City of Dark Magic (24 page)

“You said . . .” Miles’s voice was shaking and he stopped for a moment. Charlotte glanced at her wristwatch. Really, how much of her time was he going to take? The letters! They were three feet away! She was the chair of the Foreign Relations Committee. For God’s sake she could start a fucking
war
if she felt like it.

“You said that they were
personal
letters,” Miles said.

Charlotte really hated whiners.

“And that’s what they are,” Charlotte said. “They are my personal property.”

“I’d like your assurance, your word,” Miles bleated on, but Charlotte wasn’t listening. She could see his knuckles relaxing around the briefcase. Hers. They were almost hers. All she had to do was clear up a few details and get Miles out of her office.

“You have my word,” said Charlotte, once Miles stopped blathering on. “Yes.”

She stood up. Miles stood up. He placed the briefcase on top of her desk. Charlotte, exerting all of heing all r self-control, flicked it open and picked up the stack of letters.
My God
, she thought.
They’re really mine. No one can touch me anymore.

And they were all there. One letter a week for three months, although the affair had lasted longer. She had resisted committing anything to paper, but Yuri had worn her down and she had been so very much in love. He had been able to make her do anything. Charlotte had a brief vision of her twenty-three-year-old self, crawling across the floor of Yuri’s bedroom in the palace wearing nothing but a garter belt, high heels, and a rope of pearls that had belonged to the 8th Princess Lobkowicz. “If you sit on my face,” Yuri had said, “then you can keep the pearls.” (Of course it had sounded better in Russian.)

“As a matter of interest”—Charlotte tossed the treasured packet back into the briefcase as if it was scarcely worth pursuing—“who found the letters? And where?”

“I did,” Miles said. “One of my researchers turned over a piece of cabinetry and I found the letters in a false drawer.”

“How interesting,” Charlotte said. “What a lucky find.”

“Everything goes through me,” Miles squeaked. “That was the system we agreed upon. But yes, I’m surprised they were found so soon. The library at Nelahozeves is huge and it’s a mess. The work of a lifetime, if not two. It was just sheer chance that I found them when I did.”

“Oh, well, they’re not so important really,” Charlotte laughed, feeling drunk. “Just some old silliness from my youth. Sentimental value. But with the Internet and twenty-four-hour news cycles it’s getting so difficult to have any kind of private life. Some things need to stay personal, don’t you agree?”

Miles looked like he was ready to pass out. Well, good. She was getting anxious, too. She needed a straw. She needed to be alone with the letters.

Miles was trying to make up for his earlier cowardice by shielding Eleanor Roland. Of course she knew who had found the letters. In the flue of a fireplace! So old-fashioned of Yuri. What a romantic!

The marchesa’s minion had turned out to be useful with that bit of information. Although Elisa had really overdone it with the elimination of Eleanor. Really, the marchesa was so . . . Italian.

“My cell phone?” Miles was asking, tentatively. “The . . . um . . . escort took it from me? I’ve been out of touch for a whole day now.”

“Of course,” Charlotte soothed. “Sometimes they are a little overzealous, but I understand it’s all standard operating behavior. I think everything will be absolutely smooth from now on. I’ll have your phone delivered to you in the car. Please allow me to have you driven back to the airport, and you’ll find a comfortable seat on the next flight to Prague. First class, of course. Thank you so much for all your terrific work!”

Charlotte was especially proud of the “terrific.” It struck just the right kind of chipper, down-to-earth, ordinary-gal tone that her jackass handlers were always pushing her toward. She’d have to remember that during the presidential campaign. “Terrific.” Charlotte steered Miles toward the door. She’d think about what to do with him later.

She had the letters. Miles waers. Mils in her pocket in ten different ways, which was reassuring. Now just a few odds and ends to clean up.

She needed to talk to her friend over at NSA. This friend had kindly alerted her when some unusual activity on a search engine site came on the grid. Apparently her name had been run along with the words “Prague,” “Lobkowicz
,” and “CIA.” Probably just another amateur conspiracy-theorist, but her NSA friend had done a routine swipe through IP addresses anyway, just to be safe. You had to do this kind of cleaning regularly, like going to the dentist. The computer used for the search was licensed to an eleven-year-old blind kid in Boston, of all things. A hacker? Well, Charlotte had asked her friend to run a background on the girl, and she should check on those results.

No, there were still things to do, but the circle was narrowing. The list was getting shorter. It was like the old days, when you could draw a line through a name and . . . poof . . . that was the end of it.

Lucy and Desi! Those were the names of those ridiculous little dogs! Success was giving her a new clarity. She patted Miles on the back and handed him over to Madge.

“Madge,” she sang brightly, scaring the hell out of her secretary. “Let’s make sure Mr. Wolfmann gets a souvenir pen.”
God bless America
, she thought, shutting the door.

THIRTY-TWO

“S
uicide?
” sputtered Sarah in disbelief.

Shuziko shrugged, helplessly. “The police went through Eleanor’s room and found a note.” Suzi took a sip of her beer. All day long they had wandered about the palace in a blank-eyed state of shock, picking halfheartedly at their work. The Prague Castle complex had been sealed off and Eleanor’s body was removed from the cage near St. Vitus Cathedral. Some sort of
CSI: Prague
crew had arrived. As Eleanor’s employer, Max had gone off to talk to the police, muttering something about hoping different cops were on duty than when he had been hauled in for violating St. George two nights earlier.

As they had sat down for dinner, Godfrey suggested they have a moment of silence for Eleanor. Bernard wept noisily through this. Even Daphne looked shaken. No one knew what to say and yet it was impossible not to talk about it.

“It makes even less sense than Dr. Sherbatsky.” Godfrey shook his head.

“That was the musicologist? Who was a bit off?” Fiona asked, looking at Suzi, who nodded slightly and glanced at Sarah.

“Two suicides in one summer.” Moses took off his glasses and wiped them sorrowfully. “I can’t believe it.”

“Sherbatsky was a different case,” Douglas Sexton said. “The man was a drug addict and a total nutter. Of course I sometimes thought Eleanor was a bit off, too.”

“She vas a very nice, very conscientious woman,” Daphne said, severely. “It vas not her fault that her subject vas insignificant.”

“She didn’t kill herself because her Ernestines were
insignificant
,” Suzi snapped. “She
loved
those poor old gals.”

“What did the note say?” asked Sarah. She was not buying the suicide for one second and couldn’t believe anyone else was. Who crawls into a cage and kills herself? Eleanor was just not that weird. But then again, none of the other academics knew what she knew. Eleanor had found the letters between Charlotte Yates and Yuri Bespalov. And someone had killed her for it.

All day Sarah’s mind had been working in circles. Who knew that Eleanor had seen the letters other than Max and Sarah? Miles. Janek Sokol. Anyone else? She thought about Marchesa Elisa, but she had not made an appearance at the palace since Sarah’s arrival.

She thought about the lone figure she had seen hurrying across the courtyard.

And she thought about Senator Charlotte Yates.

It was nearly time to leave for the concert. She had called Pols several times during the day, and each time Jose had assured her that Pols was fine, was practicing or meditating.

Sarah had not wanted to distract her with the bizarre events at the palace. The girl was already in too deep.

•   •   •

A
banner above the stage of the Rudolfinum pronounced the evening’s event—the 32nd Annual International Youth Piano Competition—in a multitude of languages. Sarah saw in the program that the five competitors ranged in age from eight to fourteen. Besides the American Pollina, there were Russian, Japanese, and Chinese boys, and a North Korean girl.

Each year the competition focused on a single composer, and this year it was Beethoven.

Of course,
thought Sarah, feeling slightly persecuted by old LVB.

Seated in the orchestra section, Sarah looked at the tense faces of what she presumed were parents, extended family, coaches, mentors, and agents all around her. Clearly, there was a lot riding on this for these people. For the North Korean kid, maybe more than most.

The competition consisted of two rounds. The children would play a Beethoven piano sonata of their choosing in round one. Then they would be knocked down to two contestants. The finalists would play the same piece, for the victory.

Sarah decided that the 32nd Annual International Youth Piano Competition wasn’t really all that different from
American Idol
. She felt horrible that the shy and reclusive Pols was subjecting herself to what would surely be an ordeal, just because she felt she needed an excuse to be in Prague.

Or because she was scared for her safety, too?

She wondered what Miles was doing right now. Handing the documents over to Charlotte Yates? Being strung up somewhere and pounded by CIA agents? Although she no longer trusted him, she hoped he hadn’t been stabbed and left to die somewhere like poor Eleanor. Miles had gotten in over his head. And what was Eleanor? Collateral damage? Sarah shuddered. It was such a gruesome public display. Maybe that was the point. The blood and gore were a warning.
Back off or you’re next.

What could she do? Miles and Janek had both seen the letters, and it hads, and i seemed as if Miles was maybe intending on doing the right thing, but now he was in Washington. It seemed clear to Sarah that someone acting on Charlotte Yates’s behalf had killed Eleanor and almost certainly Andy, too. But who would listen to her? And unless she had proof, someone would end up in prison, but it wouldn’t be Yates. The task seemed impossible.

Sherbatsky was dead, too, though Sarah had trouble accepting that Sherbatsky’s death was tied to the senator’s search for the incriminating letters. She knew it had something to do with the drug. The drug and Max.

Max was looking for something. What was it? He seemed to trust her with certain things—like the possible existence of a secret library—and not with others.

For right now, she tried to focus on the competition. She looked at the program again. These kids had astounding résumés, and each of them had won a major competition at least once before. Pols had never even entered one. Sarah realized with a sinking heart that Pols did not stand a chance. The other children were trained, polished performers, and had been since they were three or four years old. Pols was a genius who rarely left the house, and played only to entertain herself, Sarah, and Jose.

The coordinator of the event came out and did the usual endless thank-yous, and introduced the members of the jury. The last name almost made Sarah shoot out of her seat.

Marchesa Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti.

Sarah craned her head and looked up into the box where the jury members sat. The fat guy in Brooks Brothers was definitely Larry Stegner, from Juilliard. The Asians. A couple of Czechs in poorly tailored suits. That left a deeply tanned woman in a skintight satin sheath and Hermès scarf. She had the kind of unapologetically excessive glamour that only European women can pull off. Sarah saw the glint of diamonds around her neck and thought her nose could pick up the scent of the marchesa’s perfume, even from her seat in the orchestra section.

Sarah riffled through her program, which merely said that Marchesa Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti was an international expert on Beethoven. Huh? An international expert on Beethoven? How come this was the first she’d heard of it? And possibly a close personal friend of Charlotte Yates. And possibly romantically involved with Max. And now here she was in Prague. On the same day that some very nasty and mysterious things had happened.

Feeling distinctly unsettled, Sarah focused in on the program, which was now beginning.

Beethoven had written thirty-two piano sonatas, all of them brilliant. Sarah was impressed by the choice of the North Korean competitor. Sonata No. 4 in E-flat Major, op. 7, was a monster of a piece, dynamic, complex, and in the first movement sort of a bitch-slap to Mozart.

It was strange to hear it played by an eight-year-old girl. Luigi had dedicated the sonata to his pupil, Countess Babette de Keglevics, and in the subtly erotic second movement Sarah had to close her eyes, to block out the fact that it was being played by a child, even a technically brilliant child.

Next up was the Russian boy, who played Sonata No. 5, op. 10, no. 1. Sarah closed her eyes and let the heavy chords of the exposition vibrate through her. The piece was full of heroism undermined by strains of fear and hesitation, which sort of worked for a little kid performing in the world’s most prestigious competition. It petitionwas disturbingly good.

Finally, it was Pols’s turn. Sarah leaned forward, applauding as Jose, dressed in a classic black tuxedo, led Pols, who was in red velvet, out to the Steinway. Pols settled down on the piano bench, took a deep breath, and launched into Sonata No. 23 in F Minor, op. 57. As she navigated the first of the three movements, Pols played with an increasing amount of verve that began to make Sarah nervous. People in the audience were blinking in surprise as she played as if she were possessed, her hair flying, her eyes closed. The unanswered questions Beethoven had laced the sonata with, the unstable chords, the power, grew and grew.

Sarah found herself holding her breath for the resolution, and when it finally came she leapt to her feet—along with half the audience—and applauded wildly. The other half remained seated, clapping politely, but there was a murmuring undercurrent of disapproval running through the hall. Pols had definitely gone out on a limb, although Sarah felt it was a limb of true genius.

She found Pols backstage during intermission.

“It’s the way Beethoven meant it,” said Pols, looking a little pale after her exertions. Boris, in his service dog capelet, leaned against the girl, offering his massive shoulder for support.

“I’ve never heard you play it like that before,” Sarah commented.

“No,” said Pols, as Jose wiped the sweat from her brow with a hankie. “I could feel him better here. That’s what he was urging me to do.”

Sarah did not doubt her. It made perfect sense. Beethoven went through harpsichords the way other people went through tissue, and this piece would have been unplayable on the instruments of his day. Pols had done Luigi proud.

“Well,” said Sarah. “You definitely carved out some new territory for yourself. Personally I thought it kicked ass.”

Sarah took Jose aside as Pols drank a glass of water.

“Go straight back to Boston tomorrow morning,” she whispered. “There’s been a brutal murder at the palace.” Jose blanched.

“Make sure Pols doesn’t talk about the Lobkowizes to anyone,” Sarah said. “It’s not safe. Keep a very close eye on her. Like, not out of your sight.”

“No one get through me,” said Jose. “But if they do, no one get through Boris.”

There was a hush in the audience when the president of the symphony came out to announce that the finalists were . . . Pols and Yevgeny Andropov. She had made the finals! The North Korean girl’s supporters were flushed and angry, talking loudly among themselves and gesturing toward the jury. Sarah hoped no one would be shot when they returned home.

A hush fell over the audience. The piece that Pols and the Russian kid would both play in their duel to the death was Opus 111, Beethoven’s last piano sonata, which some considered his finest. It was dedicated to the Archduke Rudolf, Beethoven’s patron and pupil. Sarah thought about the three Rudolfs and their strange fates. Rudolf II, who had gone crazy and lost his empire. Beethoven’s Rudolf was a distant relative in the far-flung Hapsburgs, and an epileptic. The third Rudolf, for whom the theater was named, had died at age thirty in 1889 in a bizarre incident at his hunting lodgehunting . He was in love with a young woman who was not his wife, and rather than give her up, he shot her in the head and then turned the gun on himself.

This was Prague. Every stone here seemed to have some kind of story, and most of them involved blood or people going crazy. Maybe that’s why the rest of the academics seemed willing to accept the story of Eleanor’s suicide. All summer long they had been steeped in similar tales of passion and violence. And now that she had taken the drug, Sarah knew that passion and violence
were
really all around them. Flickering beneath a surface of the present that was unbelievably thin . . .

Suddenly the audience burst into applause, and Sarah realized she had zoned out during the Russian kid’s entire performance. Now it was Pols’s turn.

Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, op. 111 is in two parts only, an unusual enough structure that Beethoven’s publisher wrote to make sure the copyist hadn’t accidentally left out the third movement. As far as anyone knew, Beethoven did not deign to respond. Sarah felt a stab of grie
f and longing as she remembered Professor Sherbatsky lecturing on the work, quoting from Thomas Mann’s
Doctor Faustus
, where the fictional music teacher explains Opus 111, stuttering and shouting that “in the end art always throws off the appearance of art.”