‘Then why do what you do?’
Deville shrugged. ‘It’s the only game I’ve got. I’m lucky. Most people don’t have any game at all.’
‘But I do?’ Mikali said.
Deville turned. There was a strange disturbing intimacy between them now, standing together at the window, the smell of the rain on the night air.
‘Your music? I don’t think so. I’ve often felt sorry for creative artists. Musicians, painters, writers. It’s over, particularly in the performing arts, so soon; the briefest of high points. Afterwards, down you go. Like sex. Ovid really put it very well over two thousand years ago and nothing has changed since then. After coitus, everyone is depressed.’
His voice was soft, and eminently reasonable. Patient, civilized in tone. For a moment, Mikali might have been back at the villa in Hydra, sitting in front of the pine-log fire, listening to his grandfather.
‘But this evening – that was different. You enjoyed it. Every dangerous moment. I’ll make you a prophecy. Tomorrow, the music critics will say that tonight you gave one of your greatest performances.’
‘Yes,’ Mikali said simply. ‘I was good. The house manager said they won’t have an empty seat in the place on Friday.’
‘Back in Algeria you killed everyone, isn’t that so? Whole villages – women, children – it was that kind of war. This afternoon, you killed pigs.’
Mikali stared out of the window into the night and saw the fellagha turning from the burning truck at Kasfa, drifting towards him in slow motion as he waited, stubbornly refusing to die, the red beret crushed against his wounds.
He had beaten Death then at his own game four times over. He felt again the same breathless excitement. The affair at the Bois de Meudon had been the same, he knew that now. A debt for his grandfather, yes, but afterwards…
He raised his hands. ‘Give me a piano score, any concerto you care to name and with these, I can give you perfection.’
‘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