Last Act (28 page)

The sound of more cars, the noise echoing strangely in the enclosed space. “The reception's over.” His voice was almost drowned by the revving of engines. “They're all in evening dress. Going home. It's late, I'm afraid.”

Too late? Useless and dangerous to ask. From the way the noise was increasing, they must be close to the car park now. “This way.” As they groped their way forwards, the light at the end of the tunnel increased as well as the noise. Now, Michael guided her round a corner of rock and she found herself looking down on to the huge car park. Dimly lighted, it was still about a quarter full of cars, many of them moving and manoeuvring their way towards the exit, which was at the far side from where they stood.

“Damnation.” Michael's hand was on her arm. “Just too late,” he said quietly, pointing, and at the same time holding her back in the shadow at the back of the ledge on which they were standing.

Straining her eyes, she saw the reason for the delay at the exit. Uniformed attendants were checking each car as it left. Uniformed. The “police” who had knocked her out. Frensham's men.

“I could steal a car easily enough,” Michael told her. “That's what I'd planned. But we'd never get past that check-up. They've just started it. I wonder why. Pity we didn't get here ten minutes ago. How's your strength?”

“Good,” she said.

“Bless you for a gallant liar.” He guided her back round the corner of the rock, light and sound diminishing together.

“Not back up?” She did not think she could face it.

“No, not that, but I'm afraid it's almost as bad. If nothing has changed, this tunnel should take us along to where the river goes under. You can swim, can't you?”

“Oh, yes. But, Michael, you don't mean …” They were talking a little louder now, their voices reassuringly masked by the reverberation of engines.

“It's the only way,” he said. “And not much time either, I'm afraid. The reception was due to end at eleven. Less than an hour to go. I hope to God they get all the cars out in time. Stupid of Frensham to slow them up with that search. But like him. What are a few extra deaths to him? Because we've got to face it. There's a strong chance that we're going to be too late to give the alarm. We may have to say goodbye to that opera house, and just pray to God there's no one in it. We'll build another one, I promise you; smaller; the right size for Lissenberg.

“We?”

“We Lissenbergers.” As they talked, he had been guiding her along the smooth concrete floor of the tunnel. “Look.” He paused for a moment to point upwards at a darker patch in the general gloom. “That's the way we came down. No wonder I never noticed it from down here. I don't suppose anyone else has, except maybe the workmen who built the garage. They would have had light.”

“I wish we had.” It had been hard to move away from the dim light of the big garage, back to feeling their way in the cold darkness.

“Not long now,” he told her. “And just as well. I want you right away from here before it goes up.” And then, “Don't mind too much about the opera house. It's people matter, not things. And just think what a surprise we're going to give James Frensham. Ah!” His guiding arm tightened on hers. “Listen!”

The sound of water, ahead and below. Water rushing fast. A waterfall? “Michael, I can't!”

“Oh, yes you can. You want to live, don't you? To sing again. To marry me? Well, that's our way, down there.” He was holding her close, the sound of water below them somewhere. “You'll have to go first,” he told her. “You dive in, not too deep, and a deep breath first. Then hold it, just as long as you can. Stay under till you're bursting, till you can't stand it a moment longer, then up to the surface and let yourself go with the current. You should be about halfway down the valley, more or
less level with the hostel. I'll come right in after you. Tread water, if you can, and wait for me. The current shouldn't be too strong. Then all we have to do is get safe under the road bridge, and we're home and dry.”

“Home and wet,” she said.

So Many Questions, and no time to ask any of them. Obediently, she kicked off her light sandals. Her cloak and dagger she had left behind in the torture chamber, but she baulked momentarily when he told her to take off her tunic. “It might just make the difference.”

He was right, of course. Shivering in bra and pants, she thought it impossible to be colder. He had stripped to his jeans, now put a chilly arm round her shoulders in a quick gesture of love and encouragement. “I'll be right behind,” he said. “I love you dearly. You're a good breather. Breathe, and dive, not too deep, remember—and God speed you. Now, quick!”

She obeyed him, marvelling at herself. A long breath, a plunge that seemed endless before she met the icy shock of the water, and then the current had her. She had dived in sideways to it, but the very force of it turned her round. Hold your breath … She was counting to herself … Twelve, thirteen, fourteen … Something scraped against her side; the icy water surged savagely round her … Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two … What was the longest she had ever held her breath for? Twenty-nine, thirty … The water felt easier round her … Could she be out in the valley already? Michael had not told her how the stream emerged … Best not to know? … Thirty-three, thirty-four … Or had she lost count?

It made no difference. Could make none. Her lungs were bursting, and her legs, as she kicked out for the surface, so cold that they only just obeyed her. Air. An enormous shuddering
breath … Her mind began to steady. Forty, she said to herself, and opened her eyes. An amazing jumble of light and sound. Not daylight. The water around her dark as it was cold. Shadows to right and left must be the banks of the stream. But above them glowed light, and from beyond she could hear the sound of voices, laughter, shouts … Almost too cold to think. Tread water, Michael had said, wait for him. But if she did not make herself swim, the cold would kill her. And starting to swim, was aware of movement behind her in the water.

“Anne?” Just audible above the rush of the water.

“Yes.”

“Quick. Can you? It's not safe here. I'd forgotten the crowds.” The words came out in breathless gasps as he swam beside and a little behind her.

He was right. At any moment someone might look down into the stream and see them. And it was Frensham's “police” who were in control of the crowded valley. Suppose they had been told to keep an eye on the river. But why should they? How far was it to the bridge at the bottom of the valley? Too far, she thought. As far as from here to doomsday.

“Anne.” He had read her thoughts. “You've got to make it. I can't leave you. But I'd have to.”

He was right. There was still a slim chance of saving the opera house. And she had no breath to waste on speech. Struggling to keep her icy limbs at work, she was aware of him treading water to look ahead. Then, he was beside her again, urging her towards the left bank of the stream, holding her against it. “Lights,” he whispered. “At the bridge. Checking cars, I think. Here, too. God knows how we'll get by. The river's as light as day there. Anne, my darling, I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault,” she said. “We did try.” And then, “Dear God!”

Midnight. The end of the world. Thunder and lightning. Screams from the valley above them. Chaos is come again. In the sudden, blinding flash of the explosion, Anne could see the guards on the bridge, heads turned in amazement towards the head of the valley. Even the water seemed to shake around them, where they clung to the bank.

“Now,” said Michael. “It's our chance. Now! I love you, Anne.”

As they moved out into the middle of the stream, Anne felt the water roughen. How long before debris from the explosion started to come down? She had thought she was too exhausted, too cold, to swim another stroke; and yet found herself striking out strongly at Michael's side. The bridge loomed ahead, dark and low over the water. Lights flashed above; she must keep her head down, for fear that her white face betray her. They were under the main span of the bridge, safe for the moment, then out into the air below the bridge. Don't turn round. No shouts. No shots. She was still swimming, but only just. She missed a breath, swallowed water, felt herself struggling, began to sink.

“I've got you.” Hands firm round her ears, holding her. “Don't struggle.”

But not to struggle was to die of cold. She had not imagined cold like this. I am being refrigerated, she thought. I am in the deep freeze. I shall die … I am death …

Something was happening. Voices, not just Michael's. Capture after all? She was plucked out of the water. Exclamations. Something warm around her. Hands. Friendly hands, surely? A boat, a small, unsteady boat. She was among knees. “Hoped you might turn up this way,” said a voice.

“Hans!” exclaimed Anne, and fainted at last.

Warmth. Why had she never understood the sybaritic delight of just being warm? “Quite a girl.” A voice she knew. Hands—clever, familiar hands—studied the bump at the back of her head.

She was lying on her side. With an enormous effort she opened her eyes and saw a familiar pair of dark, well-creased trousers, a gold watch-chain. “Dr Hirsch,” she said.

“My favourite patient.” His voice was warm. “I'm proud of you, Anne. Move a little for me, would you. Just to set an old man's heart at rest.”

“You're not old.” With a great effort, she moved her head, just a little. “It hurts.”

“Well, of course. Cold water's recommended for concussion,
but only in moderation. Now, the rest of you, there's a good girl. Right hand? Good.” She had managed the slightest possible clenching of the fingers. “Left hand? Yes. Right foot?”

“It doesn't seem to be there,” said Anne.

“Don't worry. You
were
cold. More hot water bottles, Lisel, and another blanket, please.”

“Lisel? I'm at the hostel?”

“No, ma'am. We've got you safe in Lissenberg, where you belong.”

Belong? “Michael?” she asked.

“No need to fret about him. Very tough young man, our Michael. He's out seeing to things.”

“Oh.” Forlorn not to have found him at her bedside. “Things?”

“All kinds. But not till you're better.”

“I
am
better.” With an immense effort she pulled herself up on her elbows, dragging her non-existent feet with her.

“Good girl.” Dr Hirsch had been ready with a pillow for her head. “And here's Lisel with the hot water bottles. And your breakfast—lunch. You must be famished. Don't fret about those feet of yours. It's the shock, of course, and the cold.”

“Cold!” She dipped bread in hot soup and thought it the best food she had ever tasted. “I thought I was dying of it. But, Dr Hirsch, I have to know.” Her mind was seething with questions. “The explosion; the opera house. The opera?”

“Cancelled, I'm afraid. The opera house is—just gone. They thought of using the rehearsal room, as a kind of makeshift, but with you gone missing, and the damage from the floods …”

“Someone really didn't mean that opera to happen,” she said sadly.

“But it did,” he told her. “Don't forget that stupendous preview of yours. When you're a little better, you shall see the newspaper reports …”

“Newspaper? Dr Hirsch, what day is it?”

“Only Tuesday,” he told her. “You opted out of Monday, and who can blame you? It was a bad day, Monday.”

“What happened?” She knew he wanted her to ask it.

“The explosion,” he reminded her. “You didn't ask if anyone
was hurt.”

“I think I was afraid to. Who, Dr Hirsch?”

“Prince Rudolf. No one knows what he was doing there. Or if they do, they're not saying. The blast got him. He was in the underground tunnel; terrible in that enclosed space. He must have been on his way from the hotel to the opera house, judging by the way his body was lying. Dead at once. Don't look so grieved, child. He was in dead trouble, whatever happened, poor man.”

“He was good to me,” she said, tears slowly forming in her eyes.

“In his fashion. I'm glad someone is crying for him.”

“But—what's happening?” The full implications of it were gradually unfolding themselves in her tired mind. “The peace conference? Dr Hirsch, what about that? Is it wrecked? Has it all been for nothing?”

“Not a bit of it. People are odd. You might have thought—I imagine someone did—that the delegates would have packed their bags and gone home after such a disaster on their very doorstep. But not at all; they're hard at work. It was a highly localised explosion,” he explained. “An immense force behind it, but driven down rather than sideways. Lucky for you and young Michael you didn't stay around underneath there. There's a hole right through to the car park. Full of water, of course, from the stream. But, amazingly, the hotel is hardly damaged; a few broken windows, a cracked wall or two. They built well, Prince Rudolf's architects. And the conference centre's untouched. So … the conference has sent out an official message of condolence and got down to work.”

“Condolence … Poor Princess Gloria.” She knew it did not ring true. What would Princess Gloria care, so long as her cocktails arrived on time. “Alix?” she asked. “How is she, and the children?”

“We don't really know,” he told her. “They're incommunicado, up at the castle.”

“Incommunicado! But, Dr Hirsch, why?”

He was taking her pulse, a familiar friendly gesture. “You'll do,” he told her. “I'm afraid you haven't heard the half of it yet.
We're under military rule. Those ‘Italian policemen' who came in so timely to help Herr Winkler turn out to be a kind of private army of James Frensham's. Scum of the earth.”