Solo - Jack Higgins [80]
'You know what they say,' Mikali told him. 'Old habits and all that kind of rubbish.' He fell in beside him and they walked towards the road. 'So, you couldn't stay away after all? A good thing I reserved an additional seat in Katherine's box.'
'She is here?' Deville asked.
'On her way. I spoke to her in Hydra this morning. She was just leaving.'
'So?' Deville nodded and went on calmly, 'Well, then, so that we may understand each other. I have not come to attend your concert, John. I have come for you.'
Mikali paused, turning to face him, his hand sliding round to the butt of the Ceska in the Burns and Martin holder under his tracksuit tunic at the rear.
Deville raised a hand defensively. 'No, my dear, dear friend, you mistake me.' He produced an envelope. 'Tickets for both of us. I've arranged an air-taxi to Paris, leaving Gatwick at eleven-fifteen. Ample time for you to make your appearance at the Albert Hall. I understand on the last night of the Proms, the concerto is played during the first half of the concert anyway.'
'And afterwards?'
'We arrive in Paris in time to make connections with an Aeroflot flight to Moscow. All taken care of. There was an item in Paris Soir today announcing that you intend to give a series of master classes to the Moscow Conservatoire.'
Mikali stood, gazing out across Park Lane, then turned and looked down towards the Serpentine. He took a deep breath, lifted his face to the rain.
'Marvellous,' he said. 'Early morning in London. Nothing quite like it. Unless you prefer the smell of those damp chestnut trees in Paris.' He put a hand on Deville's shoulder. 'Sorry, old buddy, but that's the way it is.'
Deville shrugged. 'You have a whole day in which to change your mind.'
'An entire day of rehearsals,' Mikali said. 'So I've got to get moving. If Previn's there before me he'll insist on making the tea. He always does and it's lousy.'
'You don't mind if I use the apartment?'
'Of course not. I doubt whether I'll have time to get back before the concert, though. If you change your mind about coming, there'll be a ticket waiting at the box office.'
They stood at the pavement's edge waiting for the light to change and he clapped Deville on the shoulder.
'A great night, Jean Paul. The greatest of my life, I think.'
*
As the Tristar started its descent to Heathrow in the late afternoon sun, Katherine Riley obeyed the request to fasten her seat belt, then leaned back in her seat.
She was tired - more tired than she had ever been in her life before. Tired, angry and frustrated. She knew the syndrome well as a practising psychologist should. Like being in a dark wood in some childhood dream, undecided on which path to take and some nameless evil coming up fast.
She closed her eyes and saw not John Mikali, but Asa Morgan's dark, ravaged face, the pain in the eyes and suddenly knew, with total clarity, that she was wrong.
Morgan had said that she owed him. If that was true, what he was due was her honesty and concern and that could only be expressed in one way.
It was like a shot in the arm, new energy coursing through her. She couldn't wait to get off the plane, was one of the first through to Immigration where she presented her passport and asked to be put in touch at once with the nearest Special Branch officer.
It was just after half past two when Captain Charles Rourke got back to his office in the British Embassy at Plutarchu 1 in Athens. His phone rang almost at once. When he picked it up, Benson, one of the Second Secretaries with consular responsibilities, was on the other end.
'Hello, Charles. I asked them on the door to let me know when you came in. I've had a chap kicking his heels here for almost an hour, wanting a temporary passport to get him home. His official one is in pieces.'
'Hardly my department, old boy.'
'Actually, Charles, I don't like the smell of it at all. He walks in here looking like a tramp and when I examine what's left of his passport, he turns out to be a serving officer if you please and a full colonel. Name of Morgan.'
But Rourke had