Bruce stared at his beer.
‘I think all three were being used – deceived about what was at stake. Two are already dead,’ said Patrick, ‘and Sam’s in danger. Let’s suppose that the would-be defector isn’t one at all, but means to take an important man back with him to the other side, as proof that the West isn’t so hot after all. A propaganda coup. The real man won’t do it, so he’s got rid of, one way or another, and Sam is substituted. He’ll be hustled out – doped, perhaps – anyway, given no chance to save himself.’
‘Special Branch must have thought of all this,’ said Bruce.
‘Are you sure? Maybe they believe our first theory, that a defection to the West is planned, and think a few folk are expendable for the good of the majority.’
Bruce did not answer.
‘Sam’s in fearful danger,’ Patrick said. ‘I can’t just stand aside and let it happen.’
‘No, you can’t,’ Bruce said slowly. ‘I’m off duty now. I’ll come with you to the concert.’
Their seats were at the back of the hall. When they got there, in good time before the concert was due to start, it was still half-empty.
Bruce showed keen interest in the surrounding scene, and told Patrick that he had never been to a concert here before, though he appreciated classical music.
Patrick himself found orchestral and vocal music upsetting; listening to either could be a sensual experience which left him full of vague yearnings he preferred not to define, so he seldom put himself at risk in this way. Tonight, however, he would not be thinking about the music, but about Sam Irwin and the peril he might be in. He glanced at the programme while the sergeant watched the audience arrive.
The concert was to begin with Beethoven’s
Spring Sonata
for violin and piano; then Ivan Tamaroff was to play a Chopin
Ballade.
After that, Sasha would play Bach’s
Partita no 2 in D minor.
There would be some Debussy for solo piano after the interval, and then the main work, Cesar Franck’s
Sonata in A major
for violin and piano.
As Patrick handed the programme to Bruce, a little group of men filed in below them and took seats further down, in the front section of the hall.
‘Senator Dawson,’ said Bruce.
There was the American whom Patrick had seen at Woburn, with his rimless glasses and close-cut hair. Beside him, Patrick recognised the ambassador. The two talked together, moving to their seats. Behind them were more men, five of them, all in dinner jackets, all also with neat haircuts and two with spectacles. At first Patrick thought they must be security guards attending the Americans, but Bruce said, ‘The East German
chargé d’affaires
and some pals.’
The East Germans, smiling as genially as the Americans, made remarks that were obviously amiable, and all seven men started to chat together. Patrick watched intently as they took their seats, the East Germans in the row behind the Americans. He missed the moment when the two musicians appeared, and was only aware of them when wild applause broke out and the audience rose to its feet.
Ivan Tamaroff, white-haired, smiling, gestured to his son to acknowledge the ovation; in turn, the younger man, slender and dark, deferred to his father.
There was a moment or two while the violinist timed his fiddle; then they began to play. First one instrument took up the rippling theme, then the other, each player fitting the phrases to his partner. It was a sort of surrender, Patrick thought, each talent laid against the other in total unity; an enviable complement in any sphere.
After the piece the audience was nearly frantic with delight. It was some time before they would settle down to let Ivan, alone at the piano, give them Chopin. His hand seemed to be perfectly recovered; there was no sign of any weakness.
After the Bach, applauding with the rest, Patrick, who had been transported in spite of himself and had almost forgotten why he had come, saw that Senator Dawson had left his seat, though the ambassador was still in his. One of the East Germans had gone too. In a moment Patrick was up and hurrying out of the auditorium himself, with Bruce behind him, and as they went two more men left from the East German group. Hastening after them, Patrick saw them crossing the foyer in the direction of the men’s room. He and Bruce followed them inside. The senator and the first East German, a stout man of about fifty, stood side by side, apparently ignoring one another; the other two men took positions on either side of the pair. Bruce formed up alongside, but Patrick merely washed his hands, and when the senator came over to the wash-basin, turned to him.
‘Splendid occasion, isn’t it?’ said Patrick, sounding very British.
‘Surely,’ said the senator, and Patrick wondered how Sam could speak so distinctly with his cheeks padded.
‘We met at Stratford, senator,’ said Patrick boldly. ‘Do you recollect? At the Birthday celebrations.’
Had it been Sam that day, or the real Senator Dawson, fresh from the conference on pollution of the atmosphere, whom Liz and Manolakis had seen in Shakespeare’s Birthday procession? It was certainly Sam at Woburn, showing triumph at the success of his deception when he recognised Patrick and Liz among the tourists.
‘We certainly did. I remember it,’ said Sam firmly, and then, ‘pardon me,’ as the East Germans started to leave the cloakroom. His eyes, behind the rimless spectacles, shone with excitement. He left close behind the East German group.
Patrick and Bruce followed. At least, now, if there was trouble, Sam knew friends were near.
In the foyer, some of the audience were forming orderly lines to buy tickets for coffee, and other people were clustering round the bar. Patrick watched the bogus senator chatting to the East Germans.
‘What a performance,’ he said.
‘The place is stiff with Special Branch chaps,’ said Bruce. ‘They’re all over the place. Funny lot of music lovers.’
‘I’m thankful they’re here,’ said Patrick, and then wondered what their presence really meant. What could happen here, under everybody’s nose? Would there really be trouble at a cultural occasion? Why should the showdown be tonight? Sam was probably just trying his wings again, as he had at Woburn.
He and Bruce filed back into the hall at the end of the interval and took their seats once more. Ivan, alone, came on to play the Debussy.
As the first notes sounded, Patrick looked down at the seats in front. Senator Dawson was not in his place; nor was the stout middle-aged East German. In that instant, as he watched, the remaining East Germans rose as one man and marched out, to the sound of furious ‘Ssshs’ from the people around them. Patrick was at once on his feet, running up the stairs to the exit at the top of the hall, with Bruce behind him. They rushed through the door, along the passage and out into the night, finding themselves hurrying downstairs out of the building on a level below the main entrance to the hall.
‘Sam must know this area like the back of his hand. He’s got that fellow out – he’s taking him off somewhere – meeting someone, maybe,’ Patrick gasped as they ran.
‘The bridge,’ cried Bruce, and they both turned to the left.
The East Germans, emerging on the higher level, had a start. Two of them stopped, conferred briefly, then turned back towards Waterloo Bridge; the other two hurried on, with Patrick and the sergeant behind them, towards the narrow footbridge that spanned the river beside the railway. They raced up the stairs that led to the bridge some way behind the East Germans; ahead, footsteps resounded. At this hour, before the theatres and concert halls emptied, the bridge was likely to be deserted, Patrick knew.
A sense of dire urgency caught at him; he raced on, ahead of Bruce, towards whatever lay in front: dim figures in the distance, also running. Then two shots rang out, glaringly loud in the night; no more; and after that, suddenly, the sound of a splash from the river.
Patrick ran on, towards the gunman.
The body lay sprawling in one of the bays that widened the bridge at intervals: just one body, the fattish middle-aged man, with blood pumping from his chest. He was dead when Patrick reached him. There was no sign of Sam, or of his two pursuers, but sounds of chase came from behind and voices shouted to Patrick and Sergeant Bruce, commanding them to stop.
‘Special Branch,’ said Bruce, and slowed up.
Patrick ran on and down the first flight of stairs he met at the far side of the bridge. The East Germans might have carried on to the further steps; there was no way of telling. Patrick ran past the Player’s Theatre, turned down an alley and saw in front of him the stage door of the Fantasy.
He marched in, past the door-keeper, who was not expecting anyone at this quiet moment during the performance, and was up the stairs looking for the dressing-rooms before anyone had time to challenge him.
Joss Ruxton’s had his name on the door. He was inside, sitting before the mirror, wearing a tonsured wig, and dressed in the dark singlet, jeans and boots over which he wore Wolsey’s cardinal’s robes.
He was only a little out of breath. Actors kept fit.
‘Where’s Sam?’ demanded Patrick.
Joss put a touch of greasepaint on his brow with a hand that did not waver.
‘In the river,’ he said.
‘You shot him.’
‘No. The others did. I threw him over the bridge.’
Of course. For if Sam had been found right away, the deception would have been unmasked.
‘Senator Dawson – the real senator – is now resting after escaping from a maniac who tried to abduct and assassinate him,’ said Joss. In the mirror, his eyes met Patrick’s. ‘But I don’t know how you connected me with this,’ he said.
‘You killed Tina,’ said Patrick. ‘You’re the only person who could have done that – someone she trusted gave her the sleeping pills, perhaps in a nightcap in bed, then made it look like suicide. But I don’t think MI5 or Special Branch or whatever would stoop to such an act. So you’re not working with them.’
‘No,’ Joss agreed. ‘I’m not.’
And then Patrick was looking straight at the barrel of a revolver as the actor turned.
‘I can’t let you go,’ Joss said softly. ‘You do see that, I’m sure.’
Patrick’s heart gave a shocked leap as the gun pointed steadily at him; the very one, perhaps, that had just shot the stout East German on the bridge. It would be a pity to die without knowing the whole story, he thought calmly, and if he played for time there might be some escape from this. The actor had already shown a touch of vanity in wanting to hear how Patrick had connected him with what had happened, so now he asked another question about Joss’s involvement.
‘How did you know Sam would be on the bridge?’
‘It was the plan,’ Joss answered. ‘Sam thought he was helping Fedor Schmidt to defect. He thought a car was waiting for them on this side of the river.’
Fedor Schmidt: another pawn in the game.
‘Sam knew you’d be waiting for him?’
‘Not me personally. Just someone who would take Schmidt to safety. He didn’t know I was involved.’
‘And why are you?’
But as Patrick asked the question, the answer came to him. Schmidt, dead and so unable to defend himself, would be accused of having tried to assassinate the senator, who would thereby have been proved an enemy of communism. Ever after, the real Senator Dawson would be above suspicion. Because of the risk of accident, a substitute, expendable as Schmidt had been, had been used: an elaborate deception to confirm a Red agent in high office.
If Patrick died now, the plan would succeed. He must survive to have Sam’s body taken from the river and properly identified.
With the revolver still pointing at his chest, words came into Patrick’s mind.
‘”It is the cause, my soul,”’ he said aloud.
‘Yes,’ agreed Ruxton.
How had they got him? It must have happened years ago – in youth, perhaps, and he had waited until now for such an opportunity. For this base end he had first used, then killed, Sam, Tina and Leila – without mercy. Two other men had died also – the original red-haired man, and Schmidt, who perhaps had really wanted to defect.
Patrick decided grimly not to let the list of victims grow.
‘If you shoot me now, someone will hear,’ he said.
The timing for this night’s deed was apt:
Henry VIII
allowed the actor playing Wolsey plenty of time to leave the theatre after the Lord Cardinal’s fall from grace before he need return for the final curtain. But the text allowed, at some point, noise and tumult as bidden by the directions. Such a din would drown the sound of shots; Joss would know the moment when he might strike.
Patrick had no weapon now but his wits; and through them he was not unarmed. Here was an adversary who could follow verbal feints.
‘”Corruption wins not more than honesty,”’ he began. ‘Perhaps you will dispose of me – but I’m a big man. You won’t put me in the river very easily.’
The actor was used, certainly, to sword play on the stage. How would he handle this fight, where Patrick had made the first thrust? He must not drop his guard, or he would be done for, stuffed into a prop basket and smuggled out like Falstaff in
The Merry Wives,
to be dumped anywhere.
‘”Farewell to the little good you bear me,”’ he said. ‘But beware. Make sure it’s not your own long farewell too.’
‘”I hang on no prince’s favours,”’ Ruxton said with scorn, showing only an instant’s surprise.
‘”On the third day comes a frost, a killing frost,”’ warned Patrick. He took a step forward and the other did not move. ‘How could you put your art to such a use?’ he said. ‘I’ve heard you speak some of the finest poetry ever written – witnessed you moving audiences profoundly – what for, in the end? To finish here, with yet another killing? For it will end with me. I’ll have been missed already, and plenty of people knew my plans.’ At this moment there was small comfort in the thought that even Liz might feel a pang at his demise, though Colin – and Manolakis – would, he hoped, try to avenge him.
But he must concentrate on his foe.