Solo - Jack Higgins [69]
'Take your coat off, please.'
Morgan tossed his trenchcoat on to the nearest chair and moved forward slowly, like a man in a dream, throat dry, breathing constricted. The music seemed to touch the very core of his being.
'You know this piece, Mr Lewis?'
'Yes,' Morgan said thickly. It's called Le Pastour by Gabriel Grovlez.'
Mikali managed to look surprised. 'A man of taste and discernment.'
'Not really,' Morgan said. 'As it happens, it was one of the pieces my daughter had to learn for her grade five piano certificate at the Royal College of Music.'
'Yes, I was sorry about that,' Mikali said. 'I did try to miss her, Colonel.'
Morgan was past any kind of surprise now. He said, 'Yes, I can imagine that. When you murdered Stephanakis in Paris, you let the chauffeur live, the chambermaid at the Hilton in Berlin and the chauffeur again in Rio when you killed General Falcao. Who do you think you are - God?'
'Rules of the game. They weren't the target.'
'The game?' Morgan said. 'And what game would that be?'
'You should know. You've been playing it long enough. The most exciting game in the world with your own life as the ultimate stake. Can you honestly tell me anything else you've ever done that has offered quite the same kick?'
'You're mad,' Morgan said.
Mikali looked faintly surprised. 'Why? I used to do the same things in uniform and they gave me medals for it. Your own position exactly. When you look in the mirror it's me you see.'
The music changed, some concerto or other now, full of life and strength.
He said, 'The interesting thing is your being here on your own. What happened to DI5 and the Special Branch?'
'I wanted you for myself.'
The music swelled to a crescendo as Morgan went forward flexing his hands. Mikali said, 'Do you like this? It's Prokofiev's Fourth Piano Concerto in B-flat Major - for the left hand.'
His right hand came up over the top of the piano holding the Walther and Morgan swerved to one side as the bullet ploughed a furrow across the top of his left shoulder.
He tore the reading lamp on the coffee table from its socket, plunging the room into shadow. The Walther coughed again, twice, but Morgan was already out through the nearest french window. He ran across the terrace and vaulted ten feet into the garden below, landing heavily.
The dog was barking again down in the cottage as he ran towards the cliff edge, through the olive trees, swerving from side to side. Mikali, who had followed him over the terrace without hesitation, went after him.
It was almost totally dark now, the horizon streaked with orange fire as Morgan reached the edge of the cliffs and hesitated, realizing there was nowhere left to run.
For an instant, he was a perfect silhouette against the orange and gold of the evening sky and Mikali fired while still running. Morgan cried out as the bullet pushed him backwards into space and then he was gone.
Mikali peered down into the gloom below. There was a footstep behind him and Constantine appeared, a shotgun in one hand, a spot lamp in the other.
Mikali took the lamp from him, switched it on and played it on the dark swirling waters amongst the rocks.
'The boy is in bed?' he asked.
'Yes,' the old man nodded.
'Good. Doctor Riley will be on the first hydrofoil from Athens in the morning. She'll be expecting you.'
Mikali walked back to the terrace. The old man looked down to the dark waters, crossed himself, then turned away and retraced his steps to the cottage.
*
It was about an hour later that Jean Paul Deville let himself into his Paris apartment. He'd been to dinner, an annual affair attended mainly by colleagues at the criminal bar. Most of the others had elected to continue the evening's entertainment at an establishment in Montmartre much frequented by middle-aged gentlemen in search of excitement. Deville had managed to make his escape gracefully enough.
As he took off his coat, the telephone rang. It was Mikali. He said, 'I've been trying for an hour.'
'I was out to dinner. Trouble?'
'Our Welsh friend appeared. Knew all about me.'