(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  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 psychiatri
c 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 i
nto 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.