The Prize (48 page)

They went through the building and outside into the cold of the Norr M
ن
larstrand. 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 M
ن
larstrand 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.’

‘P
ه
lsundet,’ said Krantz.

‘Is it far?’

‘It is the section of canal across from us, between Sِdra bergen and L
ه
ngholmen, about five or ten minutes from here, if the streets are clear—twenty minutes, maybe more, if there is heavy duty traffic on V
ن
sterbron—the bridge. P
ه
lsundet 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 V
ن
sterbron—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 V
ن
sterbron, 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—L
ه
ngholmen Park—and behind the hilly part is P
ه
lsundet.’

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 L
ه
ngholmsgatan and Sِder M
ن
larstrand. 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 P
ه
lsundet,’ he heard Krantz say.

‘Where?’

‘A block to the left.’

‘Where are they?’

‘You will see shortly. We will park on Sِder M
ن
larstrand.’

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.’