Solo

‘And more,’ Deville said softly. ‘Much more. I think you know this, my friend.’

The breath went out of Mikali in a long sigh. ‘And who exactly would you have in mind in the future?’

‘Does that matter?’

Mikali smiled slightly. ‘Not really.’

‘Good – but to start, I’ll give you what my Jewish friends would call a mitzvah. A good deed for which I expect nothing in return. Something for you. Your touring schedule. Is it likely to take you to Berlin during the first week of November?’

‘I can name my own dates in Berlin. I have an open invitation there always.’

‘Good. General Stephanakis will be visiting the city on the first of November for three days. He was, if you’re interested, Vassilikos’s direct superior. I would have thought you might have more than a passing interest in him. But for the moment, I think we’d better do something about friend Jarrot here.’

‘What would you suggest?’

‘A little more of this Napoleon down him for a start. A pity to waste good cognac, but there it is.’ He pulled the unconscious Jarrot’s head back by the hair and forced the neck of the bottle between his teeth. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I do hope you can manage me a ticket for Friday’s performance. I’d hate to miss it.’

At five-thirty the following morning it was still raining heavily at first light when the night patrolman for the area stopped by the slipway which ran into the Seine opposite Rue de Gagny.

His cape was soaked and he was thoroughly miserable as he paused under a chestnut tree to light a cigarette. As the mist lifted a little from the river, he saw something down there in the water at the end of the slipway.

As he approached, he saw that it was the back of a Citroën truck, the front end of which was under the surface. He waded down into the freezing water, took a deep breath, reached for the door handle and pulled it open. He surfaced with Claude Jarrot in his arms.

At the inquest which took place a week later, the medical evidence indicated a level of alcohol in the blood three times in excess of that permitted for vehicle drivers. The coroner’s verdict was simple. Death by accident.

The concert on Friday was everything that could be hoped and the Minister of the Interior himself was present at the reception with the Greek Ambassador, closeted together in a corner. As the press of well-wishers slackened around Mikali, Deville approached.

‘Glad you could come,’ Mikali said as they shook hands.

‘My dear chap, I wouldn’t have missed it. You were brilliant – quite brilliant.’

Mikali looked around the crowded room, filled in the main by some of the most fashionable and important people in Paris.

‘Strange how much apart I suddenly feel from all this.’

‘Alone in the crowd?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I’ve felt like that for something like twenty-five years. The great game. Walking the knife edge of danger. Never certain just how long you can get away with it. Waiting for the final day. The knock on the door.’ Deville smiled. ‘It has its own excitement.’

‘Like being on a constant high?’ Mikali said. ‘You think it will come, this final day of yours?’

‘Probably when I least expect it and for the most stupid and trivial of reasons.’

Mikali said, ‘Don’t go away. I must have a word with the Minister of the Interior. I’ll see you later.’

‘Of course.’

The Minister was saying to the Greek Ambassador, ‘Naturally, we are doing everything in our power to wipe out this – this blot on French honour, but to be frank with you, Ambassador, this Cretan of yours seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. But only for the moment. We’ll get him, sooner or later, I promise you.’

Mikali heard all of this as he approached. He smiled. ‘Your Excellencies, I’m honoured you could both attend tonight.’

‘A privilege, Monsieur Mikali.’ The Minister snapped his fingers and a waiter hurried forward with champagne on a tray. They all took a glass. ‘An astonishing performance.’

The Greek Ambassador raised his glass. ‘To you, my dear Mikali and to your genius. Greece is proud of you.’

As Mikali raised his own glass in return, Jean Paul Deville toasted him in the mirror.

General George Stephanakis booked into the Hilton hotel in West Berlin on the afternoon of 2 November. The management gave him a suite on the fourth floor, with adjoining rooms for his aides. They also made sure, as a courtesy, that the room service waiter was a Greek and also the chambermaid.

Her name was Ziá Boudakis, age nineteen, a small girl with dark hair and an olive skin. In a few years, she would have a weight problem, but not yet and that evening, as she let herself into the suite with her pass key, she looked undeniably attractive in the dark stockings and short, black uniform dress.

The General would be back at eight, they’d told her that, so she busied herself quickly in turning down the beds, and generally tidying the suite. She folded the coverlets then turned to put them away in the wardrobe, pulling across the sliding door.

The man standing inside was dressed in black pants and sweater, his head covered with a balaclava helmet through which only his eyes and nose and lips showed. There was a rope around his waist, she noticed that, and that the hand which grabbed her throat, choking off her scream, was gloved. And then she was inside in the dark with him, the door closed, leaving only a chink through which the room could be seen.

He released his grip and in her terror, she spoke instinctively in Greek. ‘Don’t kill me!’

‘Heh, a Greek girl,’ he said, to her total astonishment, in her own language. She recognized the accent at once.

‘Oh, my God, you’re the Cretan.’

‘That’s right, my love.’ He swung her round, a hand lightly around her throat. ‘I won’t harm you if you’re a good girl. But if you’re not, if you try to warn him in any way, I’ll kill you.’

‘Yes,’ she moaned.

‘Good. What time does he get in?’

‘Eight o’clock.’

He glanced at his wrist. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes to wait. We’ll just have to make ourselves comfortable, won’t we?’

He leaned against the wall, holding her against him. She was no longer afraid, at least not as she had been at first, but excited in a strange way, aware of him hard against her, one hand around her waist. She started to move against him, only a little at first and then more as he laughed and kissed her on the neck.

She was more excited than she had ever been, there in the darkness, turned to meet him as he pushed her against the wall, easing the dark dress up above her thighs.

Afterwards, he tied her wrists very gently behind her and breathed in her ear, ‘There, you’ve had what you wanted, so be a good girl and keep quiet.’

He tied a handkerchief around her mouth to gag her, again with surprising gentleness, and waited. There was the sound of the key in the lock, the door opened and General Stephanakis was ushered in by two of his aides.

They were all in uniform. He turned and said, ‘I’m going to have a shower and change. Come back in forty-five minutes. We’ll eat here.’

They saluted and left and he closed the door. Stephanakis dropped his cap on the bed and started to unbutton his tunic. Behind him, the door of the wardrobe rolled back and Mikali stepped out. He held a pistol with a silencer in his right hand. Stephanakis gazed at him in stupefaction and Mikali pulled up the balaclava.

‘Oh, my God,’ the General said. ‘You – you are the Cretan.’

‘Welcome to Berlin,’ Mikali said and shot him.