The Mozart Conspiracy: A Novel bh-2

by Scott Mariani

  He had checked the cell a hundred times for weak spots. The only light filtered in through a high barred window. He’d jumped up, scrabbled up the wall and grabbed the cold, black steel bars, wedged his knees against the wall and jerked them with all his strength. There was no give in them, no movement at all. They were solid. It would take a tractor to tear them out of their concrete bedding.

  Dropping back down into the shadows, he’d run his fingers along the contour of every stone block. The walls were in perfect condition and at least double-skinned. Nothing to work on. Then he’d tried the door. It was sheet steel, the hinges were concealed and the rivets were flush. Finally, he’d turned to the bunk, looking for something he could use as a lever or a hammer. But the steel frame was welded solid and its feet cemented into the floor.

  Worse than the prison walls around him, he was trapped inside his own thoughts.

  Leigh was dead. Leigh was dead.

  And it was his fault. He’d left her on her own. She’d died alone, unprotected, in fear.

  Just as Oliver had died. It was his fault. And now the little girl was a hostage. That was his fault, too. He’d get her out, or he’d die trying.

  Tomorrow his mission would begin. He’d have the equipment he’d asked for, a vehicle, some clothes, some cash, a weapon and a phone to call them on when he’d acquired his target. They were going to let him go free, and he already knew what his first move would be. But he’d never felt so powerless in his life.

  There was no use in hammering on the steel door until his knuckles were a mess of blood. No use in screaming his frustration until his vocal cords were in tatters. No use beating his own brains out against the stone walls. He dropped to the floor, down on his fists and the tips of his toes, and pressed thirty push-ups out of his screaming muscles. Then another thirty. The pain purged his thoughts for a few minutes. It helped him to focus on what he was going to do next.

  He started at the sound of jangling keys against the steel door. The lock turned. A sliver of light shone from the corridor outside as a figure slipped inside the cell.

  It was a woman, furtive, nervous. He knew her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  ‘I had to come,’ she said. Her eyes were moist and caught the light.

  ‘How did you get in?’

  The ring of keys glinted in the shadows. ‘Kroll keeps a spare set in his study,’ she whispered.

  ‘What do you want, Ingrid? Or whatever your name is today.’

  Eve winced and put her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh. Glass is out there. They’d kill me if they knew I was here.’

  ‘Then I’ll call them,’ he said. ‘They might let me watch.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what you said last time we met.’

  She crept across the cell towards him. In the light of the window her eyes were wide and bright with terror. ‘I’m Eve,’ she muttered. ‘Eve’s my real name. That’s the truth. I promise it.’

  ‘I don’t care what your name is,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘They have the little girl,’ she said.

  ‘You came here to tell me that?’

  ‘I want to help,’ she whispered. Her voice was husky and urgent.

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened. I had no choice. You have to believe me.’

  ‘You won’t fool me twice.’

  ‘I can help,’ she protested. ‘Please listen to me. I know things.’

  He could smell her fear. That couldn’t be faked. She was telling the truth. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘They’re planning something,’ she said. ‘Kroll is holding a party. Those men will all be there. They’re going to kill someone.’

  ‘Who?’ He already knew the answer.

  She shook her head. ‘Someone important to them. I don’t know. I just know that every time they have one of their gatherings, someone dies. There’s a signal. It’s usually between nine and ten, when the party’s in full swing and the guests are distracted by the music. The men leave one by one and go down to a special part of the house. That’s where it happens.’

  ‘Who are these men?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re in business with Kroll. That’s all I know. Old men in suits who kill people. Politics. Money. I don’t know. I just know they make people disappear.’

  ‘Where does it happen?’ he asked.

  She glanced nervously at the cell door. ‘The house has its own private church,’ she said. ‘I think that’s where they go. I’ve never seen it. Kroll keeps it all locked up.’

  ‘Would it have a vaulted ceiling, pillars? A tiled floor with a checkered pattern.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe. But I wanted to tell you something else. The little girl.’

  ‘Clara?’

  She nodded. ‘They’re going to kill her. Afterwards, by lethal injection.’

  He glared at her. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he asked. ‘Why wait until now?’

  ‘Because I want to get her out of there,’ she said. ‘They’ve got to be stopped. It’s gone too far.’ Her eyes were earnest, pleading, searching his. She glanced over her shoulder at the door. ‘I’m sick of this whole thing,’ she went on. Her words were a gushing whisper. ‘When he told me about the child, I had to do something. You’ve got to believe me. It was hard for me to turn you over. But I had no choice. They have a hold on me, like they have on you now. That’s what they do, they trap people and then use them.’

  Ben said nothing as he worked through it all from every angle. ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

  ‘An old military base near Ernstbrunn, north of Vienna. Kroll owns it.’

  ‘Where are they holding Clara?’

  ‘At the house.’

  ‘The von Adler house?’

  Eve gave a quick nod. ‘They’ve got rooms for her, secure and guarded.’

  ‘Tell me exactly where the place is,’ he said.

  ‘About five kilometres south of Vienna. I’ll take you there. I’m getting you out. I have a car.’

  Outside, there was the loud clang of a steel door and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed off the walls of the narrow corridor. Eve gasped. ‘It’s Glass. He’ll kill me.’

  Ben froze. There was nowhere to hide her.

  The footsteps had almost reached the cell door. They were out of time.

  ‘Kiss me,’ he said. He put his arms around her.

  Eve looked startled, then she understood. It could save them both. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew her body up close to his. Her lips were warm and soft on his mouth.

  The cell door clanged back against the wall. The tall, broad figure of Jack Glass stood silhouetted in the doorway. He laughed when he saw them. ‘My, how romantic. So the old man was right-you were fucking him this afternoon. You come back for some more?’

  ‘I had to see him,’ Eve said. ‘I love him.’ She stepped away from Ben. Glass walked into the cell, ducking his head at the entrance. He grabbed Eve’s arm and jerked her away. ‘You’re in deep shit now,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t hurt her for this,’ Ben said. ‘It’s my fault.’

  Glass sneered.

  ‘Please don’t tell Werner,’ she pleaded. ‘He’ll kill me.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Glass said. ‘And then he’ll go to work on you.’ He paused. There was a light in his eye as the possibilities began to flash up in his mind. He had her now. This was what he’d been waiting for. ‘But maybe you and I can come to an agreement,’ he said. He turned and winked at Ben.

  Ben’s eyes were on the Beretta 92 in Glass’s belt. It was only four steps away. He could break his neck before he knew what was happening. Take his pistol and use it to kill the other guards.

  It was a crude plan but it appealed to him.

  He took the first step, then the second. Eve was struggling in Glass’s arms.

  Five more guards came through the doorway. They
weren’t taking any chances and all the guns were aimed steadily at him. Suddenly the odds had shifted. He stopped and stood still.

  ‘See you later, cowboy,’ Glass said.

  Ben caught a last imploring glance from Eve as Glass dragged her out of the cell. The guards followed. The steel door clanged shut and he heard the turn of the lock. He was alone again.

  Chapter Fifty

  The von Adler mansion

  Next morning

  Clara raised her face from the pillow. Her head was still spinning and she had a horrible taste in her mouth. How long had she been sleeping? She remembered now. It hadn’t been a nightmare. She’d been screaming and banging at the door. After a few minutes, when her hands were sore, the door had opened.

  It had been the old man, the one who looked like a hawk. He was smiling, but not in a friendly way. His eyes were cold, like black pebbles. The one she’d called Franz had been there too. He wasn’t really called Franz, she knew that now. She hated him. She hoped his ear wasn’t scarred at all, but that it was the start of some awful disease that was going to spread all across his face until he had to hide himself away in a hole for the rest of his life. She remembered how he’d held her down on the bed, pinning her arms down. She’d kicked and fought but he was too strong.

  Then another man had come in. He was a doctor. Or maybe he just wore a doctor’s white coat. He had a smile on his face she didn’t like. In his hand was a little leather bag. He’d opened it and taken out a syringe. She’d wriggled and squirmed but they held her tight and she couldn’t move. Then, pain as the needle went in, and after that she couldn’t remember anything.

  Clara felt her arm. It was sore where they’d injected her. She wiped her eyes and looked around her small, bare room. There was a mess of food on the floor from where she’d upended the tray they’d brought her earlier. They’d brought her a toy, some stupid little rag doll, as though that would keep her happy. She’d flung it in the face of one of the men who’d brought her here and shut her in the room. It was still lying there near the door, untouched.

  How long had she been in here? It seemed like forever. She wanted to see her daddy. Where was he?

  She cocked her little head and listened. Was that a voice outside her door, speaking low? She knew there was always someone out there, keeping watch over her. Maybe it was Franz. Or it might be the blonde lady who checked on her from time to time. She seemed gentler than the others. She had a look about her, like she was sad or upset. Clara didn’t trust her, though, and wouldn’t speak to her.

  Sitting up straighter in the bed, she looked up at the window. It was little more than a skylight, high up in the ceiling above her. All she could see out of it were dark clouds scudding across the grey sky. This place was quiet. There was no traffic noise from outside. Still, there might be people walking past down below. If she got their attention, maybe someone would help her.

  She dragged herself off the bed. Her legs felt heavy. She only realized then that they’d changed her clothes, and that she was wearing a pair of blue pyjamas a size too large for her. Her own clothes were folded neatly on a chair. She walked slowly across the room and dragged the chair over beneath the window. She dropped the folded clothing on the floor, grasped the wooden backrest with one hand and put one foot on the chair, then the other. She wobbled as she straightened up. She reached up with one arm, as high as she could. Her straining fingers brushed the window-catch, but couldn’t get a purchase. She strained harder.

  Four hundred yards away, Ben rested his weight on the thick branch and adjusted the knurled focusing ring on the 20 × 50 Zeiss binoculars. The cold wind rocked the tree in a lazy arc. He was a long way up and hoped the groaning branch would hold.

  The palatial mansion hadn’t been very hard to find. That had been the one detail Kroll was missing-he didn’t know that Ben knew where he lived, and where they were keeping Clara. From the moment he’d been let out of the cell and provided with the things he needed for his mission, Ben had had only one plan in mind. Forget about going after Philippe Aragon. He was going to find Clara and get her out of there. Nobody had better get in his way. And once she was safe he was coming back for Kroll, Glass, the lot of them.

  But now, seeing the place for the first time, he knew that plan was impossible.

  It was a fortress. The high stone wall encircling the estate must have been several kilometres long, with towers every few hundred yards along its length and a single enormous arched gateway. On each massive gatepost was a bronze eagle. The tall iron gates were gilded and spiked. Through them he could see security guards pacing up and down by a gatehouse. A broad private road led to a huge sprawl of tiered steps and fountains and gardens and sweeping stone balustrades. The house perched majestically above it all, glittering white stone against the pinewoods and the mountains beyond. Ben scanned the towering baroque façade, picking out dozens of little skylights and garret windows. There had to be a hundred rooms in the place at least, and the girl could be in any one of them.

  Clara stood on the backrest of the chair. Wobbling precariously, she reached up as high as she could, and her little fingers closed around the catch of the window. She shoved it. It gave an inch or two with a grating of a rusty hinge. If she could open it further, maybe she could stick her head out and shout for help. She pushed again.

  The window opened a little wider. She shoved a hand through it and felt the cold wind on her fingers. Then the sudden roaring thud of helicopter blades filled her ears.

  * * *

  Ben saw the Bell 407 chopper come in to land, sleek, black, unmarked. It disappeared behind the ornate façade, coming to rest on top of the house. The undulating roofs blocked his view of the helipad and of whoever might be getting out or getting in.

  He swept the binoculars downwards and watched the rows of vehicles at the front of the house. There were more guards down there, at least fifteen men. He knew they would be armed. There was no telling how many more would be inside. He scanned the grounds. Trees and bushes provided good cover inboard of the wall, but closer to the house the terrain was open, a cleared zone that would be hard to cross unseen. By night the lawns, flower-beds and concreted areas would all be illuminated and almost certainly watched by security cameras as well as regularly patrolled.

  Ben took the Zeiss glasses away from his eyes, and the house was suddenly tiny and white in the distance. Letting the binoculars hang from his neck, he lay prone on his branch for a few minutes, thinking hard.

  He thought back to all the places he’d raided alone. He was good at what he did, and he knew it. But to go up against something this size was a suicide mission, not just for him but for the kid. It couldn’t be done. There was no use. He had no choice but to go after Philippe Aragon and give him to Kroll.

  He backed along the branch and started climbing downwards, agile and silent. He reached the ground, wiped his hands and made his way towards the road, lighting a cigarette as he walked to the nondescript grey van, shoulders hunched against the biting wind. He sighed as he opened the van door and slid into the driver’s seat. He laid the Zeiss glasses on the seat next to him, leaned back behind the wheel and finished his cigarette. Then he crushed the stub into the ashtray and twisted the ignition. The diesel rasped into life.

  It was a long drive to Brussels. He’d better get moving. But before that, he had one other stop to make.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Philippe Aragon s residence near Brussels

  That evening

  It was late, and the two private bodyguards were sitting relaxed in armchairs at opposite ends of the large open-plan main reception area. They had nothing to do but leaf through back-issues of The Economist, astronomy magazines and architecture books while their charge came and went, filled out paperwork and made phone calls.

  They weren’t complaining. Their two colleagues were out in the freezing cold patrolling the grounds, while they stayed inside the comfortable building soaking up the warmth from the solar heating syst
em. In two more hours they’d have to put on their coats and exchange places with them, and they weren’t looking forward to that.

  Philippe Aragon was feeling mentally drained after working all day. He had four major addresses to prepare, and stacks of files and reports to sift through. His PA, Adrien Lacan, had left him a whole pile of letters to check and sign, and that alone had taken up a big piece of his day. He prepared a cup of organic cocoa with a pinch of cinnamon powder, said goodnight to the two bodyguards, and headed up the spiral staircase to his private quarters at the top of the house, carrying the steaming mug.

  The electronic security system sealed him inside the reinforced door. He kicked off his shoes and slipped his feet into a pair of soft slippers, then walked through his private sitting room. Here at last he felt as though he was in his own tranquil space. He tried to forget about the armed men who were watching over him, sitting in his home and walking about his garden. The place was beginning to feel more and more like a fortress. It was mostly down to Colette’s insistence. Ever since the chalet episode she’d been edgy about safety. Maybe she was right, but it was tough living like this, looking over your shoulder all the time. He knew it was stressful for her as well, and he was glad that she’d been able to have a break and get over to Florida for her cousin’s wedding.

  He pottered around his sitting room, sipping his cocoa, feeling mentally tired but restless. He sifted through a rack of CDs and slid out the Mischa Maisky recording of Bach’s suites for solo cello. The warm, woody tones of the cello breathed through the speakers and soothed him. He sat in a soft armchair and closed his eyes, listening to the music and tapping gently with his fingers against the armrests. But Philippe wasn’t a man who could switch off his active mind that easily. He jumped up. For a moment he thought about going into his private study next door, firing up the computer and checking to see if Colette might have emailed him from the States. But he knew that once he was sitting behind the keyboard he’d only start tinkering with his speeches for next week again. It could wait till the morning.