Kronk

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Peter Karamazov sat in the departure lounge at Geneva Airport, moodily sipping his sixth large Japanese whisky and contemplating his newly discovered and terrifyingly beautiful gospel of Perfect Universal Love. He had already paid Dr. Moreau and had now cleared the Swiss Account. His baggage lay by the side of the chair on which he sat. It contained four million Swiss francs in high denomination notes and a toothbrush.

Dennis Progg and the A crew of This Is Your World were also in the departure lounge at Geneva Airport. They were at the bar, making a serious attempt to dispose of its entire stock of champagne and Guinness. They had been shooting a mass-suicide at the International Pet Lovers’ Convention, where seventeen bereaved pet lovers had made a pre-death sale of their organs in order to finance research into cat and dog geriatrics. The crew was now waiting for the special NaTel jet to lift them back to London.

Peter ordered another whisky and surveyed the airport lounge. He felt very sad. All these people going from nowhere to nowhere, journeying from the dark into the dark. Their eyes looked empty. They did not understand yet that spiritual fulfilment was the greatest and simplest thing in the world. All you had to do was love everybody, be a brother to all men -

and, of course, all women. But these people coming and going in the departure lounge, they did not know about this thing. They did not know that love is life and life is love. They did not know that this was all they needed to know.

The trouble was, thought Peter, downing his whisky and absently getting another, that the world was too materialistic. People valued the wrong things — wealth, rank, possessions, power. Just as he had done before Ilyich had died so that his brother’s eyes could be opened…

Dennis Progg had noted the sombre gentleman, sitting by himself, brooding, drinking with careless professionalism. Dennis Progg, having himself got outside a litre of champagne and Guinness, was aware of the existence of a sixth sense. It had operated before, and raised him to greatness in NaTel. There was the time when King Charles was entertaining Mao Tse Tung the Third, incognito, at Chou ’n’ Raymond’s Flip ’n’ Strip. Dennis Progg had sensed the tension, not knowing that the King was insisting on Chinese food while Chairman Mao was insisting on steak and chips. The hand-vid was ready when breaking point came and the royal incognito poured sweet and sour sauce over his guest. The video rights were bought from NaTel by nineteen countries, and the original tape finally deposited in the British Museum.

And there was the time when the Russian women athletes had had their lemon tea spiked with InSex at the Stockholm Olympics. And… Dennis Progg looked at Peter Karamzov; and the sixth sense warned him that something was going to happen.

Cam One had a hand-vid by his glass of black velvet on the bar. Good fellow, Can One.

Professional to his pubics. Dennis Progg nudged him. “Stand by, Oberon,” he whispered. “I have a notion you will soon be in business.”

Peter Karamazov was not aware of possessing any sixth sense, but he was aware of reaching a decision. A decision for love. All these people, all these empty, hurrying people, lost in their private limbos of lust and avarice, needed an example. That was all they needed -

an example. Then they would see that Perfect Universal Love was the answer to all the ills of the world.

Peter disposed of his ninth whisky, picked one of his brief bags up, opened it and stood unsteadily on his chair.

“Five seconds to blast-off, and still counting,” whispered Dennis Progg. “Oberon, this is your party.” Fortunately Oberan was still sober enough to operate the hand-vid.

Peter Karamazov surveyed the multitude to whom he was about to bring enlightenment.

One or two glanced at him with distaste. Most were unaware of their high destiny.

“Strangers,” said Peter in a surprisingly strong voice, “comrades, friends, brothers, sisters, children. I speak to you from my heart. I mean, my brother’s heart. We are all one family. We must love each other or die. We must give to each other as I give all that I possess to you. I want only to love and be loved. That is all I need to live.”

By this time every face in the airport lounge was turned towards him, and three porters were zeroing in for a rapid ejection. Then Peter dipped into his brief bag and hurled a handful of thousand-franc bank-notes into the air. The porters stopped in their tracks as it began to rain money.

“Paper!” shouted Peter. “It is only paper. I do not need it. I need paper only for one thing and this is not absorbent. Man does not live by foreign currency alone. I do not need it! If you think it will bring happiness, take it and be welcome. I need only to love and be loved.” He flung another handful of bank notes into the air, and then another.

The airport lounge became a scene of chaos, as chairs and tables were overturned, as glasses and bottles were smashed, as people fought and grovelled and crawled for money.

Oberon, weakening, was about to abandon the hand-vid; but Dennis Progg was made of sterner stuff. “Keep that camera rolling, boy,” he hissed, “or I’ll unzip your scrotum and pickle your gonads.”

People were now gouging and kicking and biting in their pursuit of manna bearing the device of the Bank of Switzerland. But, miraculously, Peter Karamazov rode above the storm.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was beginning to suspect that his gesture might not have the effect he had formerly intended. Nevertheless, and despite the prompt arrival of the airport police, he continued bravely.

“Brothers, sisters,” he implored, scattering further handfuls of largesse, “if this paper means so much to you, take it — take it all. But brothers, sisters, do not harm each other. For then you are harming me also. I want only your love in exchange for mine. The paper is a burden I am glad to lose.”

Oddly a number of people had stopped scrabbling for bank-notes. They stood up to listen.

The airport police had ringed the lounge, so that no one could get out.

Peter took his second brief bag and began to empty that. “I am happy,” he sobbed. “I am happy to lose that which would have imprisoned me. I will be happy if it can make you happy.

Then we shall be all happy. But I shall be desolate if it makes you sad.” He had finished the money and, strangely, no one was collecting it up. They were all staring at him.

Then he had an inspiration. “I want to give you everything I possess. Even my clothes.” He began to take off his hat and coat and jacket. He dropped them. No one touched them. The airport lounge was curiously still. A woman crossed herself twice, hiccupped, and began to cry. A man with a black eye said brokenly: “Monseigneur, you do us too much honour.” A little girl dropped her spiked shoe and her handful of bank-notes, picked up Peter’s coat and tried to put it back round his shoulders. He patted her head. She kissed his hand.

“But the only important thing I have to give you is all perfect love,” went on Peter.

“Brothers, sisters, give it to me also and to each other. Thus shall we find perfect harmony and become ourselves perfect.”

The airport police, dazed by events, had come to life sufficiently to begin to collect up the money. People with glazed looks in their eyes were surrendering voluntarily all that they had found. Peter Karamazov had distributed four million Swiss francs. Later, it was discovered that the airport police had collected four million three hundred and thirty-two thousand five hundred Swiss francs; thirty-three thousand French francs; twelve thousand D marks; three thousand and thirty kroner; one thousand eight hundred pounds; seven hundred pesetas and eleven roubles.

And that was the first miracle.

Meanwhile, Peter’s inspiration drove him on. “Once I had a sweet brother,” he shouted,

“whom I did not wholly trust and therefore did not truly love. My mistrust killed him; but even in death we were not divided. He gave me one heart, one eye, one kidney, two metres of lower intestine, some skin, three fingers and a foot and ankle. And now we are one. I give you the message of Perfect Universal Love in his name.”

There was a great silence. It was the psychological moment. Dennis Progg signalled to Oberon for close-ups. Then he stepped forward.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Peter Karamazov gave a radiant smile. “I am the son of man.”

Dennis Progg was nonplussed. “I mean, sir, who are you really — in the real world?”

He was rewarded by a look of saintly patience. “In this world, my son, I am your brother.

But once, in a nightmare world, I was Peter Karamazov, a creature without honour, who forged his own Master’s Degree in Creative Brainwashing and became one of the top ten secret agents of the American Committee for International Understanding. A man who recently engaged in stealing one of the great military secrets of all time from Britain, and in doing so brought about the death of his own brother. But now, more important, I am your brother. Is this other useless information of any value to you, brother?”

“Brother,” said Dennis Progg, “it surely is.”

Within two hours Peter Karamazov’s moving disclosures in the departure lounge at Geneva Airport were seen by seven hundred million people.

Within two hours and ten minutes there were repercussions.

Washington denied that he was a secret agent.

London denied that he had stolen any military secrets.

And the Vatican denied that he was the Son of Man.