Solo - Jack Higgins [88]
Morgan darted across the road and stood in the shadows at the side of the vehicle, waiting for an appropriate moment. The two young policemen had their heads together, laughing. A porter came out, picked up a crate and turned back inside. Morgan, without hesitation, moved round the tailboard, picked up the next crate, hoisted it on to his shoulder and made straight for the door.
There was a burst of laughter from the policemen, but it was already behind him. He passed the stage-doorkeeper's office on his left, turned right into the corridor and kept going, aware of the porter a few yards ahead of him, obviously making for one of the bars.
He came to an open door on his right giving access to a staircase. He moved through quickly, dumped the crate in the shadows and mounted to the next landing.
He could hear the orchestra very clearly now and the piano, somewhere close at hand, and emerged on to one of the long curved corridors so typical of the Albert Hall. There was a door marked Exit opposite. He opened it, stepped inside and found himself at the head of the gangway leading down to the stairs and the Arena at the left-hand side of the stage. And there, at last, was John Mikali.
Mikali, close to the end of the final movement, was waiting, flexing his fingers as the orchestra carried the theme through, breathing deeply, priming himself for the enormous physical effort that would be required in the final moments.
He looked up at Andre Previn, watching him closely, waiting, and in the same moment saw, beyond the conductor, the exit door at the top of the gangway open and Asa Morgan step through.
The shock was so enormous that, for a moment, he sat there as if turned to stone. Katherine Riley, who had been watching him closely, followed his gaze, but Morgan had already stepped back through the door and disappeared.
My God, Mikali thought. He's alive. The bastard actually managed to survive and now, he's come for me. A line from the Bushido flashed through his mind. No deeper loneliness than the Samurai's. None but the tiger's in the jungle perhaps.
He was not afraid, but filled with a fierce joy, a kind of exultation. As Previn nodded sharply, Mikali plunged into the dramatic finale of the concerto which of all in his extensive repertoire, he had made peculiarly his own, playing as he had never played in his life before.
And at the end, there was a roar from the audience such as he had never heard in his entire musical career. They were all applauding. The orchestra, Previn, the Promenaders pressed up against the rail, reaching towards him. He looked up at the Loggia box, saw Katherine Riley standing there, gripping the rail, staring down at him, then Previn had him by the elbow and was pushing him down the Bullrun.
The stage manager was standing outside the Green Room, a glass of champagne in each hand.
'I've never heard anything like it,' he said as the noise increased, the Promenaders starting to chant Mikali's name.
Mikali swallowed warm champagne and grinned lightly. 'Was I good, Maestro, or only in places?'
Previn, obviously greatly moved, toasted him. 'My dear friend, occasionally life has its great moments. Tonight was very definitely one of them. I thank you.'
Mikali smiled and drank some more champagne, looking beyond him to the end of the passage where it joined the main corridor and thought of Morgan, at large in this old rabbit warren of a building, probably waiting just out there in the shadows.
And at that confrontation in the villa at Hydra he'd said he wanted Mikali for himself. No reason to think any different now. Nothing, after all, had changed.
The roaring grew more insistent. Previn said, 'Come on, John, if we don't go back they'll invade the stage.'
When they emerged again, the crowd began to chant, 'Mikali! Mikali!' and flowers started to sail over, university scarves, hats. The entire audience was standing now, applauding. Thanking him for allowing them to share a unique experience.