Krantz led the way, and Craig followed, until they arrived at the prow of a rakish, V-bottom cabin cruiser. It rolled evenly in its canal berth, and Craig, inspecting the white oak hull and mahogany planking and raised pilothouse in the semi-darkness, judged it to be a forty-four-foot job with 110-horse-power-engines.
‘You go first,’ said Craig.
Gingerly, Krantz boarded the craft amidships, letting himself down the two steps to the white pine deck. Quickly, Craig was at his heels.
Before they could move farther, there were soft, hastening footsteps, and out of the night loomed a glowering, blond, athletic Swedish young man, attired in a navy-blue pea jacket and dungarees and white tennis shoes. His right hand was in his pocket. He recognized Krantz at once, and acknowledged him, and then glanced coldly at Craig.
Krantz spoke hastily, but with authority, in Swedish. The young man listened, then replied, also in Swedish, almost inaudibly.
Krantz turned. ‘It is all right,’ he said to Craig, ‘but he insists on searching you.’
Craig shrugged. ‘He’s wasting his time, but let him go ahead.’ Dutifully, he lifted his arms, and with expert speed the young Swede patted Craig’s chest, hips, his coat pockets, and the pockets of his trousers.
Craig lowered his arms with satisfaction, as young Swede addressed Krantz in Swedish.
Krantz said, ‘We can go ahead.’
As they went on, Craig noticed that the young Swede was watching them, and that behind him, indistinct in the darkness, a taller figure had appeared.
‘How many of them are there?’ Craig inquired in an undertone.
‘Two.’
Crossing the deck, Craig noticed that the superstructure of the cruiser was polished natural mahogany. He speculated on the ownership of the expensive vessel, but decided that it did not matter. They reached the companionway. As they went below deck, Craig was aware of the nautical smells; burnished brass fittings and glazed mahogany trim, scrubbed decks and fresh paint, gasoline and oil, and the stimulating fragrance of salt water from the Baltic.
The corridor below was claustrophobic.
‘Where are they?’ Craig wanted to know.
‘Walther Stratman is in the main stateroom. Miss Stratman is resting in the little bedroom adjoining it.’
‘Let me see her first.’
Krantz, scrambling to oblige after his complete surrender, guided Craig past a locker, past the galley with its four-burner stove, to the gleaming knob of the bedroom door. ‘In here,’ said Krantz.
‘How do you know she’s in there?’
‘They sedated her,’ said Krantz reluctantly. ‘The shock of seeing her father was so great, she fainted. They gave her something to quieten her down and let her rest.’
‘All right, let me see her.’
They went inside.
The bedroom gave the impression of an elongated, well-lit wardrobe, furnished with a chair, bed-stand, and single bed, and no more.
Emily lay curled on the bed, beneath a small oblong window that passed for a porthole, her back to the door. Because the heater was on, and the confined bedroom warm, she had pushed the thin white cotton sheet that covered her off her shoulders and down to her hips. She was attired in a light grey sweater and blue skirt, and the two pieces had separated, so that the curved ridge of her spine and a portion of her bare back and the elastic waistband of her pink panties showed. Her pumps were at the foot of the bed, and her heavy coat placed neatly on the chair.
Listening, Craig could hear her shallow breathing. Eckart’s promise was confirmed: she was alive and apparently unharmed.
‘You see,’ Krantz was saying eagerly, ‘nothing is wrong.’
‘No, not much,’ Craig said, ironically.
‘You wait a moment,’ Krantz said. ‘I must go to the next room and explain to Walther Stratman.’
There was a door to the left. Krantz went to it and disappeared.
Alone with Emily, Craig quickly joined her, kneeling beside the bed. She had turned on her back, and now her hands were folded across her bosom. He took one hand, loosening it from the other, and his fingers felt her pulse at the wrist. The count was normal. He released her wrist, and then, gently, he shook her shoulder. At first she did not respond, and then she stirred, and he caressed her shoulder, and then, at last, she awakened.
Her head came around on the pillow, eyes sleepy, features reflecting confusion.
She recognized him. ‘Andrew-’
‘Yes, darling, I’m here.’
Her gaze shifted to the ceiling of the bedroom, then took in the rest of her surroundings. When she found her voice, it was caught low in her throat and thick. ‘Where am I?’
‘Still in Stockholm. You were brought to your father.’
‘I remember-some of it-’
‘Are you all right? Did they hurt you?’
She tried to think, but her mind and its answers were halting. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Only the shock and the-’ Her eyes met Craig’s. ‘Where is Uncle Max?’
‘He’s fine, better than ever. He’s probably at the Ceremony now.’
‘I-I forgot-I’m mixed up.’
‘Rest.’
‘Andrew-why are you here? How did you-?’
‘Never mind. I’ll tell you later.’ He studied her. ‘You’re sure they did nothing to you beyond the shot?’
‘No, they-yes, I’m sure-nothing. Papa was so kind.’
‘Good.’ He stood up. ‘Try to sleep again, let the drug wear off. I’ll be right back.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Don’t worry, Emily. You’re in the bedroom of a motor cruiser-’
‘I am?’
‘-and you’re safe now. I have to take care of something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘But Uncle Max-Papa-what will-?’
He placed a finger on her dry lips. ‘It’ll work out. Now-sleep.’
When he withdrew his hand, her eyes were closed. With love, he remained standing over the innocent face, so much now a part of him, and when the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts beneath the sweater told him that she was soundly asleep, he left her.
The door behind him had been softly opened, and the diminutive physicist, holding his top hat, gestured with it for Craig to come into the other room.
As Craig approached, Krantz said, ‘I have explained everything. Professor Walther Stratman will see you now.’
Craig hung back for a second, trying to organize his thinking. He had struggled hard for this meeting, and now that it was here, he had no idea what he would say. He knew what he had intended to say, but at once it seemed less possible. All that he was positive of was that the meeting was in some way necessary and critically important. But then, as he started towards Krantz, he wondered: important for the sake of Emily and Walther and Max Stratman, or important, selfishly, for himself?
He passed before Krantz into the main stateroom.
It was a good-sized room, luxuriously furnished with a wardrobe that had sliding doors, a dresser, a blond Swedish desk, a lavatory on the starboard side, and a brightly covered cot. Drawn up to the cot was a small round table, and behind the table, seated on the cot, was the hunched figure of a red-faced, big-headed elderly man with thin white hair neatly combed. He was in shirt-sleeves with old-fashioned armbands, the shirt striped, its collar open, with the stringy maroon tie knot drawn down. When he stood, bones cracking, his trousers, open at the belt, became baggier.
Krantz had guided Craig to him. ‘Professor Walther Stratman, this is Mr. Andrew Craig.’
Walther’s left hand held a half-filled glass, but his heavily veined right hand was extended. ‘So you are the
