Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) Read online

'That'll be the day,' Kelso told him.

  Morgan, who was wearing an old trenchcoat and tweed cap provided by the sergeant-major, got out and leaned down at the window.

  'Thanks, Jock. Now, get the hell out of here.'

  The Cortina drove rapidly away and Morgan raised the collar of his coat against the rain and moved towards the back of the Hall. He paused by the Prince Consort's statue and looked across at the rear entrance. There were three uniform police standing there at the bottom of the steps. In fact, at least one on duty at every other door he could see, caps glistening in the rain.

  At that moment, a truck came round the corner and pulled up outside the artists' entrance. It carried the name of one of the best-known breweries in London on the side panel. As Morgan watched, three or four porters came out wearing caps and coats against the rain and started to unload crates of beer while the two policemen on duty at that door looked on.

  Morgan darted across the road and stood in the shadows at the side of the vehicle, waiting for an appropriate moment. The two young policemen had their heads together, laughing. A porter came out, picked up a crate and turned back inside. Morgan, without hesitation, moved round the tailboard, picked up the next crate, hoisted it on to his shoulder and made straight for the door.

  There was a burst of laughter from the policemen, but it was already behind him. He passed the stage-doorkeeper's office on his left, turned right into the corridor and kept going, aware of the porter a few yards ahead of him, obviously making for one of the bars.

  He came to an open door on his right giving access to a staircase. He moved through quickly, dumped the crate in the shadows and mounted to the next landing.

  He could hear the orchestra very clearly now and the piano, somewhere close at hand, and emerged on to one of the long curved corridors so typical of the Albert Hall. There was a door marked Exit opposite. He opened it, stepped inside and found himself at the head of the gangway leading down to the stairs and the Arena at the left-hand side of the stage. And there, at last, was John Mikali.

  Mikali, close to the end of the final movement, was waiting, flexing his fingers as the orchestra carried the theme through, breathing deeply, priming himself for the enormous physical effort that would be required in the final moments.

  He looked up at Andre Previn, watching him closely, waiting, and in the same moment saw, beyond the conductor, the exit door at the top of the gangway open and Asa Morgan step through.

  The shock was so enormous that, for a moment, he sat there as if turned to stone. Katherine Riley, who had been watching him closely, followed his gaze, but Morgan had already stepped back through the door and disappeared.

  My God, Mikali thought. He's alive. The bastard actually managed to survive and now, he's come for me. A line from the Bushido flashed through his mind. No deeper loneliness than the Samurai's. None but the tiger's in the jungle perhaps.

  He was not afraid, but filled with a fierce joy, a kind of exultation. As Previn nodded sharply, Mikali plunged into the dramatic finale of the concerto which of all in his extensive repertoire, he had made peculiarly his own, playing as he had never played in his life before.

  And at the end, there was a roar from the audience such as he had never heard in his entire musical career. They were all applauding. The orchestra, Previn, the Promenaders pressed up against the rail, reaching towards him. He looked up at the Loggia box, saw Katherine Riley standing there, gripping the rail, staring down at him, then Previn had him by the elbow and was pushing him down the Bullrun.

  The stage manager was standing outside the Green Room, a glass of champagne in each hand.

  'I've never heard anything like it,' he said as the noise increased, the Promenaders starting to chant Mikali's name.

  Mikali swallowed warm champagne and grinned lightly. 'Was I good, Maestro, or only in places?'

  Previn, obviously greatly moved, toasted him. 'My dear friend, occasionally life has its great moments. Tonight was very definitely one of them. I thank you.'

  Mikali smiled and drank some more champagne, looking beyond him to the end of the passage where it joined the main corridor and thought of Morgan, at large in this old rabbit warren of a building, probably waiting just out there in the shadows.

  And at that confrontation in the villa at Hydra he'd said he wanted Mikali for himself. No reason to think any different now. Nothing, after all, had changed.

  The roaring grew more insistent. Previn said, 'Come on, John, if we don't go back they'll invade the stage.'

  When they emerged again, the crowd began to chant, 'Mikali! Mikali!' and flowers started to sail over, university scarves, hats. The entire audience was standing now, applauding. Thanking him for allowing them to share a unique experience.

  He nodded, smiling, waving both hands, blowing a kiss up to Katherine Riley and all he could think of was that there was only one way off the stage, which was straight down the Bullrun to the corridor beyond where Morgan would be waiting - had to be.

  And then it occurred to him that that wasn't quite true. He turned and shook hands with the First Violin, moved past him and close to the rail. Below, twelve feet down, was the gangway leading to the Arena corridor.

  He leaned forward, waving to the front line of Promenaders. 'You're really too much,' he called. 'Too beautiful for words. I don't think I can take any more.'

  He put one foot on the rail and simply dropped from sight, down into the gangway. There were several screams, a sudden uproar, but he landed safely, the gangway door banged and he was gone.

  And then there was only laughter and thunderous applause, everyone joining in, even the orchestra, at what must surely have been the most unorthodox departure from the stage by a major artist ever witnessed in the long history of the Royal Albert Hall.

  The Arena corridor was deserted, but at any moment people would be pouring out into the corridors at every level of the building, making for the bars during the interval. The third exit door along took him out on to the stairs leading to the rear entrance.

  Harry Baker was talking to two uniformed policemen in the foyer below. Mikali recognized him instantly, turned and went back up the stairs.

  Could it be that he was wrong? That Morgan had done the sensible thing after all? He hurried along the Arena corridor, still deserted, and made for the exit leading to the stage-doorkeeper's office and the artists' entrance.

  When he reached it, he peered round cautiously and saw two uniformed policemen standing inside out of the rain, something he had never known before in all his experience of the Albert Hall.

  It was enough. That sixth sense that had kept him alive for so long now, scenting danger like some jungle animal, told him he was in deep trouble.

  He turned and started to hurry back along the Arena corridor, a strange, elegant, lonely figure in white tie and black tailcoat and a moment later, Andre Previn and a whole host of people in evening dress came round the curve up ahead and bore down on him.

  In a second he was surrounded by excited admirers. Previn said, 'What were you trying to do back there? Break your neck? That was a unique way to leave the stage - even for the last night of the Proms.'

  'Just trying to add to the tradition in my own small way,' Mikali said.

  'Well, they're all waiting for you in the Prince Consort Room. The Duchess of Kent, the Greek Ambassador, the Prime Minister. Not done to keep them waiting.' Previn laughed. 'This is England, you know.'

  He took Mikali by the elbow and propelled him firmly along the corridor.

  The stairway leading up to the Prince Consort Room was jammed with people and Katherine Riley had to use all her strength to force her way through. She finally reached the glass doors and found her way barred by a uniformed porter.

  'Invitation, please, Miss.'

  'I haven't got one,' she said. 'But I'm a personal friend of Mr Mikali's.'

  'So are a lot of other people tonight, Miss.' He gestured down the packed staircase and a group of students started to call,
'Mikali! Mikali!'

  Beyond, through the glass doors, she could see the room crowded with elegantly gowned women, the men mainly in evening dress except for Chief Superintendent Harry Baker in a dark blue suit standing with his back to the door.

  She reached beyond the porter and rapped on the glass. As the porter restrained her, Baker turned. He looked at her gravely for a moment, then opened the door.

  'It's all right, I'll handle it.' He took her by the arm and led her into the corner of the landing. 'It's no good, Doctor, he's finished. Nothing there for you any more.'

  'I know that,' she said.

  He stood there, staring down at her for a moment and then he did a surprising thing. He smoothed her hair gently with one hand and shook his head.

  'Women. You're all the same. Never learn, do you?'

  He opened the door, stood to one side and motioned her in.

  Edward Heath, the British Prime Minister, was himself a musician of no mean ability and he shook Mikali's hand enthusiastically.

  'Quite extraordinary, Mr Mikali. A night to remember.'

  'Why thank you, sir.'

  Mikali walked on, shepherded by Previn towards the Duchess of Kent who was as charming and knowledgeable as always.

  'I don't think you've recorded Rachmaninov's Fourth together, have you?' she asked.

  Previn smiled. 'No, ma'am, but I think we may say with certainty, that after John's performance tonight, that omission should be rectified in the very near future.'

  Mikali left them talking and moved on, shaking dozens of hands. He paused to speak to the Greek Ambassador, not really taking in what he was saying, his eyes moving restlessly around the room, half-expecting to see Morgan's ravaged face staring out at him from the crowd.

  Instead, he saw Katherine Riley over by the door standing beside Baker. He smiled wryly, so many things falling into place now, and started towards her. And then, as the crowd parted, he saw Ferguson and Jean Paul Deville standing against the wall drinking champagne.

  He hesitated, then walked towards them. 'Jean Paul,' he said easily.

  Deville said, 'I think you know Brigadier Ferguson.'

  Mikali took an elegant gold case from his inside pocket and selected a cigarette. 'Only by reputation. You take an excellent photo, Brigadier.' He offered the case. 'Greek, I'm afraid. I'm very ethnic. They may not be to your liking.'

  'On the contrary.' Ferguson took one and accepted the light.

  'And Colonel Morgan of the nine lives? Isn't he joining us?'

  'No,' Ferguson said. 'I wouldn't exactly say he's safely tucked up in bed, but he is under what you might call house arrest. For the duration of this evening's events only, naturally. It seemed the sensible thing to do. He did rather want you for himself, you see.'

  'House arrest, you say?' Mikali laughed out loud. 'Why, you've quite made my evening, Brigadier.'

  The five-minute warning bell sounded for the start of the second half. Ferguson said, 'There's no way out, my dear chap, you do realize that? To use that old-fashioned phrase beloved of the British copper, better to come along quietly.'

  'But my dear Brigadier, when have I ever done anything quietly?'

  The Greek Ambassador tapped him on the shoulder. 'We'd be honoured if you would join our party in my box for the second half of the concert.'

  'Delighted, Mr Ambassador,' Mikali said. 'I'll only be a few minutes.'

  He turned back to Ferguson who was no longer smiling. 'Your performance tonight was something I shall long remember, but I should hate it to be your epitaph. Think about that.'

  He touched Deville on the arm. The Frenchman smiled sadly. 'I told you what would happen, John. You wouldn't listen.'

  'But you were wrong, old buddy.' Mikali smiled. 'You said it might be next Wednesday, but it's Saturday night.'

  They went out through the door and Mikali watched them go, people flooding around him. Baker had disappeared but Katherine Riley still stood waiting against the wall, still separated from him by the weight of people.

  He pushed his way through to her and stood, hands in pockets, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. And when he smiled, the heart turned over inside her.

  'Have you known long?'

  'Since Hydra for certain. I found Morgan up in the hills in a bad way, or he found me.'

  Mikali nodded. 'Ah, I see now. If it matters to you at all, his daughter was an accident. 1 tried to miss her. It just wasn't possible.'

  'Why, Johnny?' she said.

  He leaned against the wall beside her and for a moment, there was total intimacy between them. 'I don't know. People always seemed to be dying on me. I suppose it was a natural progression from that. And the trouble is, I was so damned good at it. But you're the doctor, Doctor. You tell me.'

  'You had a talent,' she said. 'Such a special gift. You showed that tonight. And in the end...'

  'Words, angel,' he said. 'Nothing lasts, everything passes.' As the Greek Ambassador moved out with his party Mikali took her arm and followed. 'You know, they tell me there's several miles of corridors in this old rabbit warren and not a straight line in the place. Everything circular, one curve after another and Asa Morgan could be waiting round any one of them.'

  'Hardly,' she said. 'Brigadier Ferguson had him confined for the night at his flat in Upper Grosvenor Street.'

  'Well, he didn't do too good a job of it. Around twenty minutes ago I saw him standing in the exit door of the gangway just below your box and he didn't look too friendly. Mind you, I must say it added a certain edge to the final minutes of my performance.'

  She grabbed his arm, pulling him to a halt. 'What are you going to do?'

  'Why, join the Greek Ambassador and his party in their box for the second half. The traditional fare. Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance, 'Fantasia on British Sea Songs' and at the end, everybody in the damned place standing up for 'Jerusalem' and singing their hearts out. The last night of the Proms, angel. How could I possibly miss that, even for Asa Morgan?'

  She turned from him in horror and ran for the nearest exit door. Mikali kept on walking at the tail of the Ambassador's party, dropping back a pace or two, turning quickly into the next corridor exit they came to, standing in the shadows of the landing, waiting until their footsteps had died away.

  There was a brief silence and then the orchestra started to play Elgar's 'Pomp and Circumstance' March.

  He said softly, 'Right, my friend, let's see if we can find you,' and he moved out into the deserted corridor.

  16

  Harry Baker was talking to a uniformed inspector in the foyer of the rear entrance when Katherine Riley found him. She was obviously considerably distressed and he caught hold of her by the arms.

  'Here, what is it?'

  'Asa,' she said. 'He's here - somewhere in the building. Mikali knows. He saw him in the Hall just before the interval.'

  'God Almighty!' Baker said. 'Where's Mikali now?'

  'He joined the Greek Ambassador's party for the second half.'

  'He pushed her down into a seat. 'Right, you stay there.'

  He had the briefest of conversations with the inspector, then disappeared up the stairs on the run.

  Ferguson and Deville were back in the rear seat of the Brigadier's limousine in the car park when a police sergeant appeared from the command-post van and called him out. After a while, Ferguson got back into the car.

  'Trouble?' Deville asked.

  'You could say that. It seems Asa Morgan's loose somewhere in the building.'

  'So, this house arrest you spoke of was obviously not enough to hold him, but then you counted on that, I think?'

  Ferguson said, 'The Cretan Lover and John Mikali. All going to come out. Bound to. And what would he get? Not a rope, but life imprisonment, this being the enlightened and liberal age it is. Can you imagine what that would do to a man like him?'

  'So, you prefer Morgan to play the hangman for you?'

  'Asa always has done rather well as a public executi
oner. In any case, Mikali alive is of no direct use to us. You are and his untimely going would simplify your own position enormously.'

  'Very neat,' Deville said. 'Except for one rather important point you appear to have overlooked.'

  'And what would that be?'

  'Why, that it's just as likely to be your Colonel Morgan who ends up on his back with a bullet between the eyes in there.'

  Harry Baker came down the stairs to the rear entrance foyer. As Katherine stood up, he said, 'No sign of him in the Greek Ambassador's box. I've checked.'

  He turned to the inspector and started to talk to him in a low, urgent voice. For the moment, Katherine Riley was forgotten and she went upstairs quietly, starting to run when she had turned the corner and was out of sight.

  She paused on the landing below the Prince Consort Room where the reception had been held, not knowing what to do or where to go next.

  Faintly, from the direction of the Hall she could hear the stirring strains of Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance and then, quite suddenly, and to her total astonishment, she heard the sound of a piano accompaniment drifting down from above.

  There was nowhere to go this time, Mikali knew that. No way out. The last barricade and standing there in the shadows, listening to Pomp and Circumstance echoing from the Hall, he remembered Kasfa, the smell of burning, the four fellagha drifting towards him as he lay there, propped against the well, holding on hard to life, refusing to let go. They'd been waiting a long time for him. A long time.

  He said softly, 'Let's make it easy for you.'

  He went up the dark staircase on his right. He opened the door at the top cautiously and looked into the Prince Consort Room. It was empty, of course, as he had expected, the only occupant his other self reflected in the long mirror at the far end. That darkly elegant creature that had haunted him for so long.

  'Okay, old buddy,' he called. 'The last time, so let's get it right.'