‘As I have told you, my other assignments are about done. Fortunately, the deadlines are still a while off. But even if they were not, I would put them aside for you.’ Fleetingly, to Daranyi’s mind came The Faerie Queene: this the temple of Venus, and here inseparable friends, here Damon and Pythias, Jonathan and David, Hercules and Hylas. Daranyi’s smooth, plump countenance assumed the hood of Damon, earnest, sincere, faithful to whatever end. ‘You have always been generous with me, Dr. Krantz,’ continued Daranyi, ‘and I cannot help but stand ready to serve you, with all devotion, at any time. Your word is my command.’

Krantz’s uneasiness gave way to comfort. ‘Good, good.’

‘You need only speak of the problem, and I will address myself to it immediately.’

Krantz, who had been deep in the leather chair so that his stumpy legs dangled and his shoes barely touched the carpet, pushed himself forward in what was to be a gesture of confidence. Now he perched on the front of the chair, his shoes solidly planted before him. He stuffed the puzzle in his pocket-it was as if Eckart was over his shoulder, judging him-and proceeded to the business of the morning.

‘As you know, Daranyi, this is Nobel Week, one of my busiest weeks of the year-’

‘So it is. How time flies. I had almost forgotten.’

‘Have you read of this year’s crop of laureates who have come to us from America, France, Italy?’

‘I am ashamed to confess this, Dr. Krantz, but I have been so busy, I have hardly had time to glance at my newspapers this week.’

Krantz brushed at the air with his hand. ‘No matter. The assignment I have for you concerns these Nobel winners. Because of their importance, and the nature of what you must learn, your research-the assignment itself-must be strictly confidential.’

‘Dr. Krantz, I have never failed you.’ Then Daranyi added with pride, ‘I am professional.’

‘Take no offence. I merely emphasize the-the stature of the persons being investigated-and remind you they are in the international limelight. Now then, a rumour has come to the attention of several of us on the prize-giving committees. One of our laureates, I know not which, may have an unsavoury-no, let me put it this way-may have a questionable past and be of questionable character. There could be a scandal, before or after the Ceremony. If this is true, we must know about it in advance, we must be informed, prepared to take preventive action. The good name of the entire Nobel Foundation is at stake.’

Daranyi nodded gravely, and did not believe one word of what Krantz had told him. Daranyi’s professional assets were distrust and suspicion, and long experience had taught him that the motives men pretended to have in hiring him were always to be doubted. But Daranyi never fussed about this. Morality had nothing to do with free-lance espionage. An ethical spy was an impoverished spy, or worse, a dead one. You took a job. You rendered efficient services for a fee. You did not think. You survived.

Daranyi did not think now. He wore the Damon hood. ‘I can see the importance of this, and your concern,’ he said.

Krantz appeared pleased with himself. For him, so dryly factual, so lacking in the art of fable, the worst of it was over. The rest would be relatively simple. ‘In quite a natural way, several of us on the committees banded together on the matter-unofficially, of course-and determined to take action, sub rosa. I mentioned to my colleagues that I knew someone who could help-and here I am.’

‘I am grateful,’ said Daranyi. ‘You wish me to proceed as I did in the investigation of the Australian physicists?’

Krantz recoiled slightly at the bald mention of an old intrigue, best forgotten. ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘That was a leisurely research done at long distance. In this research, there is a time element, and the subject-subjects-of the research are close at hand, and therefore your inquiries will be more dangerous. Now, I have spoken of rumour of a scandal, but I do not want you out blatantly snooping for one-not at all. As a matter of fact, you may find no evidence of scandal at all. But we on the committee have our information, our half of the jigsaw, and by supplying us more information, you may supply us with the missing half of the puzzle. Do you understand?’

‘I fully understand.’

‘I will leave with you pocket-sized photographs of the laureates, a record of their recent activities in Stockholm-public activities, that is-and the remainder of their schedules. I will also leave you condensed public biographies of each laureate, containing their backgrounds, statements, habits, as taken from our official records and gleaned from the press. This we have and is of no importance. I will give it to you merely so that you may familiarize yourself with the subjects, know who they are, know the quarry.’

‘Everything will be useful.’

Krantz’s beady eyes glittered. ‘What we require, and do not possess, is personal data-as much as can be obtained in a hurry-on each laureate, and his or her relatives and associates. I repeat, do not look for overt scandal. What we want is that which has been kept secluded from public view-the small weaknesses of the present, indiscretions of the past, the personal histories unknown, the expurgated sections of experience or conduct. I am certain I need elaborate no further. You are practised in these matters.’

‘Thank you,’ said Daranyi modestly. ‘How many subjects will I research?’

Krantz dug inside his jacket pocket and brought out two envelopes. One he placed on the end table. ‘The photographs,’ he said. He opened the second, longer envelope and took out and unfolded what appeared to be half a dozen closely typed pages. He leafed through the pages. ‘Six laureates,’ he said finally, ‘and two wives, one sister-in-law, one niece. Perhaps, because of time limitations, all should not be given equal emphasis.’

For half a minute Krantz was lost in thought. Eckart had suggested the red herring: because you can trust no one in these affairs, do not give the impression you want only one laureate, Max Stratman, investigated, but make it appear you wish all six laureates investigated, Stratman being only one more among them. This was safe, Krantz realized, but the fallacy was that it spread Daranyi’s investigation too thin. They would obtain a little about everyone, and possibly too little about Stratman. Krantz weighed the risk of emphasizing several names, instead of all, and then he took the risk.

‘I will tell you what,’ Krantz resumed. ‘I want to make your inquiry easier. Here, we have ten persons to be looked into, but because of what we already know, perhaps more attention should be given four of them. In your place, I would expend maximum effort on-let us say-Dr. John Garrett and Dr. Carlo Farelli, the laureates in medicine-their wives are of lesser moment, although one never knows-on those two gentlemen, and-let us say-Professor Max Stratman, also-Professor Stratman and his niece, whose name is Emily Stratman. You will keep this in mind, Daranyi?’

‘My memory is unfailing.’

‘Yes, Garrett, Farelli, the Stratmans.’ He examined the papers in his hand. ‘As for the others-the Marceaus-Andrew Craig-’

Daranyi’s bland face almost gave away its first surprise. ‘Andrew Craig?’ he echoed.

Krantz looked up. ‘The literary laureate,’ he said. ‘You know him?’

Daranyi’s mind had gone back to the tall, gaunt American in Lilly Hedqvist’s bed, to their breakfast, to his monologue on sex life in Sweden with Craig in the restaurant. There could not be two Andrew Craigs, both writers, in Stockholm in one winter. The heavy-drinking man-my God, he had even been to the nudist society with Lilly, the puritanical, troubled, attractive man who was Lilly’s lover-was no more a wanderer, tourist on the run, but he was one of the world’s great authors, a Nobel laureate, no less. And Daranyi remembered that he had lectured this giant as he might a farm lad. Suddenly, he felt foolish and weak, and tried to pin his mind to Krantz’s question, and with effort succeeded.