Solo - Jack Higgins [22]
There was a silence. Baker put a hand on her shoulder, then nodded to Stewart and they went out.
'Is Doctor Evans here yet?'
'On his way, sir. Would you like to see the body?'
'No, I'll keep that unpleasantness for later. I've got two girls of my own, remember. In any case, Evans can't start cutting until the mother's made formal identification.'
'Any news on Mr Cohen, sir?'
'Still alive, that's all you can say, with a bullet in his brain. They're operating now.'
'Are you going to wait here for Mrs Wood?'
'Yes, I think so. The office know where I am. See if you can find us some tea.'
Stewart went off and Baker lit a cigarette and turned and looked out through the glass doors. He was uneasy in a way he hadn't been for years. Amongst its other duties, the Special Branch was always given the task of acting as bodyguard to visiting heads of state and similar VIPs. The Department was justly proud of the fact that they'd never failed yet in that particular task.
But this business tonight with Max Cohen - this was something else again. International terrorism of the most vicious kind, here in London.
Stewart appeared with tea in two paper cups. 'Cheer up, sir. We'll get the bastard.'
'Not if it's who I think it is,' Harry Baker told him.
At that moment, John Mikali walked back on stage to take another standing ovation. He exited down the gangway known to the artists as the Bullrun. The stage manager was waiting there and handed him a towel. Mikali wiped sweat from his face.
'That's it,' he said. 'If they want any more, they'll have to buy tickets for Tuesday.'
His voice was attractive, full of its own character, what some people would call good Boston American, and matched the lazy charm he could switch on instantly when required.
'Most of them already have, Mr Mikali.' The manager smiled. 'The champagne's waiting in your dressing room. Any visitors?'
'Nothing under twenty-one, George.' Mikali smiled. 'I've had a very young week.'
In the Green Room he stripped off his tailcoat and shirt and pulled on a towelling robe. Then he switched on the portable radio on the dressing table and reached for the champagne bottle, Krug, non-vintage. He put a little crushed ice in the bottom of the glass and filled it.
As he savoured the first, delicious, ice-cold mouthful, the music on the radio was interrupted for a newsflash. Mr Maxwell Cohen, victim of an unknown assassin earlier that evening, had been operated on successfully. He was now in intensive care under heavy police guard. There was every prospect that he would make a full recovery.
Foreign news sources reported that responsibility for the attack had been claimed by Black September, Al Fatah's vengeance group, formed during 1971 to eliminate all enemies of the Palestine revolution. They gave, as their excuse, Maxwell Cohen's considerable support for Zionism.
Mikali closed his eyes momentarily, was aware of the burning truck, the four fellagha walking round, drifting towards him, the smile on the face of the leader, the one with the knife in his hand. And then the image changed to the tunnel darkness, the white, terrified face of the girl, briefly glimpsed.
He opened his eyes, switched off the radio and toasted himself in the glass. 'Less than perfection, old buddy, Less than perfection and that won't do at all.'
There was a knock at the door. When he opened it the corridor seemed crowded with young women, mainly students to judge by their university scarves.
'Can we come in, Mr Mikali?'
'Why not?' John Mikali smiled, the insolent charm firmly back in place. 'All life is here with the great Mikali. Enter and beware.'
Baker stood in the foyer of the mortuary with Francis Wood. There was nothing particularly clerical-looking about him. Baker judged him to be about sixty, a tall, kindly man with a greying beard that badly needed trimming. He wore a dark car coat and a blue polo-neck sweater.
'Your wife, sir?' Baker nodded to where Helen Wood stood at the door