by John Gardner
“And you told them?”
“You think I’m stupid? Neither of the Presidents I’ve known well has indicated anything to me. I can’t read them.”
“So what did you tell your friends? The secret foursome?”
“The truth. No, nothing said out of the ordinary.”
“If they’d have got you to Quantico, the night of your ninetieth birthday concert, the people there would have asked you. It was on the agenda. Did you learn anything untoward during your visits to the White House?”
“They’d have got a straight no. What do they think those guys are in the White House? They think they’re going to blabber their inside feelings to an old fella who stands in front of an orchestra waving a stick?”
“You do more than that. You told me so, Lou. You said it’s not like Tommy Beecham said—easy, just standing there waggling a stick.”
“Herbie,” spoken with a long exhalation. “Herbie, you know that. I know that. But for a lot of people that’s what I do. Waggle a stick, and maybe that’s how the President—both of them—saw me. I don’t know.”
“Which of the boys quizzed you about the lunches and dinners at the White House?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
“Okay. Gregory a couple of times. Vincent a couple of times. That do you?”
“For the moment, yes. Matthew never asked you?”
“Not that I recall.”
There was a long silence. Kruger stuck to it. Use the psychologist’s trick, he thought. Now seemed about the right time.
Eventually, Passau broke. “I also remember, in particular, an incredible concert we did in Washington. Two years back. Kennedy Center. Did Strauss, Don Quixote and Elgar’s Cello Concerto. Special night. Benefit for something or other. Spectacular. Went back to New York and recorded both the following week.”
“You trying to tell me something, Lou?”
“I’m telling you we did a stupendous Quixote and the Elgar Cello. What would I want to tell you apart from that?”
“The soloist, Lou. It would be Khavenin, right? Yevgeny Khavenin?”
“Right. Greatest living cellist. Why not?”
“Tell me about Yevgeny, Lou. Just tell me about him.”
“What’s to tell? Made a dash for it. Political asylum. We were the winners. Like the Cold War. We won that also.”
“Did we, Lou? Did anybody win?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay. When did you first hear about Khavenin?”
“Same as most people. Late seventies. Recordings coming out of Russia. Word of mouth. Lot of good press. Did a concert in London. Jesus, Herb, I flew over just to hear him. Two days on a fucking airplane, with a concert in between. Incredible. Better than Casals, better even than poor Jacqueline du Pré. What a tragedy that was. Yevgeny was, is, the indisputable maestro of the cello for this century.”
“So when did you really hear about him, Lou? About him wanting asylum?”
A long, long, dragging pause, as though Passau was holding an orchestra in silence, taut, lips to instruments, bows drawn back, waiting while he held them for effect before bursting out again. There was a point in one of the Sibelius symphonies when he would do just that, but Kruger could not fasten upon it now. He waited. At last the music came—
“One of the boys. June 1987. There was to be a meeting. The place on Lexington. Gregory. Gregory came alone. He brought a package. Said I should make the usual call.”
“And?”
He sat, lips pursed together. “She asked me a favor. Remember her exact words, because they had a special meaning for me. Maybe for you also.” He paused, as though teasing the moment out. “It’s why I was so glad to meet you, Herb.”
“What did she say?”
“Louis,” she said in the recent past. “Things are not getting easier in my country. One day I shall ask you to do a very big favor for me.” She gave him a small, pouty glance. Movement in her eyes.
They were lying on the bed. Both of them naked, the old man and the now not so very young woman he knew as Therese. Naked and sated, for she had made love to him in a way she knew he enjoyed; a way from which he could still, at his age, get release, comfort and pleasure.
“Ask. If I can do it, I will.”
“This is not yet for me, Louis. Not yet. But the time will come. If anything should happen to me. If I disappear. If you hear something strange about me, I want you to get in touch with a man in England. It will not be easy, Louis, my dear. The man works with the British. Secret people. The British organs, you know what I mean?”
“Sure, my little Bolshevik spy.” He gave his big laugh which did not reveal the sudden butterflies in his stomach. This woman had played with his mind for a long time. Louis Passau had suffered sleepless nights worrying over his growing suspicions.
“But first I have to ask you small favor.” She reached up and kissed the side of his mouth. “You know of Yevgeny Khavenin? Cellist? You know of him?”
“Of course I know. I know everything about him. Why?”
“He wants to come into the West. Wants asylum. Next month he is to be in New York. Big concert in Carnegie Hall. There will be people from the State Organs with him. You know who I mean?”
“You mean KGB. Sure.” He began to strum against her, between her thighs, but she did not respond. “Listen, Louis. Please listen. You must arrange matters. You must go to the concert. Go round to see him afterwards. Take him to one side. Try to talk to him in private. Get him outside his dressing room and far away from KGB who look after him. Others will then see he gets to safety. Maybe they even use this apartment. You understand?”
“I’ve already got tickets, my dear. I’m going to be there in any case.”
“Then do it for me, Louis. Do it for me.”
“Of course. Yes. Of course I’ll do it. But what about you? You said …”
She stopped his mouth with one hand. “This you must never reveal.” She looked at him, her eyes tied within his eyes. Nothing on earth could have broken their gaze. “Never tell this. Never tell that I might soon want to leave also. This no one must know.”
“Who’s the man I must get in touch with if anything happens?”
“Louis, once I did this man a great wrong. But, if it is necessary, I will rely on him.”
“His name?”
“It is a German name, though he is British national. Kruger. Eberhardt Lukas Kruger.”
In the present, Herbie stifled a tiny sob, almost inaudible except to Pucky. Again the great silence descended on the room. Pucky could hear Big Herbie breathing, near to hyperventilating. After what seemed a very long time, he said, “You helped, of course? You helped to get Khavenin away from KGB hoods?”
“Sure. Matthew was there. Matthew, with people I had never seen before. KGB were angry. Not a nice scene. But they got him away, and later he came and thanked me. He played with the Passau Symphony Orchestra of America.”
“What then, Lou?” Big Herbie’s voice was a croaking whisper.
“What you mean, Herb?”
“I said, what next? What did you think next. You changed your thoughts after that conversation with Urs … Therese. Your entire view altered. What fucking next, Lou?”
“I saw the truth. Don’t know why. But I saw through them.”
“You went on working with them?”
“What else could I do? Pop song, Herb—‘I can see clearly now, the rain has gone.’ I could see what they had been doing, and what I had been doing.”
“And you did nothing about it, Lou. You got spineless. Could have saved a lot of grief.”
Passau seemed to hang his head. “I’m an old man, Herbie. I …”
“Not old enough, Lou. You were young enough to screw around; get married, record, conduct concerts. If you were young enough for that, you were young enough to go to someone. Tell them what had been going on.”
“No guts, Herb.”
“Right. No guts. They give you an emergency number? Like a fire alarm, police? Like in England 999, in U.S. 911? They give you one of those?”
“Of course.”
“And if you call it, what happens?”
“They come running. One, maybe two of them. I don’t know. I never tried it.”
“Anywhere in the world, they come to you?”
“Within twenty-four hours, yes.”
“Good.” A big hand lifted, fingers splayed, raking through his short graying hair. To her dismay, Pucky saw that big, lovely, Herbie Kruger was wild-eyed, distraught.
“Class fucking dismissed for today. Right?” he shouted.
“Okay, Herb.”
BIG HERBIE KRUGER went apart from them. Walked into the bedroom and sat, head in hands, looking out of the window at the golfers coming in after a long day on the links.
Pucky could not get to him, for he seemed to have withdrawn into a shell of his own manufacture. He stayed like that until nearly seven in the evening when he came out, looking his old self, but shaken.
She had called room service and shared a cream tea with Passau. The debris sat on a tray: scones, strawberry jam, thick clotted cream and a large teapot.
“These cream teas I like, Herbie.” Passau sounded like a child trying to make up with his father after some terrible row. “Real good.”
“You get to bed, Lou. Maybe we do more work later.”
“I don’t want to go to bed. I …”
“You do as you’re fucking told, Maestro, otherwise I tear you limb from limb. Get the fuck to bed. Tell Puck what you want from room service. For dinner. We go down and eat, like last night, Puck. Okay?”
“Okay, Herbie.” The air around them felt dangerous, full of electricity, in spite of the damp weather. A massive charge seemed to have built up around Kruger.
An hour later they went down, leaving Passau with soup and a great platter of prawns and salad, bread rolls and tea. Herbie forbade wine. “I told you, Lou. We not yet finished for the day, right? More work later. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t answer the door. Anyone tries the door, call reception. Call us.”
“Sure, Herb. Anything, Herb.”
Pucky felt Kruger smoldering as they walked to the elevator. As they went down, she took his hand and he looked at her, his eyes a desert, his face a wasteland. “Not your fault, Puck,” he whispered, then squeezed her hand and bent, kissing her on the cheek.
He was not friendly with either the maître d’ or Annie the waitress. There was no banter. No jokes. He just ordered, asked Pucky if she wanted wine. She inquired if he was drinking and he shook his head. “Two bottles Perrier water,” he ordered, clipped and ungracious.
“We don’t stock …” The maître d’ looked bewildered. “Malvern or Ashdown water perhaps, sir?”
“Whatever. Okay?”
Halfway through the main course, Annie came over to ask if everything was all right. “The young waiter … ?” Herbie began.
“Dennis?”
“Young. He was on this morning.”
“Yes, he’s not here tonight, Dennis. Off until tomorrow night.”
“Good.” Another nod, ordering her away.
“Herb?” Pucky reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Herb, when do we hit him with the age thing? Which of the boys he was?”
“Maybe tonight, if we’re all still alive.”
“And there’s the Traccia business. All the stuff we filched from the computers.”
“Maybe tonight. Puck, I’m sorry. Rattled. Concerned.” He waved Annie over again. “This Dennis? Where would I find him?”
“Tonight, sir?”
“Sure. Tonight.”
“I know where he’ll be. It’s his night for rehearsal. Oratorio Society. Dennis is very in to classical music. Sings with the Oratorio …”
Herbie cut her off, eyes blazing towards Pucky. “Got to make a call.” He pushed back the table and strode off through the dining room. The way he walked worried Pucky. The whole of his body seemed stiff, as though it was wrapped in concern and some dreadful anguish.
“Is your husband all right?” Annie looked puzzled.
Pucky shook her head. “Been working too hard.” She apologized, stood, and followed Herbie out of the room.
EARLIER, AT SIX THIRTY that evening, Dennis Snooke, who had worked at the Buckingham since he was a teenager, entered the Cross Keys public house in Torquay. He usually went to the Cross Keys before rehearsal with the Oratorio Society. “Regular, like clockwork,” as Herbie would have said. A pint before rehearsal and two pints, with the other tenors, afterwards.
Tonight, he found his old friend, Wayne Murphy, propping up the bar. He had been at school with him. Back then nobody would have thought that Wayne would join the police force, but join it he did. Now he was with CID. Plainclothes.
“Not keeping the villains in check tonight?” Dennis really did not take Wayne seriously.
“On in half an hour. What you having?”
“Usual. Pint of Real Ale. They keeping you busy?”
“Very. Bloody hooligans mostly. Could do with something more juicy. Never seem to get a good murder; they’re always bloody cut and dried. My guv’nor says it’s not like it used to be. Says he had to work at a case in the old days. Be a detective. Nowadays its paperwork and following rules of evidence. Mostly we collar the villains in a few days. He ordered the two pints of Real Ale. “What about you then, Den?” taking a great swallow. Wayne could chugalug with the best of them.
“Oh, the usual. Not many in at the moment. Bucks up weekends, when the adulterers come down …” He stopped short. “Bloody ’ell!” he said.
“What’s up with you, then?”
“I just realized who the old geezer is.”
“What old geezer?”
“Might be up your street an’ all, Wayne.”
“What?”
“Party comes down for breakfast this morning. Got in last night. Husband and wife. Husband talks with an accent. Foreign. Kraut, I’d say. They have his father, or grandfather, with them. Nice old geezer. Bit cheeky. Asked Annie if she wore a garter belt—suspender belt to you; this old fellow’s got a funny sort of accent.”
“So where’s this going, Den?”
“I just realized who he is. Know him anywhere. He’s the conductor. Bloody American conductor. I got some of his CDs. Wonderful. Better than von Karajan … bloody marvelous …”
“Oh, God, Den, get on with it. You and your classical bloody music. Why can’t you be like the rest of us? Just enjoy rock and roll? Elton? Daltry? Mick?”
“No. Listen. I read something. Couple of weeks—maybe three weeks ago. The old guy was missing. Name of Louis Passau. Very famous, Wayne. Very. Went missing in New York. Some pitched battle. Gangs, that kind of thing. They’re looking for the old gentleman.”
“Spell it.” Detective Constable Murphy had some vague recollection of hearing the name, or seeing it somewhere.
Dennis spelled it out. “Sure it’s him. Dead bloody certain. Have to get his autograph. He’s a wonder. Ninety years old and still conducting. There was a big piece on him in last month’s Gramophone.”
D.C. Murphy worried at the name as he sipped his beer. He would mention it to his guv’nor, the DCS, when he got into the nick. Perhaps it would mean something to him.
(3)
ART RAILTON AND HIS crew had only just flown in. The British Airways 747 from Miami was late; they were all tired and angry. Art himself felt betrayed. During the flight, he remembered something Big Herbie Kruger had said to him when they had talked of acts of treachery on Captiva Island.
“Art, you’ll never know how it feels until you been through it.” Herbie’s eyes had changed—hardened with a dark distrust deep in the irises. “Always it gets personal. Makes you want to go in the shower, scrub yourself with lye, carbolic even. When you’re close to any form of perfidy, it hits you like a bullet. Makes you never trust again. Sickens you. I know. Been a victim. Now w
e have to be buddies with the Ks. Like being close friends with Nazi SS from death camps.”
Art even smiled, because Herbie had added, “Perfidy? Is right, perfidy, Art?” But his smile carried no conviction. He felt Kruger had betrayed him. It was personal.
At Heathrow, Art Railton told the others to go straight home while he went into the Shop and faced the music. He arrived on the fifth floor just after Big Herbie had spoken to Young Worboys.
Herbie had gone out. Walked up the road until he found a telephone booth. He left Pucky in charge, and had pulled Louis Passau from his bed, shaking him as a terrier would shake a rodent, then threw him back onto the bed. “Get your clothes on,” he said, then told Pucky to keep the door locked. “When I knock, you ask who’s there, okay? If I say Herbie, it’s okay. If I say Kruger, call the main desk and tell them to get the police faster than bloody Lone Ranger—speeding bullet. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Herbie felt nude. No weapons but his hands. Felt bad about leaving Pucky up there alone with nothing in the way of defense. Poor cow, he thought. He had taken all the precautions, but Marty Foreman was very good in the old days, and there was no reason to think he had changed. His people, they said, were like truffle hounds. They could pick up a scent where no trace existed, then make themselves invisible. Once they had a sniff, Foreman’s people would never let go.
From the telephone booth, he called the Shop on the safe number, shielded from all the other British Telecom lines. Untappable, unbearable with its scrambler at the distant end, and God knew how many other electronic devices. He told the Duty Operator, “Patch me through to the Prince. Now. Tell him it’s breakfast time in condemned cell. I don’t care where he is.” The Prince was how they talked of Young Worboys, deputy to the Chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service.
The D.O. hesitated, “Who … ?” she began.
“Tell him it’s Blue Boy, home from the hill. Fast, woman, Goddamnit!”
“Herb!” from Worboys. Desperation laced his voice, mixed with a double fury. “Where the … ?”
“Just listen. Shut up and listen, Tony.” Kruger was one of the few people who remembered Worboys’ given name.