? What did the girl say? Omit no detail.’

Speaking with precision and haste, Craig repeated, to the best of his memory, the threat of the tape recording. When he was through, he thought that Daranyi had not heard him, for the man appeared to be dozing or unsconscious. Suddenly Daranyi spoke. ‘Walther Stratman was known as Kurt Lipski all these years-is that what the voice said?’

‘Exactly.’

The head on the pillow moved with some private understanding. The eyes opened fully. ‘Yes,’ said Daranyi quietly, ‘it is all one, then. I gave them the information about Lipski, the clue that Walther Stratman was that person and still alive. They had no idea about Lipski and his interest in Miss Stratman until I dug it out and gave it to them.’ He winced. ‘And you see how they paid me for-for giving them this information.’ His face showed anguish. ‘The pain they have given me-’

Lilly grabbed Craig’s arm. ‘Mr. Craig, he is so white. He must not go on. He will faint. Please-’

‘Wait,’ Craig snapped, pushing her hand away. He turned back to the bed. ‘Daranyi, for God’s sake, while you can-to whom did you give this information? Whoever it was, that is the person at the bottom of it, the person responsible for bringing Walther here. Tell me who?’

Daranyi had vengeful strength for this. ‘Dr. Carl-Adolf-Krantz. He assigned-accepted-the information-paid me-this way… I gave him the photocopies-about-Emily Stratman-and-and-Ravensbruck-and about-the inquiries-from Lipski-from Russia-and now-’ The breathing from the pillow was heavier. ‘He-Krantz-Krantz-is-the-one-to-find-he-’

But the voice drifted off, as the lids folded over the eyes.

‘Daranyi,’ pleaded Craig.

Lilly was touching Craig’s arm. ‘You have what you want.’

‘Yes, but-’

The door had opened behind him, and the two stretcher-bearers came in with the doctor.

‘-I had just wanted to ask him,’ finished Craig lamely, ‘what he meant by Ravensbruck.’

As Craig rose and backed off, the doctor replaced him and looked down at Daranyi. ‘The patient is unconscious,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘We must move him to the hospital. Do not be worried. The injuries are superficial.’ He considered Craig curiously. ‘You learned what you wanted from him?’

‘I think so,’ said Craig. ‘Yes, I have what I want.’ Lost in thought, trying to fit together the puzzle, Craig walked through the living-room with Lilly, ignored Sue Wiley, and went into the hall.

‘Krantz?’ said Lilly in an undertone.

Craig nodded. ‘Krantz.’

‘I must remain with Daranyi,’ she said. ‘You must find Krantz and Emily. Do not take bad chances-the police-’

Craig took Lilly’s hands. ‘When you know about Daranyi, phone me at Concert Hall if it is before six-thirty. Otherwise-’

‘You will hear from me, Mr. Craig.’

Craig nodded, and hurried-outside into the darkening cold. The spectators were still there wondering, and the ambulance, waiting, its rear doors flung open, and across the street he could distinguish Gunnar Gottling behind the wheel of the station-wagon.

When he slid in beside Gottling, he said, ‘I think we’ve got our man.’

‘Name him.’

‘Carl Adolf Krantz.’

Even Gottling, whose features were too arrogant to concede surprise at any time, showed astonishment. ‘Krantz? I always knew that little rat was pro-German and anti the human race, but I always thought he was too proud of his position-a judge on two Nobel committees-to sink to this. So it’s Krantz? Are you sure?’

‘Daranyi was positive. Krantz hired him to do some espionage on the Nobel laureates-apparently Professor Stratman and Emily were the real targets-in order to get something on the Stratmans and force the Professor to come over to the other side. Daranyi dug up some information no one else but Krantz knew or could use-and the key part of that information was on the tape.’

‘I’ll be goddamned, then it’s true,’ said Gottling. ‘But I’ll bet my britches it isn’t Krantz alone. He’s gutless. If a poodle barks, he goes up a tree. I called him a rat. That’s too princely. He’s a weasel, really. There must be others.’

Craig chafed irritably. ‘I’m not interested in nit-picking. I don’t care who in the hell is responsible. I just want to find Emily and her father. Daranyi says Krantz, so Krantz it is.’

‘Simmer down, pal. What time you got?’

‘Ten past four.’

‘We’d better shake the lead out of our asses then. If I remember, everyone leaves for Concert Hall in ten or fifteen minutes.’ He started the station-wagon. ‘Krantz is probably still in his apartment, getting ready to leave.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Ha, who in Stockholm doesn’t? It was the only balcony in the city, during the war, that was draped with a swastika!’

Gottling had said ten or fifteen minutes, but now he accelerated the Volvo through the Old Town, wheeling and careering, as if there were only one minute to make St. Peter’s gate. They passed gay, open Christmas stalls and the municipal Christmas tree on Stortorget. They sped over the illuminated bridge, twisting away along the canal, and because Craig was still not used to the left-hand drive, with oncoming traffic approaching from the right, he had a mounting fear that he would never survive to see Krantz-or Emily.

There had been a sharp turning, and an attractive street stretched westwards between the Mälaren canal and rows of expensive apartment buildings, the string of small cars parked before them shining under the high street-lights.

‘Norr Mälarstrand,’ said Gottling.

As they drew nearer to their destination, Gottling slowed the progress of his station-wagon, head ducked low, squinting past Craig and out the right-hand window, hunting for Krantz’s apartment.

Craig’s mind had gone to the Nobel judge they were seeking. Since his arrival in Stockholm, he had not seen much of Krantz. The Swedish physicist has been assigned to the Marceaus, Garrett, Farelli, Stratman, and Ingrid Påhl and Jacobsson had been assigned to the literary laureate. Nevertheless, Craig had a distinct image of Krantz-an ugly, stunted man with a hog’s snout and a scrub moustache and goatee, and a repugnant personality. Craig had no specific plan of action in mind for when he came face to face with the vicious, mis-shapen hippogriff, but the rage in him was bursting now, and he knew that he would kill Krantz if necessary, to extract some word of Emily and Walther Stratman’s whereabouts.

‘We’ve caught him just in time,’ he heard Gottling mutter.

‘Where?’

‘The fifth apartment down. There’s the rented limousine parked in front.’

They had slowed to a crawl as they approached the limousine, and through the Volvo windshield Craig could see a portly figure in chauffeur’s cap and uniform in the brighter area under the street-light, gloved hands, clasped behind, waiting for Krantz.

‘You park,’ said Craig tightly, opening his door. ‘I’ll grab Krantz.’

‘If you need help-’

‘I won’t need help,’ Craig called back.

He crossed the street, squeezed between bumpers of two parked cars, attained the pavement, and going fast, and then running, he approached the entrance of the orange apartment building, its shadowed balconies jutting above like military pillboxes.

At the entrance he slowed, became aware that the chauffeur was eying him inquisitively and with apprehension, as you observe anyone who is running in the night.

Craig stopped, and looked at the chauffeur. ‘Are you waiting for Dr. Krantz?’

The chauffeur came to loose attention. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I must see him first. Which apartment?’

‘Fourth floor, sir.’

Inhaling deeply, Craig went inside. The modern elevator was at ground floor level. Taking it to the fourth floor, Craig tried to contain his impatience and temper, tried to rehearse an approach. Before he could do so, the elevator had whirred to a halt.

Almost blindly, Craig found himself at the apartment door, jamming his thumb at the buzzer, then rapping imperatively. In immediate response, the door was flung open. Between Craig and the one he must see, firmly planted, stood an annoyed housekeeper. Her width filled the doorway, and the hair on her upper lip momentarily distracted Craig.

‘Yes?’ she was demanding, crossly.

‘I must see Dr. Krantz immediately.’

She shook her head. ‘No-impossible. He is leaving for-’

‘I’ve got to see him!’ Craig bullied his way past her, ignoring an outstretched arm, and entered the hall.

She snatched at his sleeve. ‘No-who are you?’

Roughly, Craig freed himself, trying to find the right door. ‘Where is he?’

‘No-!’ Nervously, she shouted off. ‘Dr. Krantz! Dr. Krantz! Please-!’

There were footsteps to Craig’s left, and Krantz’s harsh voice loud, ‘What the devil-what the devil-what is all the racket, Ilsa?’

He materialized, combatively, in the hall. For a moment, Craig was taken aback by his appearance, so ludicrous and pompous in silk top hat and formal overcoat with velvet lapels. Could this improbable figure be the spinner of plots, the formidable enemy?

Approaching, Krantz halted, recognition replacing annoyance on his face. ‘Why-it is Mr. Craig. What are you doing here? You should be at Concert Hall-’

‘Never mind Concert Hall. We’re going to have a little private talk first.’

Craig’s tone, the tremulous anger of it, seemed to surprise Krantz. Affability fought concern. He stood very still and when he spoke, it was past Craig. ‘That will be all, Ilsa.’

The peasant woman brushed alongside Craig, with a shove of her body against his to display her displeasure at the rude intrusion, and then she disappeared into the apartment.

Krantz gestured off. ‘We will talk in the parlour. I have only a moment-my chauffeur-’

Craig had already gone into the room, to the centre, and turned about to meet his host. His initial desire had been to seize Krantz by those velvet lapels and shake the information out of him. But somehow, the atmosphere of the homely old family room, the used squat mahogany pieces, the lace doilies (above all, the doilies), curbed violence. This was a man’s home, and he the disturber of peace, and then, seeing Krantz come tentatively towards him, his mission became more real and his anger rose again.

Krantz offered no seat, and took none himself, as if to make it clear that the meeting was unwelcome and would be brief.

‘You appear agitated, Mr. Craig. Is there anything-?’

‘You’re damn right,’ said Craig. ‘I’m here to tell you you’re a son of a bitch and a blackmailer-and I’ve found you out.’

The word assault hit Krantz like a physical blow. He stepped backwards, his tiny eyes terrified and his moustache and goatee opening and closing, and his top hat began to slide off his greased hair. Despite shock, he stayed his hat and tried to maintain dignity.

‘Mr. Craig, I do not understand. What language is this to use-’

‘I said you’re a blackmailer, and you’ve been found out. There are no words for what I think of you-nothing low and filthy enough.’

Krantz fought for poise, but his moustache and goatee still jumped. He had difficulty finding his voice. ‘What is this, Mr. Craig? A crude American joke? Are you drunk? I should have known this might happen-everyone knows about your drinking. I will not have such language under my roof.’

Craig moved towards him, the muscles of his forearms prepared to lash out. ‘You’re lucky I’m only using words-I should kill you!’

Krantz was in retreat against the wall. ‘Do not touch me! Go-or I will call Ilsa-I will call the police!’

‘We’ll both call the police,’ said Craig, restraining himself, ‘unless you tell me where you’ve got Emily and Walther Stratman.’

A gush of air went out of Krantz, and he was smaller and very afraid. ‘You are ranting. What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about the Stratmans, and what you’ve done to them, and you know it. It’s all in the open, you bungler. It’s all out. I intercepted the taped message you sent to Professor Stratman. I heard the whole rotten deal-how you exhumed Emily’s father and brought him here, how you’re holding him with Emily until you get your hands on Professor Stratman, and escort him behind the Curtain-’

‘Fairy tales!’ shrieked Krantz. ‘Crazy fairy tales! You are drunk! Where do you find such lies?’

‘From your friend Eckart on the taped message, for one thing.’

‘Prove it. Show me this tape.’

For the first time, Craig felt closer to truth. ‘Yes, Krantz, we both know I can’t show you the tape. But I don’t need it, you see. I have better evidence. I have Nicholas Daranyi.’

Krantz straightened against the wall, and made a pretence of relief. ‘So that is it. You have been listening to that Hungarian simpleton. Well, you listen to me-’

Craig shook his head. ‘No, Krantz, you listen to me. This minute, Daranyi is on his way to the hospital. Instead of paying him, you sent some roughnecks to knife him. But you made one mistake. You counted on their killing him.’

Krantz stood speechless, palms flattening against the wall behind him for support. His facial features revealed dumbfounded amazement at the news. ‘They-they tried to kill Daranyi?’

‘In the street before his apartment. With knives. He’s going into surgery. But the wounds are superficial. He’ll live. He’ll have much to say.’

Krantz’s disbelief was entire. ‘They attacked Daranyi? I cannot-I cannot believe it.’

‘You don’t have to believe it, Krantz. You can see for yourself. Do you want to come along to the hospital and see for yourself? Then you and Daranyi can hold a joint conference with the authorities-’

Craig stopped. More was not necessary, he could see. It was as if Krantz had just swallowed Dr. Henry Jekyll’s mixture of white powders and red liquid. The transformation on his face-from indignation and defiance to abdication and defeat-was immediate. ‘No, wait,’ he was saying, his voice a high whine. ‘You do not understand-I had nothing to do with Daranyi-the violence. I did not dream they would go to such lengths-it is terrible.’ Swiftly, he discarded old comrades for a better ally. ‘I had nothing to do with any of this-you must believe me!’

‘I believe only one thing. Emily and Walther Stratman are stuck away some place-and Walther will be freed on the condition that Professor Stratman defects-and Daranyi says you’re responsible.’

‘It’s not true-mixing me in so deep. Daranyi knows only half of it. I would never go so far.’

‘You’ve gone far enough. You’re smack in the middle.’

‘No-no.’ He wrung his hands, staring at Craig’s feet, exhorting, explaining, cajoling in the cause of self-preservation. ‘Craig, have some leniency-know the circumstances. I would have had no part of this, if I had known they would resort to-’ He lifted his obsequious eyes. ‘You must have compassion-try to know what happened to me.’

Craig grimly waited.

Krantz went on quickly, a last plea to the jury. ‘I was persona non grata after the war, because I favoured the losing side-you must always be with the winner here-and they passed me over for all the university jobs that I deserved-passed me over-me, their most valuable physicist, with so many honours, with my Nobel positions. Then Eckart came, in my blackest hour, and offered me-’

‘I’ve heard of Eckart. Tell me who he is.’

‘The one who engineered all this-the one who is a director of Humboldt University in East Berlin. He knew of my good work-and unfair persecution-and he offered me a brilliant post-but wanted a favour first. He said he would like to meet Stratman in Stockholm, get him away from the West for a week in Stockholm, in a neutral atmosphere, to offer him a job. By my influence, I helped Stratman win the award, to come here, and I brought him together with Eckart. But Stratman would have nothing to do with Germans or Communists. So Eckart dangled the post before me like bait, pulled me in deeper and deeper with harmless, small demands. He made me hire Daranyi to ferret out private information on Stratman and his niece. I never imagined how this information would be used. Only this morning did I have an inkling-but it was impossible-I would not permit myself to believe it.’

‘What happened this morning?’

‘Dr. Eckart telephoned. He told me that, through the information I had gotten out of Daranyi, he had deduced Stratman’s brother was alive in Russia. He had persuaded the Russians to send the brother here as an object to be traded for Stratman. I was upset. I had not known Eckart would use the information for such purpose. He had wanted it, he always pretended, as a civilized means of breaking down Stratman’s resistance. I had no idea he would use it for blackmail. But there it was. So when Eckart asked me to get hold of Stratman and bring him to meet his brother, I refused to co-operate. I told him my standing was such, I could not endanger it by going further, not to such limits. I must say Eckart was reasonable. He said he would locate Stratman himself. Later, in person, he informed me that, to save time, he had found Emily instead and brought her to see her father. He introduced me to Walther. He said something of the tape. This I assure you, Craig-and there is no need for me to lie now-he promised me there would be no violence to the niece or Stratman or anyone involved. But Daranyi-the attempt to kill poor Daranyi-I swear I knew nothing of that until minutes ago when you told me. That is too much. It is not worth the contract for the university post. I was to go to the boat again tonight and sign-but not now, no.’

Craig had been observing Krantz closely, to interpret his degree of sincerity, and now, much as he detested the cringing gnome, he believed him.

‘The boat,’ said Craig. ‘Is that where they all are-on some boat in the canal?’

‘Yes. Not all. Eckart is in the city with-with friends-to watch the television for Stratman’s announcement of his defection, and to meet with Stratman after the Ceremony for the exchange.’

‘But Emily and Walther?’

‘They are on the boat. It is guarded, of course.’

Craig felt flushed at the nearness of his goal. He pressed harder. ‘Tell me where the boat is.’

Krantz’s pinhole eyes projected fear. He hesitated. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘So I can inform the security police. They’ll surround the boat, and we’ll have Walther without any trade or-’

‘No!’ Krantz interrupted. ‘No-I cannot, Craig-not the police. It would be in the open-a scandal. It would be the end of me.’

‘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.’

‘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.

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 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 elderly 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 Walther’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.’

It was during this, as he half listened, that the thought entered Craig’s mind: the pitiful old man is painting this pretty picture as a rationalization for taking part in the trade, as a necessity to shed the dreadful guilt of it.

‘If it is all as you describe,’ said Craig gently, ‘so wonderful for Max, tell me-why are you leaving at all?’

This was impudent, but Walther appeared not to be sensitive to it. ‘For one thing, I am not Max,’ Walther said slowly. ‘He will be regarded as more useful, and treated accordingly. For another, I want to be with my daughter in a place where I can make riches and have the material things that Max has had. Surely, at my age, these desires are understandable.’

‘Certainly they are,’ said Craig. ‘Have you thought at all of what you will do in the United States?’

Walther smiled winningly. ‘I have not had much time for planning, as you know. But sitting here, relaxing, before you came, waiting for the evening and my freedom, I began to consider what is ahead. I am sure Max will cede me his savings and home, in exchange for mine, so I will have a start.’ He rubbed his watery eyes. ‘Of course, I would not live in the city of Atlanta in your Georgia as Max does. I am more conscious of inequities than Max. I will not live among people who club Negroes and lynch and incite riots. I will take Emily to New York or Detroit. I will work for the capitalists so that Emily and I can be capitalists.’

‘What work do you intend to do?’ asked Craig.

‘I will work for peace-if the capitalists will let me.’

‘You will continue your bacterial experiments?’

‘Never.’

‘But you’ve been doing just that in Leningrad.’

Walther’s bleary eyes considered Craig as he might a precocious but errant student. ‘Young man, in Russia I did this work for peace-for nothing else-as a deterrent to war. That is one thing I trust. I must learn if, in America, there is the same good will.’

‘Perhaps you will resume your work in nuclear energy?’

‘A possibility, if I am assured it is for peace.’

‘You can depend that it is for peace.’

Walther set down his empty glass. ‘You mean like Hiroshima and Nagasaki?’ Then, quickly, he smiled at the expression on Craig’s face. ‘No, do not take me seriously. Those annihilations were political moves, I understand that, to exert influence in the East before we could. No-do not misunderstand me-I know your American people are peaceful, want to live, to let live, to have good relations, like plain common people everywhere. I know they are the tools of reactionary monopolists. I have only meant I would not sell myself to the house of Morgan, to help provoke and incite a total war. You can be sure that Emily and I will work for the people.’

During the last of that, a vagrant, teasing thought-which had entered Craig’s mind earlier and been turned away-now possessed him. It was something astonishing and unacceptable before. But these seconds, his perceptions vibrated and wondered, and the vagrant thought grew, taking shape and identity. Craig hated to face the fact of it, yet the thought excited him. It was a hypothesis only, true, and there was no absolute proof of it, but proof might be possible to obtain. Suddenly his resolve was to test it for proof. He must gamble before time ran out, and all was lost.

‘I am sure we can depend on you, sir,’ he said. His air was all guilelessness. He looked down at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I’ve overstayed. I’ve tired you-and I should be at the Nobel Ceremony.’

‘I am pleased you came,’ said Walther. ‘It was a good surprise, to find a friend.’

Craig considered Walther. ‘Had you wondered, at all, why I came-why I forced Krantz to bring me here?’

‘To see Emily. To know she is well.’

‘One part of it. The main part is-I came to see you.’

‘I cannot imagine why.’

‘I had some notion that I might persuade you not to go through with this terrible exchange. I know what you’ve been through, what Max owes you, but somehow I thought I could make you realize that your role in Emily’s life ended long ago. Through adolescence and maturity, she has known only Max. In effect, he is her father and good to her. I thought I might make you see the trauma, for her, of replacing Max with yourself. Also, I thought you might be convinced of Max’s importance in the free world-I do not denigrate your own-but Max is proved, looked up to, on the brink of greater work, for all the people, for our government, not private enterprise-and I thought-’

Walther’s cheeks were ablaze. ‘You are an impertinent young man,’ he interrupted. He tried to control his voice, but it quaked with anger. All in his face that had seemed loose and flabby with age and drink now seemed to stretch and harden. ‘You are a meddling young man, and you have no feeling-’

Craig did not recoil, but sat immovable in his place. ‘I apologize then,’ he said. ‘I had no wish to offend you or-’

Walther’s flat palm slapped the table like a plank of wood, and the bottle jumped. ‘What does any pampered young ignoramus like you know of life over there and what we go through? What do you know of discipline and sacrifice and suffering-you, all of you, with your belly softness and head softness-dancing puppets for the propertied class, educated by schools that will only cater to the wealthy, and learning all you know from newspapers and periodicals controlled by the rich? What do you know-and who are you to tell me what is right and what is wrong-to tell me to sacrifice more and more for a brother who has grown fat and fat-headed, usurping my place with my own flesh and blood?’

Krantz had rushed forward. ‘Please, Walther-please, please-Mr. Craig did not mean-’

Craig pushed back the chair and came to his feet. ‘No, Krantz, he is quite right. I should not try to live other people’s lives and make their decisions. It is a disagreeable trait of authors. But I will make up for it now.’ He stared down at the angry Walther. ‘Yes, I will make up for it. There is no reason for you to go back-but there is no reason for Max to submit and go behind the Curtain either. I don’t intend to let Eckart pull off his filthy blackmail. There’ll be no exchange tonight. You’ll have your freedom, Walther, and Max will keep his. We’re all leaving this boat right now.’

Krantz darted to the table. ‘It is impossible, Mr. Craig-why-’

‘Shut up Krantz!’ It was Walther. He addressed Craig with cool contempt. ‘I was mistaken. You are not merely a fool but a suicidal fool.’

Craig contained himself. ‘It’s possible if one wants freedom enough as some Hungarians and some East Germans did,’ he said evenly.

‘There are no odds to favour us,’ said Walther. ‘There are two guards out there, fully armed, young hoodlums who would enjoy the target practice. There are four of us-two of us old, and one a woman-with no arms but your nonsense.’

‘I’ll take the major risk,’ persisted Craig. ‘I’ll lead the way out. It’s dark. I’ll go towards the guards, block them, divert them, no matter what the consequences. There’ll be time enough for the three of you to make the wharf-or, better, just leap overboard and begin to shout. The noise you make-the gunfire at me-it’ll bring, people down in swarms.’

‘I am not going overboard,’ said Walther with deadly reserve. ‘I do not swim.’

‘You’ll find cork jackets in the cupboard.’

‘And float there-sitting duck for those hoodlums? No. Why risk my life, after all I have been through, when my freedom without danger is only hours off?’

‘But then we can save Max-not only you but Max.’

‘You are telling me how to think about Max?’ Walther bawled, rearing to his feet, lurching against the table. The jolt of his agitated frame against the table overturned the glass and bottle, and sent both rolling to the cabin floor. As the vodka gurgled out of the bottle, Walther shouted, ‘Max is my business, not yours-not any of yours! I have had enough from you and all of your provocateurs! Now get out of here!’

Craig remained stolidly in his place. ‘I’m not getting out.’

Walther strode noisily around the table. ‘Then I will have you thrown out, you capitalist scum-trying to tell me what to do-trying to tell me-a man honoured, revered, looked up to, worshipped-in the most powerful nation on earth-’

Suddenly, Walther cut his heated outburst short. His eyes went from Craig, to Krantz, and back to Craig, to the look of blank astonishment on Krantz’s features, to the look of complete scorn on Craig’s face. Except for their heavy breathing, the ticking of a clock, the creak of hinges off somewhere, the stateroom was a tomb of charged silence.

Craig spoke first. ‘You don’t want to escape, do you, Walther? I never expected you would. But-why not? Because you don’t give a damn about your brother or daughter? Or because you don’t give a damn about freedom? You don’t want freedom-do you, Walther?’

Rage covered Walther’s face like a distorted hood. He reeled towards Craig, lifting a fist as if to hit him. But he did not strike. Instead, he bellowed, ‘Freedom? Freedom? What do you sheep know of freedom-of the true meaning of freedom? You with your holy false words-mouthings dictated by your capitalist hyenas-the provocateurs, the warmongers, and you no better, and Max no better-waiting with your ICBMs to destroy us, to protect your filthy green dollars.’

They were only a few feet apart, but Craig did not flinch. Exultation swept upward through his veins. Reckless confidence, in knowledge of the truth, was his banner. ‘You speak like a Communist, Walther, exactly like a Communist. You’re not even being cautious. You’re one of them-not the decent people there-but the big ones, the cocky ones, so sure of your science and weapons-’

‘You ignorant lout!’ cried Walther. ‘What do you know of our science and our weapons? We are the fighters for peace-working day and night to save the world, keep it alive for you fools, to make one world-’

‘Your world, Walther, not mine,’ interrupted Craig. ‘You want your world on your terms, and it has nothing to do with average people anywhere. You want your world. You’ve been brainwashed-indoctrinated-forgotten the old past-want the new future where you and your adopted comrades will be the royalty.’

‘The workers will be the royalty!’ Walther shouted.

Craig studied the weaving old man, his pose lost, his stature taller, stronger, fanatical, and then Craig said, ‘You never intended to leave that world, Walther. I can see that now. You played along for the sake of the Party-it’s the Party, isn’t it, Walther? It’s the parroting, brainless, robot Party.’

‘Another disrespect against the Party and you’ll pay for it!’ Walther swayed, unbalanced by vodka and outrage. ‘The Party is the best of us-all eight million of the CPSU-and we are the cream, the best, the most decent brains on earth, and your fate is in our hands-remember that, remember-’

‘And so you played along for them, never intending to participate honourably even in blackmail? The bosses said go to Stockholm, suck in Max, get him back to East Berlin for us-so we can use him for evil-and then you come back to us, too. That was the game, wasn’t it?’

Walther’s mouth was strange, twisting, twisting, saliva-brimmed, with no word being uttered, until at last the hoarse words broke through. ‘Do you think I would come to you in a hundred years? I wanted to help them get Max on the right side, yes. And the girl-Emily-yes, if she would come. I owed it to her-after what I know of Ravensbruck, after what I guess of her life in America-to raise her under my roof, in a decent house, with my family. But to leave my family for the likes of Max or the lot of you? To leave a good Russian wife-my two young children? They are my life, they and my work and our cause.’

He caught his breath, panting out of fever and fury.

‘Dr. Krantz!’ The voice, clear and assured, came from the rear of the stateroom, and it was Emily’s voice.

All of them turned as one, startled, having forgotten her. She stood before the open door of the bedroom cabin, had apparently been standing there for some minutes. Now, shifting her coat from one arm to the other, head high, lips compressed, only her step uneven, she crossed to the group.

‘Dr. Krantz,’ she repeated, ‘should you speak to Dr. Eckart once more, tell him this. Tell him there can be no trade-because there is no one for whom Uncle Max can be traded.’

She considered Craig gravely, her countenance dry-eyed and composed. ‘Thank you, Andrew,’ she said.

Kranz was waiting at the stateroom door. He went first. Emily was the next to go. Then it was Craig who left.

Not one of them looked back at Professor Walther Stratman…

When they had arrived at his single room on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel, Craig helped Emily inside, switching on the lights as they entered. Emily was heavy against his supporting arm, and twice she stumbled. ‘I’m all right,’ she muttered, ‘I’ll be all right.’

They had emerged from the cabin cruiser at Pålsundet only fifteen minutes before, and the memory of it still hung over them. No sooner had Krantz led them up to the white pine deck than the athletic young Swedish guard had appeared, suspicious and edgy. Krantz had sternly rattled forth his explanation in Swedish, mentioning Walther once, invoking Eckart twice, and then the guard had conceded their passage.

Swiftly, they had made their way along the canal, waiting once when Emily had protested that she was weak. During that interlude, Craig had felt the cool white flakes of snow on his cheeks, as satisfying as Emily’s warm presence leaning against him. Lingering thus, Craig had studied the dark waters of the canal and Långholmen island directly across, almost hidden behind the haze of the low mist, and then the snow came thicker. Where earlier it had seemed menacing, it now seemed a suspension in time, both cheerful and welcome.

After that, they had departed from the desolate embankment, and gone up through the hard, slippery park area, Krantz wheezing, and Craig concerned only for the one on his arm.

When they had come into the lights of Söder Mälarstrand, the traffic was still heavy in the packed snow, and the bright municipal decorations a proper jubilee. At the limousine, speckled with dry snow, Craig had asked Krantz to drive them to the hotel, and he had eagerly assented.

Inside the cosy automobile, as it slid into the traffic, Emily had sat straight and rigid a moment, staring ahead, then suddenly she had closed her eyes and choked forth a sob.

Craig had watched her with deep concern, aware of how depleted were her emotional resources. ‘I’m sorry, Emily. It must be shattering.’

‘No,’ she had said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘I-I almost cried because-only because I’m so relieved, at last. All afternoon, I did not know where I was, how to think, what should be done. Now it’s solved. He-he’s not my father at all-at least-not the father I knew. And the thought of having to give up Uncle Max for him or anyone-’ She paused. ‘But thank God for you, Andrew, thank God for you.’

She fumbled for his hand, and he met her hand with his own, and brought her close against him. She dropped her head on his shoulder, eyes wearily closing, and sighed like a little girl who had been lost and was now safely in her sheltering bed again.

‘Andrew-’ she had murmured, and the receding voice was shaded and troubled.

He waited, and he said, ‘Don’t bother to talk. I’m here. I’ll always be here.’

‘No,’ she had said, ‘no, Andrew-’

He had tried to understand this refusal to accept him, and had been about to contend with it, when he saw that she slept. He had sat all through the ride, arm about her rocking with the motion of the limousine, wondering and wondering, until the time when they had drawn up before the canopy of the Grand Hotel.

‘Here we are,’ he had whispered, disengaging himself, and rousing her. The doorman had opened the rear door, but it had been Krantz, skittering around from the driver’s seat, who had shoved the doorman aside to assist Emily and Craig out of the car.

Going past the worried Krantz, Craig had remembered that he represented unfinished business. A decision must be made. Requesting Emily to wait, and the doorman to look after her, Craig had returned to Krantz. Wordlessly, they had walked several yards from the car.

Krantz, distractedly brushing the snowflakes from his face, had gazed up at Craig. ‘What are you going to do?’

Studying the servile physicist, Craig had known that there was only one thing he could do. From the beginning, when Daranyi had indicted the physicist, Craig had looked upon Krantz as Rumpelstilzchen, the evil dwarf, but now, hunched and drooping, he was only the pathetic dwarf. Craig could see how one so small had, in some way, to become big, and any witchery was worth it if the goal was reached. Craig could see that Nature had punished him from birth, punished him with lack of stature and discontent, and that more than this need not be done.

Craig had studied the pale little Swede. ‘I keep thinking of Jacobsson-Ingrid Påhl-the hundreds of others-decent people-who work hard to make the Nobel awards mean something-in a world where so little means anything-and I tell myself all that would be lost with one rotten scandal. Because you fear the scandal as much as I hate it, you’ve tried to make up for it. You took me to the boat. You took us off the boat. So-as long as I can know you’ll never get caught up in anything like this again-’

‘Never-never. My pledge-’

‘-and as long as I know you’ll square things with Daranyi-’

‘At once-tomorrow.’

‘-I’m not going to say a thing, Krantz, only make a record of it, in case you should ever get out of line.’

Krantz had been almost tearful. ‘Thank you-thank you.’

‘You don’t have to thank me. You can be grateful to your colleagues… Now beat it.’

Briefly, he had watched Krantz hurry back to the limousine. Then, when the car was gone, he had returned to the canopy, where Emily rested against an upright. He could see that she was but half awake. He had grasped her firmly under the arch of the back, and led her up the stairs, and through the lobby to the elevator.

Now they were in his room. He removed her coat, and settled her on the double bed, and bent to pull off her shoes. As he did so, she forced her eyes open. ‘The sedation is wearing off, Andrew. But I’m still sort of-slowed down.’ She took in the room, disoriented. ‘This room. Is this your room?’

‘Yes… Now, stretch out. You’ll be yourself in a little while.’

She nodded, pushed herself to the centre of the bed, falling backwards to the pillow. She lifted her slim legs, making one gesture towards her skirt, trying, and failing, to cover her knees, then letting her arm drop limply to the quilt.

Craig turned down two of the three lamps, poked at his valise, removed his jacket and tie, tried to busy himself in every way, hoping that she would sleep. At the telephone, he considered calling the Concert Hall and leaving a message for Jacobsson, explaining that he would be late. But then, as he weighed the necessity of the call, he realized that Emily was still awake, her eyes following his every movement.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ he asked.

‘No.’ Feebly, she touched the bed beside her. ‘Come, sit close to me.’

‘Yes.’ He stood over her. Her silken black hair, and green eyes and serious crimson lips, had never been more beautiful to his sight. He bent over her face, and she closed her eyes, and he kissed her.

At last, with one weak hand against his shoulder, she asked for release, and he granted it.

‘Andrew-’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Very simple. We’ll wait for the drug to wear off, and then we’ll change and go.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said. ‘I meant-’ But then it was difficult to know what she meant under the sedation, and her brain was slow. ‘How did you find me?’

He told her how hopeful he had been after receiving her message, and how he had waited for the telephone call and for her understanding. Then he related how he had gone to her suite, and received the tape recorder, and made up his mind not to burden her uncle with the terrible dilemma, but to see what he could do by himself. He told her about Gottling, and how they had gone to Daranyi, and what had happened there, and then he told her, in lesser detail, of his showdown with Krantz that had led him to the meeting with Walther in the stateroom.

She had listened without comment, but now she said, ‘You are good.’

‘I’m in love,’ he said simply.

She avoided the declaration. Instead, she said, ‘I keep thinking-what if it had been Uncle Max they had reached before you? He would have gone over to their side without hesitation-remembering my father only as he had last seen him in another age-forgetting, as we all do, people are different people at different times.’

‘That is true.’

‘Uncle Max would have been lost to me-and I’d be alone. How did you ever think you could-?’

‘I didn’t think, Emily,’ he said. ‘I felt. I felt, and I acted on feeling-something I have not done in years. That’s all I did. I felt Max must not be given away. I felt your father must be reasoned with. Most of all, I felt alive-but for a while, as dead as before I met you-and I knew I could be alive again, and stay alive, only by being with you… Emily, stop ignoring it, denying it. I love you, and accept this from me.’

‘I can’t. Won’t you understand? I’m unable to-I can’t.’

‘But why not?’ His mind went to a word, and he wondered if it might hold her secret. ‘Emily, I don’t know what is wrong-I can only guess it must be something in your past. I’ve heard one word over and over again. From you. From your Uncle Max. From Daranyi. Even from your-from Walther.’ She was watching him with frightened eyes, but he went on. ‘The word is Ravensbruck,’ he said. ‘It’s the only other thing I don’t understand, besides your rejection of me. I know-you told me once-Ravensbruck was a women’s concentration camp in Germany during the war. But I still don’t understand its-’

‘Andrew,’ she said, ‘I was going to tell you about that at noon-it was the important thing I had to tell you.’

‘Do you still want to tell me?’

‘I don’t know, except it is now all that matters again. It has never stopped mattering. I suppose if you know the truth about that, you will know me and have some understanding-of why I treated you the way I did that first night we met in the palace, of-of the way I’ve been withdrawn and strange, I’m sure you’ve seen that-of the real reason I sent you away.’ She paused. ‘It wasn’t Lilly, you see. It was me.’ Her green eyes studied his features for long silent seconds. ‘And finally-finally-it’s why I cannot marry you or see you again.’

‘Emily-’

‘I want to talk,’ she persisted tiredly, and her speech had thickened. ‘I have to, sooner or later, so that you’ll know why this is our last time together. You deserve to know, because of what you’ve expected of me. And besides-I guess-my poor brain-I’m so lightheaded now-besides, I think, for once I’m drugged enough to be uninhibited.’

‘Emily, I’d rather you rest, and then-’

‘Now, Andrew, it’s got to be now. It is more important to me than anything in the world.’

‘All right, Emily,’ he said, and he pondered what might come, and for some unknown reason he felt fear.

‘You won’t mind if I don’t look at you while I talk?’ For a moment, she was quiet again, as if rummaging through her opiate-scattered brain. ‘Ravensbruck,’ she said, ‘that is where it began and ended. They called it, in German, the woman’s hell, but it was not nearly so pleasant as that.’

Her thoughts had wandered again, but her determination was strong, and she went on. ‘My mother and I were sent there, you know, fifty miles north of Berlin, and were to be kept alive as long as my father and Uncle Max worked for the government in Berlin.’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘I was thirteen and fourteen and fifteen in Ravensbruck. When I was first put there, I was a scrawny girl just out of puberty, but the next year I began to mature, and before my fifteenth birthday, I was a woman-much more attractive than I am today-a woman with a serious child’s head. We lived like animals, deprived, ragged, filthy, and always in our fear of being Jews. But no one whipped or beat us or made us stand in the naked inspections, my mother and myself, because of my father and Uncle Max. And for me, most of the first two years, it was not such hell, because I had only then become a woman, and before I had been a child, and so this was almost the only life I knew well, and I had no real standard I would allow myself to compare it with. It seemed natural to me-as if it had always been-to wear a stinking and vermin-covered dress and underwear and to wear wooden shoes, to wake at five-thirty and have one cup of ersatz coffee for breakfast, and one tin can of cabbage soup for lunch, and one more for dinner, and to steal potato peelings from the garbage, to work eleven hours every day digging a road, to use a four-gallon drum for a toilet, to sleep with lice and my mother and one other on straw with one blanket for all three of us. I repeat, I refused to remember any other life, so I managed. It was my mother who suffered worse, but no matter about that. The real horror of the camp was not so much the indignities and punishments and suffering we saw-but the worse things we did not see. As the veterans in the Atlanta hospital where I work are often saying, there were constant latrine rumours. Some I could even verify, because I knew the French women and the Czech women. Our friends disappeared, and we knew it was true that fifty women a day were shot in the back of the neck and cremated. To speed up the liquidation, many of our friends were pressed to build a gas chamber, so we knew that existed. Then there were the scientific experiments, medical experiments-;’

Craig thought of Dr. Farelli at Dachau, and then he listened again, still puzzled.

‘-and one experiment I knew about,’ said Emily, words dragging, ‘was done on the Polish female prisoners among us-by Dr. Karl Gebhardt, a surgeon from the University of Berlin, and Dr. Schidlausky, our senior medical officer. They were trying to prove something about sulphur drugs-and instead of white mice they used the Polish women. They infected them in their legs-cut their legs and put tetanus germs, sometimes with ground glass, or made artificial gangrene in the incisions-to study the results. Most of the girls died in anguish. But that is not my story. My first time-’

Her eyes held absently on the hotel window, and after an interval, she continued.

‘The Nazis were worried about their airmen who ditched in the water or navy sailors who had to jump in the water, when it was cold, in winter, and so they began experiments in freezing and heating of human beings. I don’t know much about this, except what I saw and what happened. It was a bad winter night, and we were all huddled around the stove in the barracks after seven or eight, after the cabbage soup, and the highest woman supervisor, the Aufseherin, who was under Colonel Schneider, the commandant-her name was Frau Hencke-she came in with two men guards. She was wearing her grey uniform, with the holster and pistol, and black boots, and carrying the whip.

‘She ordered all of us to stand in a line, and then went down the line grumbling, flicking the whip, shaking her head, complaining of our dirtiness and ugliness and dead eyes, and when she came to me, she looked me over, up and down, and said, “Ja, this is the one-this one will do nicely.” Immediately, my mother was terrified and wanted to know what they would do with me, and Frau Hencke said it was to be an honour for me, to give assistance-I think she said clerical assistance-to their doctors in the scientific experiments. I would be busy, she said, tonight and in the morning, but I could rest the next day.’ Emily sighed. ‘The beginning,’ she said.

For a while, she lay still, and then, slowly, she resumed.

‘It was ten below zero that night. It is hard now to remember how cold it was. I wore my sweater and my mother’s coat and a shawl someone loaned me, and I went with Frau Hencke and the guards-the ground was like iron and there were icicles from all the barracks buildings-and I thought we were going to the Revier, the huts that were our hospital, but we went past it, and on and on, until we came to a small brick building I had never seen, and Frau Hencke said this was the science experiment building and infirmary.

‘When we came near the entrance, I heard, over the wind, a man crying-it is wrenching to hear the sound of a man crying-and then a physician met us-Dr. Voegler, the assistant medical officer to Dr. Schidlausky-and he said that he would show me the experiment. They led me around the building to the side, and the man’s crying was louder. Do you know what they showed me? A young Polish prisoner-a thin Jewish boy with curly black hair. He was on a stretcher on the hard ground, and he was all naked-and it was ten below zero.

‘I wanted to run. I had never seen a grown man all naked, that was one thing, but the main thing was the bestiality-his wrists and ankles tied-helpless and naked on a stretcher. And then in front of me a guard poured a pail of ice water over him-and he screamed and cried. Dr. Voegler and Frau Hencke took me inside the infirmary and said that this was their freezing experiment, and it would be followed by a warming experiment. The idea was to see how frozen a subject could become and still be saved. They told me they must learn how they could save the glorious aviators of the Luftwaffe who went down in the Channel. And now they said I had been chosen to help them prove that someone frozen like that boy could be saved. I remember I said, “I will do anything to help that poor boy live.” And the doctor said, “I am glad you are co-operative. You will have your chance in a few hours.”

‘Frau Hencke took me into an empty room-it had windows around like a hospital nursery, but they were draped. There was nothing in the room but a double bed and a chair. Frau Hencke was friendly and said she would get me hot milk and rolls-I had not had such luxury in two years-and then I must nap, and they would wake me when it was time to work. I took my milk and rolls, and then took off my shoes and rested on the bed, with the lights off, but I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking of that poor freezing Jewish boy on the stretcher in that weather. Maybe I dozed off. I can no longer remember. But I suppose some hours passed, and suddenly the lights in the room were on and I was sitting up, and Dr. Voegler and Frau Hencke were standing there.

‘Dr. Voegler said, “Fräulein Stratman, now it is time. Our heating experiment begins. We are bringing in the test person-the boy you want to help-and now we want to find out if he can be unfrozen and warmed up with animal heat-the heat of the human body.” I had no idea what he was talking about. “Take off your clothes, Fräulein,” he commanded. I wanted to know how much to take off, and he said every stitch, and I was not yet fifteen and ashamed of the size of my breasts, and how I was a woman, and I refused. The doctor then said the experiment could only be made by two people, one cold like the boy, and one warm like myself, and I was to nestle close to him, embrace him on the bed, to transmit my heat to him and see if it would bring him back to normal. I screamed that I couldn’t, and then the doctor said that if I would not co-operate, they would go and bring my mother in my place, and I would watch. And so then I did not resist. Frau Hencke took off my patched sweater and the wool skirt, and she took off my cotton brassière and pulled down my pants, and I was naked, and I did what they told me. I stretched out on the bed, with one hand trying to cover my breasts and the other hand below. Then Dr. Voegler and Frau Hencke went out, and they carried in the poor, naked Jewish boy, unconscious, numbed like metal by the cold, and they threw him on the bed next to me. They left on one light in the room, and parted the drapes of a window halfway. The doctor demanded that I take the boy in my arms and hug him, and press him against my breasts and belly, and caress him, to see if this would revive him. The doctor said the boy’s life was in my hands. And they would be watching, with others, from the window to see that I did what I must do.

‘At first, alone with the boy, I was repelled-remember my age. I had never touched a man or seen one like this-but then I kept seeing they were watching me, and I looked at the boy, so unconscious, so suffering, and he was alive, I could tell, and then I didn’t care, I only wanted him to live. I turned him sideways towards me-and pressed against his limp icy body-and I hugged him and stroked him. How can I tell you the rest? The witnesses knew it would happen-they had done this for weeks before-but I did not know. In an hour he was conscious, the boy, but weak, not knowing where he was or what was going on-and then Dr. Voegler came in and took his temperature, and it was eighty-four degrees-and then the doctor left, and the boy began to revive as I hugged him and ran my hands over him. And then he opened his eyes and kept looking at me, at my breasts, and suddenly-I can’t tell you-he had an erection-and he was between my legs before I could prevent it, he was like some alley dog, and he broke my virginity and I was bleeding, and he sobbed that he was sorry, sorry, but he couldn’t control himself, and he kept on until it was over, and then he fell back and slept. I had never known such a thing and was sickened, but Dr. Voegler and two other physicians and Frau Hencke came in and examined him and then congratulated me. They said his temperature had jumped to normal in coitus, faster than by any other means known except a hot bath, and that I would be rewarded with a fine breakfast, and he would live. I couldn’t eat the breakfast, I had lost everything, but I told myself at least this was for something-to save a poor Polish boy’s life.

‘In the morning, I told my mother a lie about clerical work, and tried to live with myself, and a few days later, I found it was all a waste anyway. They had taken the same boy from his barracks and put him in a vat of ice water outside the infirmary, when it snowed, and then carried him in and put him between two naked French-women, but he died there between them.’

She lay inert, gazing off, still not meeting his eyes.

He wanted to touch her. He wanted to take her to him and make her forget all that was dead in the past but so alive in her. But he knew that he could not.

He said, ‘And that was what happened in Ravensbruck?’

‘The beginning,’ she said, ‘only the beginning, I told you. I will make less of the rest that followed, because that was the most of it. A week after the experiment-’

She faltered, briefly.

‘Emily,’ he said, ‘I-’

‘A week after,’ she persisted, ‘Frau Hencke, the woman supervisor, sent for me in her private quarters. It was dark, before dinner. I rapped on her door, and she called to come in. She was lying on the sofa of her small living room, covered to the neck with a blanket. She was a husky woman, not stout but big-boned, a woman of maybe thirty-five, with a deep voice that frightened all the inmates. She was a power in the camp. She told me to lock the door, and I did, and she told me to come to her, and I did. She asked me how old I was, and I said fifteen in a few weeks. She said she had been impressed with my behaviour and courage the night of the experiment, and she had thought about me every day since. “When I undressed you,” she said, “I must admit I never saw a girl with a more wonderful figure.” I was scared, but I thanked her. She said she had suffered to see me on the bed letting that Jewish boy make love to me. If it had been in her hands, she would not have allowed any man to despoil such a lovely virgin. “But we will forget that,” she said “because I have good news for you.” She told me that, aside from Colonel Schneider, she was the most important person in Ravensbruck. She was in a position to save lives, make life agreeable with comforts. She was prepared now to do this for my mother and myself. She would take me under her wing. I would be her protégée. But in a week I had become older, and I was suspicious. “Why do you do this?” I wanted to know. And she said, “Because Emily, I am a foolish woman to have fallen in love with you.” ’

From her pillow, almost oblivious of Craig, Emily seemed to consider the old scene.

‘She kept telling me how she loved me,’ said Emily. ‘She promised that she would be kind to me, and I would never be sorry. Then, while she spoke, her tone became more-more excited. She said that she did not want to waste time in idle talk. She said I must take off all my clothes as I had at the experiment. I made no move to do this, and she asked me if I had heard of the douche room, and I said that I had. One French girl was sent there for punishment. The bidet-the douche-shot up water like a geyser, with pressure of a fire hose, and you squatted over it until you passed out. Frau Hencke said she would hate to have that douche disfigure me. Still I hesitated about undressing, and she saw I was obstinate, and then she said without meanness, “Or do you wish your mother here in Ravensbruck with you or in Auschwitz where the crematorium buildings are? I am in charge of preparing the lists for Colonel Schneider.” One by one, as if in a dream, I removed my garments. When I was naked, she smiled. “Wunderschön!” she said. “You are better than any I have seen. Now take the blanket off me.”

‘Have you ever walked naked in front of a stranger? My legs were wooden sticks, and I tried to cover my-no matter-I went to her and took off the blanket, and there she was-with nothing on-so repulsive. I stood, shaking, and she told me to lie down with her. There was no choice. I sat down and-and-she stroked me and then again said, “Now lie down.” It was ugly the way she was breathing-but I did what I was told, because I was so young and had only my mother, and I did not want my mother in the crematorium.’ Emily paused. ‘That was for three months-’

‘Emily,’ Craig interrupted, ‘I don’t have to hear any more. Don’t-’

‘Are you afraid to hear?’ she asked without looking at him. ‘Is that it?’

‘That is not it. I’m thinking of you.’ But then he knew that she must have her catharsis.

‘I will finish,’ she said, and her words were not all distinct because of the sedative. ‘One night, as always, I went to Frau Hencke, and for the first time she was fully clothed. She said in her superintendent voice, “There is too much talk in this camp. Not always the prisoners, but the foul-mouthed men, the guards. Colonel Schneider has called me in and said our meetings are known, and there is much jealousy. He thinks it is bad for morale. I am sorry, but this is ended.” I wanted to weep, and thank the Lord for ending the nightmare, for ridding me of that horrible Lesbian. But then she said, “Colonel Schneider wishes to speak to you personally. After rations tonight, at eight o’clock, one of his guards will come for you. That is all, Emily.”

‘The guard came at twenty after eight, I remember. I went to Colonel Schneider’s bungalow. It was the best building at Ravensbruck. He was the commandant. I was shown into a study, and then the door was closed, and I saw him working at his desk. He was wearing a silk robe from occupied Paris. I stood a long time, and finally he turned around. I had never set eyes on him before. He had a fringe of hair with long sideburns, thick, and a broken flat nose, and he was middle height but big like a bull with no neck. He kept looking at me like-as if I were a prize heifer-and then he said, “Walk-walk around the room.” I did. He said, “You walk well. I wondered why Frau Hencke was so radiant these months. Now, I see why. Well, I will brook no perversion in my command.” Then he said, “You will do. Go through that door to my bedroom. Disrobe. I will join you.” I was stunned. I had expected anything but this. I knew if I was obstinate what I would hear, but I tried. I pleaded with him, I begged him. He would not listen. “You are not a virgin,” he said. “I have heard about you and the Jew boy. You brought him back to life, eh? Few females are so impressive. You will find a healthy Aryan better for you. Now into the bedroom. Worse things can happen to you-and your mother.” When he mentioned my mother, my resistance was gone. I went into the bedroom and undressed and waited on the bed. When he came to me, he was naked, also-a bull-’

‘Emily, please-’

‘I want you to know. I will spare you details. He did not even put a gentle hand on me. He treated me like something in a-in a breeding farm. He forced my legs, and he fell on me like a machine that pounds flat the pavement. A half hour later, he sent for Dr. Voegler, and I had four stitches and was told to rest ten days. I could hardly walk to the barracks-but I had a basket of food for my mother and the others-my mother never knew the truth.

‘On the tenth day, the guard came, and Colonel Schneider was at his desk, and he didn’t even speak to me, just waved me into the bedroom. After that, it was every night-except twice when he had to fly to Berlin for weekends-it was every night the same, for one month. Then, the second month, he said he was displeased with me. He said I came and lay like a stick and let him do what he wanted, but he was becoming bored, he did not have to endure such insolence from me. Henceforth, if my mother and I were to enjoy his favour, I must be demonstrative-pleasing-display love and genuine excitement.’

She halted and was quiet for a painful interlude.

‘I did all I was told to do,’ she said. ‘Apparently it was enough. I serviced Colonel Schneider four and five and six times a week, for as much as an hour at a time, for seven months-yes, seven months. It meant nothing to me any more. But then the gossip was that the Russians were near, and the war would be ending, and Colonel Schneider flew to Berlin to see Hitler and Himmler. He never came back-he was killed in an air raid-but he had told his junior officers about me, and a Major and two Captains of the Waffen-SS took me with them when they evacuated Ravensbruck, took me to their new post at Buchenwald, near Weimar, and for several weeks-my mother was gone and I didn’t give a damn about life any more-I serviced the three of them in their quarters. I went like an automaton-Pavlov’s response, I suppose. Night would fall, I would automatically go to the door, the guard would come, and the cot and the three of them would be waiting. And then, suddenly, one day they were gone-and no one called me to come in the night even though I was at the door-and it was April 11, 1945, and the Americans had arrived to liberate us. They checked our records-the documents, journals, whatnot-and they found mine-and the American psychiatric officer told me what a British psychoanalyst told me later-I was in a catatonic state. No one knew of what had happened to me except the doctors, until Uncle Max found me, and they told him a little.’ She paused. ‘Ravensbruck,’ she said. ‘That is Ravensbruck.’

‘Emily-Emily-what can I possibly say? Except that-except now that you’ve-’

She would not listen. ‘Everyone thinks I am a virgin,’ she was saying. ‘Wouldn’t their hair stand on end to hear this? Even you thought I was a virgin. I’m sorry, Andrew, but you had to know-your nun was a whore-a veteran of three hundred nights.’ Suddenly she covered her eyes and her voice broke. ‘God, oh God, how many times in the years after-how long I’ve wanted to die.’

He reached for her wrists and pulled her hands from her tearful eyes, and he kissed her hands. ‘It has nothing to do with you, Emily, none of it. You were forced into that life-and now you are free-and it is gone.’

She looked at him for the first time in all this long while. ‘Is it gone, Andrew? How can it ever be gone?’

‘Because sadism and violence were inflicted upon you-and you confuse them with loving-when they have nothing to do with loving, because you have saved and preserved and never given your love. That is still untouched. In love, you are a virgin still.’

‘I know you want to be kind-you are kind-you pity me-’

I’m sorry for what happened, but what I feel for you has nothing to do with pity.’

‘-and I want to believe you,’ said Emily. ‘But how can I? Ever since the day the war ended, and I came to America, no man has ever touched me. I would not allow it. It was as if I had to live in a sterile bottle, apart from human contact, doing penance for mortal sin-secretly knowing that I had been soiled beyond redemption-that below the waist I was unclean-and if I were ever with a man again, he would find it out and be revolted and cast me out-and if he didn’t find out, he would be cheated and used, and I would be consigned to hell’s fires. Then, in all the more than fifteen years since, I began to live a fantasy-this-that if enough years passed, that filthy part of me would rot away with time, and be replaced by new clean flesh-and I would become wholesome like any normal woman-and then I could allow myself to-to accept a man-or fall in love. You know, on the boat crossing, I tried once to see if any human contact was possible, and I couldn’t-I couldn’t go through with it. Then I met you-and I allowed myself to let go a little-to think it was possible-but then I knew. I met your Lilly, and I knew, seeing her, knowing me-that she was health, and I was an incurable emotional cripple-that what I fancied for you-to offer myself as young and cleansed and virginal was-unreal, and that you had suffered too much to be robbed by life again.’

Suddenly she closed her eyes and shook her head, then opened her eyes wide, as if recognizing him as Andrew Craig, and then she pushed herself to a seated posture. ‘I think the drug is wearing off. I’ve talked too much. Did I tell you all the things…?’

‘Yes, Emily, thank God.’

‘I’m glad. Did I tell you-did I say anything about caring for you?’

‘In a way.’

‘Then you know that, and you know why it can’t ever be.’

‘I don’t know any such thing,’ he said. ‘I’m going to love you and I’m going to marry you.’

‘Don’t talk like that. Have some respect for my feelings. We can’t go on, and you know why. If we married, how would it be every night? You’d know what had been before-be reminded of all I told you-know that every move I made-the filth of it would corrupt your love-and in the end, you’d have only hate, and I couldn’t bear it.’

She patted her hair, and straightened her sweater, and began to move her legs off the bed. ‘It’s no use, Andrew. Let me go back to my room.’

He had her by the shoulder. ‘No,’ he said sharply.

The need for her to be a part of all his remaining years, the desire to possess and own her, had become an unbearable craving. ‘No, you’re not going to leave me alone, not when I can’t live without you, not when you want me equally as much.’ He took her hand. ‘Emily, think of it, Emily, I’ve heard the worst, and I love you more, and I’m not going to let you ruin my life by being no part of it. I won’t think of all that happened, I don’t now, I won’t ever in our lives. It was a black planet, inhabited by inhuman creatures, but we are human beings of the light and the earth planet, and we deserve our time. And I mean what I’ve been saying-you have not been touched by any man, because you have not known a moment’s love. And what is untouched is all that matters-and should belong to someone who must have you and care for you. Emily, I didn’t think there could be another after Harriet. When she died, I thought I had died, too. But now there is another me, a different me, alive and yearning to belong to life once more-but not alone-only with you.’

He took her in his arms, and her body relaxed in them, and he kissed her hair, her ear, her cheeks, her eyes.

‘Andrew,’ she whispered against him, ‘Andrew-you do mean what-what you’ve been saying?’

‘With all my heart and soul. I’d give my life for you. It would not be worth living without you.’

‘Yes,’ she said softly. She buried her head in his chest. Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘I believe you now. You showed that today.’ Then she said, ‘Lie down with me, dearest. Lie down and hold me and never let me go.’

‘Never in our lives,’ he said.

She had stretched out on the bed. He lowered himself alongside her, embracing her, at peace, with the contour of her warm breasts and smooth belly and supple hips as one with him, and safe at last. He kissed her face and kissed it and kissed it, and stroked her shoulders and hair, until the last of the fright was exorcised, and the old past crept away into darkness.

‘Andrew,’ she whispered, ‘now you can say it.’

‘I love you. Forever.’

She lay in bliss, and she thought: welcome earth, warm earth, the sun-warm, the green-warm, the blue-warm, the singing earth of the living. She moved her face against his to tell him her secret, to tell him-yes-yes-now I can love, too-but then she knew that he knew, and so she kept her peace which was theirs, and they rested as one…

It was 6.21 in the evening.

The majestic Ceremony in the auditorium of Concert Hall was drawing to a close. Dr. Claude Marceau and Dr. Denise Marceau had been introduced and extolled in Swedish, and greeted in French, and they had accepted their award from the King, and for both of them Dr. Claude Marceau had addressed the vast assemblage. Dr. Carlo Farelli and Dr. John Garrett had received their awards, and each spoke briefly, eloquently, in turn.

Now, Professor Max Stratman, having been honoured, had tried to dismiss his apprehensions about Emily, and was at the lectern, reading the speech he had so carefully prepared, a plea for East-West understanding, a plea for eternal peace.

He had reached his last paragraph. ‘Every year, in my country, the United States of America, we sponsor a Nobel anniversary dinner in New York City, during the month following this night. On one such occasion, a giant whom I admired and was proud to know spoke in the role of scientist and pacifist, and fittingly, his concluding words must be my concluding words. In 1945, at the American Nobel anniversary dinner, Professor Albert Einstein said, “May the spirit that prompted Alfred Nobel to create his great instititution, the spirit of trust and confidence, of generosity and brotherhood among men, prevail in the minds of those upon whose decision our destiny rests. Otherwise human civilization will be doomed.” Thank you, and good evening.’

Stratman bowed to the prolonged ovation, and he returned to his chair.

Ingrid Påhl, who was to introduce Andrew Craig, last of the laureates to be honoured, had already taken the empty seat beside Jacobsson, and, tugging nervously at the corsage on her gown, she despaired of what to say.

‘What has happened to him?’ she asked. ‘It will be a disgrace. What excuse can I make to His Majesty, the audience?’

‘You’ll have to-’ Jacobsson had begun to reply, when suddenly an outburst of applause, louder and louder, from the audience, crashed against the stage. Jacobsson saw all eyes on the platform directed to the rear, and he swung around.

Andrew Craig, resplendent in full dress, wing collar and white bow tie and patent-leather pumps, was marching slowly down the centre steps of the stage to his place in the right front row.

Ingrid Påhl, pale with relief, leaped up to shake his hand and give him the seat so long vacant, and Craig bowed to her and settled next to Jacobsson.

Immediately, Ingrid Påhl walked to the lectern and began to deliver in Swedish the speech on Craig and his writings that she had memorized. As she spoke to the audience, Craig tried to pretend attention, but he spoke, too, in an undertone from the corner of his mouth to Jacobsson.

‘Forgive me, I want to apologize,’ he said. ‘I was unavoidably detained-no discourtesy-there was some-some trouble-but it is solved. Perhaps one day I will be able to explain it to you.’

Jacobsson stared at Craig with amazement, and then deep curiosity, wondering what had detained him, and Krantz, too, Krantz across the aisle, and it occurred to Jacobsson, with not a little sadness, that no matter what he heard and saw and read, his precious Notes would never be complete. But then, he consoled himself, no record of men can ever be complete, for what is inside them, the bottomless mysteries, are not meant to be known. And, at least, at least, he told himself with relief, Craig was here, and the Notes would not be forced to record a scandal. In all, in summary, it would be a quiet and pleasant account he could make of one more placid Nobel Week.

Craig tried to listen to Ingrid Påhl, but understanding no word of Swedish, again his attention drifted. He enjoyed the gala stage, and he oriented himself to the elegant audience, and he desperately tried to remember the protocol that must momentarily be observed.

In a loge high above, his eyes caught Lilly Hedqvist, Gunnar Gottling, and Emily, his own Emily, entering, standing, staring proudly down at him. And he smiled up towards them.

He remembered how he and Emily had left his bed, and dressed, and hurried downstairs to urge the taxi to speed them to Concert Hall. Backstage, Lilly and Gottling had been waiting for his cryptic reassurance that everything had worked out all right-and then Lilly, with her own news that Daranyi was watching television in the hospital and would be home tomorrow, and Gottling, with his news that ‘that flat-assed broad, Sue Wiley, had gotten suspicious, and is nosing around for the story, but I warned her if she made any more trouble, I’d bust into her room and deflower her, so I think she’ll behave.’

And as they had waited for Stratman’s speech to end, listening backstage, Craig had taken Emily’s hand, knowing that she had given herself to him for life, knowing that this life with her would not always be easy or uncomplicated, yet knowing, even as he left her to march into the glare of the stage, that it would work, because Humpty Dumpty had been put together again.

With a start, hearing his name and himself addressed, he realized that Ingrid Påhl had completed her speech in Swedish and was now speaking to him, briefly, in English, informing him of why he had been honoured this night. And then this was done, and she advanced towards him, hand outstretched, a smile wreathing her face, and he was on his feet, accepting her hand, as the audience applauded.

She guided him now along the train of carpet to the railing and stairs that led down from the centre stage. And there she remained, while he descended the stairs to the King who waited to shake his hand. They met again, clasped hands warmly.

‘I congratulate you, Mr. Craig,’ said the King. He handed Craig a large tooled-calf portfolio. ‘Your citation-diploma,’ said the monarch. ‘And in this leather box, the gold medallion. Have a look at it.’ Craig accepted the box and opened it, and the medallion, bearing two classical figures, one with a lyre, sparkled, and he enjoyed it.

‘Finally,’ the King was saying, ‘the envelope with the prize cheque, you may pick up in the morning. Once more, I congratulate you, Mr. Craig.’ The ruler’s eyes twinkled. ‘And do not forget you have promised me your next work of fiction when it is done.’

Craig smiled. ‘That will be sooner than you think, Your Majesty, and thank you.’

He almost forgot, so many eyes upon him, and then he remembered what was expected. Bowing, he backed off from the King, and moving sideways but still facing the King and somehow Emily, he went backwards up the steps to his chair, as the audience rose en masse and clapped.

Craig handed his three awards to Jacobsson, and then, slowly, thoughtfully, he made his way to the lectern.

After applause overwhelmed him once more, a silence fell. He had no speech, but glancing up at the loge, he knew what he must say.

‘Your Royal Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen. On this most memorable day of my thirty-nine years on earth, I do not wish to speak of creativity, of man the creator or man the politican, but rather, of man the individual. Not many years ago, a great countryman of mine, in my field, Mr. William Faulkner, spoke to you about the immortality of man, because man has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion, sacrifice, endurance. I wish to address you tonight on another factor of man-the obligation of man to his time on earth.’

He paused, thinking about it, and realized that he was not speaking to the audience at all, not to these two thousand nor the thousands who were watching television, not to the millions who might ever read his words. He was speaking to himself, clarifying it all for himself, himself and Emily who were one, and thus, perhaps, secondarily to all humankind.

In each one of us, he reflected to himself in these fleeting moments, there were, like unused muscles and organs, resources of the spirit-courage and energy and responsibility-never employed in our time in the world. The blessed one was he who, confronted with a crisis in his life (as was all humanity this day), was driven to call upon these resources, to use them to survive, even triumph, over life itself. One so challenged and so triumphant had won the only prize that counted-the prize of the Maker of the spirit, the rebirth of a withering soul and, as such, a Homeric victory over life’s disasters. In a lesser way, he had been so challenged, and had discovered the resources he had not known that he possessed, and was therefore, now at last, an entire man. This, indeed, was his prize. He wondered if all the others, before him, everywhere, could understand this victory and its honour. He must make them understand it. They must know the supreme value of challenge, and the eternal necessity to meet it as an individual and grow to fullest life.

‘This is the foremost of earthly honours that you have offered me,’ he found himself saying aloud. ‘I am moved and grateful beyond inadequate words. But I believe Alfred Nobel would have understood what I will say next. It is this-that all man’s honours to man are small beside the greatest prize to which he may and must aspire-the finding of his soul, his spirit, his divine strength and worth-the knowledge that he can and must live in freedom and dignity-the final realization that life is not a daily dying, not a pointless end, not an ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust, but a soaring and blinding gift snatched from eternity. The ultimate prize is to know that each new day’s challenge is meaningful and offered for use, that it must be taken to the bosom, and it must be used-and to know this, to understand this, is the one prize worthy as man’s goal and all mankind’s summit.’

He paused. He scanned the intent faces, the sea of faces, beneath him, and they came distinct, this one and that, as faces like his own, and at once he knew that they understood the urgency of his self-revelation, and that they waited to welcome him back to Ithaca.

Never, never in all his life, had he felt more reassured and more content. He knew where he was going. And so, at last, at last, he could go on…