The Mozart Conspiracy (31 page)

The barman eyed him and came over.
‘Rauchen verboten
,’ he said, pointing at the no smoking sign. Ben shot him a look that made him back away. A woman in a pinstriped trouser suit sitting along the bar tutted irritably but said nothing. He finished the whisky, twirled the empty glass on the polished surface of the bar. He thought about ordering another one.

His phone rang. He ignored it. It rang a few times then stopped.

He ordered the whisky. The barman poured it curtly.

The phone started ringing again. The woman along the bar was staring at him, as if to say
either answer the damn thing or turn it off.

He sighed and pressed to answer. The line wasn’t good. The voice was female. He listened for a moment and then said, ‘What do you want, Eve?’ She’d said she would call him sometime. But not this soon.

‘Who’s Eve?’ asked the voice.

‘What?’ he said, confused. He put a hand over his other ear, shutting out the noise of the bar and the music and the flight announcement that was drowning out her words.

‘It’s Leigh,’ she shouted down the phone.
‘It’s Leigh
.’

Chapter Sixty-Three

The mountains of Slovenia

A few hours later

It was a long drive from Ljubljana airport to Bled in the north-western corner of Slovenia. Ben pushed the rental Audi hard and fast. He was anxious to see her again. The awful image of what he’d taken to be her dead face was still lodged in his mind.

The little town was nestled deep in the pine forests. The road took him around the Lake Bled shoreline under a heavy grey sky. Across the water was a tiny wooded island with a baroque church steeple poking through the trees. The snowy mountains towered in the background. The road was virtually empty and rain had washed it clear of ice.

As he reached the outskirts he checked his map. The directions she’d given him on the phone led him to an elegant chalet-style villa at the end of a quiet street. Rain pattered on the windscreen as he drew up outside the house. A polished brass plaque on the wall was inscribed with the name
Anja Kovak
in heavy black lettering. Beside the name was a title he didn’t understand, but it looked like the kind of plaque a doctor or lawyer would have. A professional person. He checked the address again. It was definitely the one Leigh had given him, but it didn’t seem right. What was she doing here?

He sat in the car for a minute to clear his mind. He’d been doing a lot of thinking since her call. He watched the raindrops run down the outside of the screen. Then he reached for the handle, opened the car door and swung a leg out.

That was when the door of the house opened and he saw her standing there at the top of the steps. She was wearing clothes a size too big for her, a heavy black woollen pullover and a pair of black baggy trousers. They looked borrowed. Whoever had lent them to her liked black.

He climbed out of the car and walked slowly through the gate. It began to rain harder. Leigh came towards him. They started moving more quickly as they got nearer to one another. She hugged him tight as they came together.

He held her. He didn’t want to let go. The pain in his ribs didn’t matter. He suddenly wanted to kiss her again-but he didn’t know if it was the right thing.

They held each other for a long time, and then she pulled away from him, clasping his hands tightly. Her hair was wet with the rain. She was crying and laughing at the same time. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she said.

‘I thought you were dead,’ was all he could say. ‘The last few days have been a torture.’

She looked up at him. ‘You said it was over. Is it, really?’

He nodded. ‘It’s over. You’re safe. You can get on with your life again.’

‘You found them?’

He nodded again.

‘What did you do?’

‘Don’t ask me that.’

‘Where’s Clara?’

‘At home with her father. She’s fine. They’re both fine.’

Leigh glanced up at the sky, hugged herself and shivered. ‘It’s raining,’ she said. ‘Let’s go inside.’

She led him into the house. There were terracotta tiles on the floor, and the walls were painted white. It looked clinical and clean. He heard a cough and looked to his left. There was a sign on the wall that he couldn’t read. Through the open doorway next to it he could see some people sitting on chairs. A couple of them were reading magazines. Someone coughed again. The air smelled of chlorine disinfectant. It was a doctor’s waiting room.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Leigh as she led him past the door and up the corridor towards another one.

‘Anja’s consulting,’ she said. ‘We can talk in here.’

She pushed open the door and he followed her into a kitchen. It was small and practical. There was a percolator bubbling on a gas cooker, and the smell of real coffee.

She poured coffee into two cups and handed him one. ‘You look different. What happened to your hair? It’s darker.’

‘You look different too. You look alive.’

‘I’m definitely not dead,’ she assured him, smiling.

‘I know what happened at the convent,’ he said. ‘I should have been there for you.’

‘I’ve been trying to call you for days. Your phone was never on. I was really worried about you.’

‘I didn’t have my phone,’ he said. He didn’t tell her why. ‘What happened to you? What are you doing here?’

‘It’s a simple story,’ she said. ‘The helicopters went away. They took Clara. There was nothing I could do.’ She paused a while, remembering. ‘I waited until the men were gone. I could see the smoke. I guessed what was happening. I was scared they might come back. I wanted to get away, as far and as fast as I could. I was covered in blood.’

‘Whose blood?’

‘Not mine,’ she answered.

‘The old hammer-gun?’

She nodded. ‘I had to use it.’ She shuddered, closed her eyes for a moment, sipped coffee. ‘I couldn’t bear the feel of his blood on me. I found a stream where I scrubbed it all off. I wandered for a long time in the snow. I just walked. I didn’t know where to go. Everything was wilderness, and trees and hills. I don’t remember too well, but they said I was staggering and near to collapsing when they found me.’

‘Who found you?’

‘Anja.’

‘The doctor?’

She nodded. ‘I was lucky. Anja doesn’t get too many days off. She was skiing with some friends. They found me and took me to a ski cabin in a valley. At first Anja said she wanted to take me to the hospital. She was the only one in the group who spoke English. I pleaded with her not to take me there. She agreed to bring me back here to her surgery, and I’ve been here all week. I’m fine now.’

‘I’m thankful to Anja,’ he said. He stroked her arm. It felt warm and soft. ‘There’s something I have to tell you, Leigh. Your father’s letter. It was destroyed. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not sorry,’ she said. ‘I wish he’d never found it. I would have destroyed it myself.’

‘Something else,’ Ben said. ‘I think your father was right. So was Arno. I don’t think it was a fake.’

‘We’ll never know, will we?’

He shook his head. ‘No. But I’m glad it’s gone too.’

‘And so this is definitely over?’

‘It’s definitely over.’

‘I feel I should know more.’

‘I don’t think you should. People died.’

She was quiet.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said.

‘I’ve got no papers. I lost everything.’

‘You won’t need them. We’re going back by private jet.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Whose?’

‘It belongs to Philippe Aragon.’

‘Aragon?’ She shook her head, puzzled. ‘The politician?’

‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘Will you be ready to leave here in the morning?’

‘I’m ready now.’

‘Dinner first,’ he said.

‘You’re taking me out? I’ve nothing to wear.’

‘You look great,’ he replied, and smiled.

Dinner was in the restaurant of the Grand Hotel Toplice on the shores of Lake Bled. They sat at a small table for two in the corner. He’d ordered the best bottle in the house. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He had to keep reminding himself that she was really here, really alive.

‘You’re still looking at me like I’m some kind of apparition,’ she laughed.

‘You didn’t see the photo of you. You scared the hell out of me. I still stop breathing every time I think of it.’

‘That’s what comes with years of playing tragic heroines onstage,’ she said. ‘I’ve died a thousand times. Opera’s full of gruesome deaths. Carmen gets stabbed. Tosca jumps off the battlements. Lucia di Lammermoor stabs her husband, gets covered in blood, goes mad and then dies herself. You soon learn to look very dead. And they sometimes film the performances, so there are cameras zoomed right on your face. I can hold my breath like a pearl diver, and I can keep my eyes open forever without blinking.’

‘Well, you had me convinced.’

She sipped some wine. ‘It hardly seems real to me now.’

‘Let’s not talk about it.’

‘I still can’t understand how he missed me,’ she said. ‘When I heard that shot I thought I was finished. It was only after I fell down the bank that I realized I was all right. It was a miracle.’

‘It was no miracle,’ he said. ‘Don’t thank God, thank the patron saint of bent barrels. Remember the snowman?’

She raised her glass and smiled. ‘Such a sceptic, especially for a former theologian.’

‘I told you the gun was throwing to the right.’

‘Yeah, well,
I
hit the snowman dead centre, no problem.’

‘You did,’ he admitted. ‘But if the gun had been straight, you’d have missed.’

She laughed. ‘That is some logic.’

He let the laughter die away. His smile faded. He fingered the stem of his wine glass. There was something he wanted to say, and he thought about the best way to say it.

She noticed the change in his face and looked at him curiously. ‘Something on your mind?’ she said.

‘Leigh,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

She looked up at him attentively.

He paused, not meeting her eye.

‘What?’ she said.

‘I don’t want to do this any more.’

She blinked. ‘Do what any more?’

‘I’m retiring.’

‘I thought you already were retired?’

‘I mean I’m stopping what I do.’

She leaned back in her chair. ‘Why?’

‘It isn’t what I want to do any more.’

‘Why?’ she said again.

He looked up and met her eye. ‘Because of you.’

‘Me?’

‘I want a life, Leigh. I threw so much away when I walked away from you that time. I’m sorry. I should have listened to Oliver. I should have married you when you wanted me to. I was stupid.’

She said nothing.

‘When they told me you were dead, I realized something. I realized how much I still love you. That I never really stopped.’ He reached out across the table and took her hand. ‘Will you give me a second chance?’

She looked at him.

‘I want to be with you,’ he said earnestly. ‘Is there room in your life for me?’

She looked at him.

‘I want to marry you, Leigh. Will you have me?’

‘I’m stunned,’ she said.

He let go of her hand and fiddled with his glass. ‘You don’t have to answer now.’

‘Are you seriously asking me?’ she said.

‘Yes, I am. I’m seriously asking you.’

‘I travel around a lot,’ she said. ‘My work’s important to me. I’m not that easy to live with.’

‘I can deal with that.’

‘What about your home in Ireland?’

‘I’ll sell it,’ he said without hesitation.

‘You want to live with me in Monaco?’

‘I like France,’ he said. ‘I like the wine and the food. I have a place in Paris. France is no problem for me.’

‘You’ll get bored with nothing to do.’

‘I’ll find things to do,’ he said. ‘I already know what I’ll do.’

‘And you hate opera.’

He paused. ‘You’ve got me there,’ he said. ‘I do hate opera. Especially German opera, and especially Mozart.’

She laughed and then went quiet and serious, watching him. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said. ‘A long time since we left off. A lot of catching up to do. We’ve both changed.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I mean it. Will you think about it?’

Chapter Sixty-Four

The Bahamas

A few weeks later

Chris Anderson sipped on his martini and looked out across the white sand. A warm breeze ruffled the palm fronds over his head as the
Isolde
bobbed slowly on the shimmering water. There was sand between his toes. He reached out from the sunbed and picked up the newspaper.

The copy of
The Times
was three days old, dated the nineteenth of January. Yesterday’s news, but he liked to catch up on what was happening at home, and what could happen in three days? He rustled through the pages. Foreign news. More assassinations in the Middle East. Storms lashing the UK. Same shit as always. Chris stretched and shot another glance at his yacht on the calm blue water, then grinned to himself.

He flipped randomly through a few more pages.

A small headline caught his eye. He did a double-take.

‘I knew it,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘That bitch. Lying bitch.’

O
PERA STAR WEDS
.

He read it three times. It wasn’t a long article. There was a small photo to go with it. The wedding had taken place a week ago in Venice, where the bride Miss Leigh Llewellyn was in rehearsals for the celebrated new production of
The Magic Flute.
Chris stared long and hard at the face of the groom in grainy black and white. He looked down at the name in the article, then back up to the photo. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered. Just as he’d thought. It was Major Benedict Hope.

Chris rumpled the paper up in disgust, tossed it away and took another swig of his drink. Then he hurled the glass away too.

The
Gran Teatro
Fenice Opera House, Venice, Italy

Everything in the box was red velvet. Ben’s seat was upholstered with it, the wall behind him and the partitions either side of him were draped in it. He loosened his collar, leaned back in the seat. He was as casually dressed as he could get away with in this place, just a dark suit and a plain navy tie. Most of the men in the audience were in tuxes, but dressing in a tux twice in the space of five weeks was a little too much for Ben.

Perched up in the private box, he had a great view of the Gran Teatro Fenice. The Phoenix, the legendary opera house. Aptly named. He’d read in the programme that someone kept burning the place down. The last time had been in ’96. In 2003, the programme said, it had been restored to its former grandeur.

Grandeur was the right word. He looked around him. He’d seen some sumptuous décor in his life, but this was going a stage and a half further. The ornamentation of the place was beyond belief. It was like a cathedral built in the name of music.

He sighed. So here he was. Venice. His first opera. Leigh was an old hand here-half the audience were here especially to see her. The Queen of the Night was the big diva role. The media were all over her, and all over her new husband by extension.

He’d got used to being a very private man, and his first encounters with the hordes of journalists and paparazzi had been a bit disquieting. He might have been a little surly with them. Especially the overinsistent camera hound he’d threatened to ditch in the Grand Canal.

This was all something he’d have to adjust to. He wondered if he’d ever get to like opera. Maybe one day. For now, all he wanted was to see her on the stage. He’d never heard her sing live. He couldn’t wait to see her in her element.

Down below, the orchestra was tuning up and the audience was animated, the theatre filled with the hum of chatter. Ben sprawled in his seat and drank it all in. It was a heady feeling. He could begin to understand the appeal for the performers who devoted their lives to this moment.

Then the conversation began to die down and the audience started applauding loudly. The conductor was coming up through the orchestra pit. He was a tall man in a black tuxedo, white tie, a thick mane of black hair swept up from his high forehead. His expression was severe, focused. He bowed to the stage, turned and bowed to the audience and the musicians, then took to the podium. Dead silence fell over the theatre for a moment before the overture began.

A huge orchestral chord sounded, the instruments all coming in together. Then a pause for four beats, and another two big chords. Another pause, followed by two more stabs. It was the composer’s way of grabbing the audience’s attention by force, and it worked perfectly. The theatre was suddenly filled with sound as the whole orchestra chimed into the main theme.

The overture over, the audience applauded again and the house lights dimmed. This was it. The heavy curtains glided apart across the stage, and Ben settled back.

The set was breathtaking. It was a wilderness strewn with ruined buildings, broken-down temples, bushes and huge rocks. It looked completely real and the lighting effects were as good as any movie he’d ever seen. He could see the Masonic influence in the Egyptian look of the ruins, a pyramid in the background. He stifled the memories they brought up. That was all over now.

A man emerged from stage left and ran across the set, chased by a giant snake, then stumbled and lay still at the foot of the giant pyramid. While he was unconscious, three women in strange costumes came out and killed the snake with silver spears. Ben watched. It all seemed very odd to him. He was taken aback by the volume of the singing. No microphones. He checked the libretto on his knee and tried to follow the storyline, but quickly lost the thread. He wasn’t that interested. He only wanted to see Leigh, and she wouldn’t appear until some way into the first act.

Until then, he drifted and let the spectacle wash over him. It was huge and impressive and fantastically staged, but it didn’t captivate him.

However, the Queen of the Night’s entrance did, completely.

She was wearing a long silvery-black robe and a wild crown, both covered in glittering stars. He could feel the impact she had on the audience the moment she stepped out onto the set. The lights followed her centre-stage. She looked totally at ease, in command of the whole theatre. Someone threw a red rose from a box across the opposite side. It sailed over the orchestra pit and landed on the stage.

Then she started to sing. The power and depth of her voice blew him away. He watched her. It was hard to believe it was the Leigh he knew. It was as if the music wasn’t coming from her, it was coming through her from some other source. She filled the room with an awesome kind of beauty he’d never experienced before.

So this was what it was about. Now he suddenly knew who Leigh really was, what she lived for. It was something you had to understand. Nobody could explain it to you, and if you couldn’t feel it you were soulless, dead inside. It gave him goose pimples.

Her aria was over far too quickly. He was left stunned by it. There were cries of ‘Bravo!’ as she exited. More flowers landed on the stage. Another scene started.

Ben knew from the libretto that she wouldn’t be on again for a while. He had plenty of time to get down to the bar and grab himself a drink before her next appearance. He quietly left his box and started down the red-carpeted passageway.

That was about the same moment that the latecomer wandered into the lobby. He looked around him. He avoided the ticket office. That wasn’t what he was here for. He kept his head low and walked fast. He aimed for a side door. The sign read PRIVATE. He pushed through it and walked on.