The Lost Concerto

by Helaine Mario

  “Lapin.”

  “Dane? Where are you?”

  “Paris. I want you to go to Ménerbes. I should be there before dawn.”

  Silence. Then, “Tonight? Please, you know I can’t—”

  “I want you, Lapin. In the bedroom, waiting for me.”

  Once more he touched the gash above his eye and thought of Magdalena O’Shea. The boyish body, the silky nightgown. The feel of her under his fingers.

  “Wear the red silk, Lapin. And the stockings.”

  “No, Dane. I won’t be there.”

  “Yes,” he told her. “You will. You don’t have a choice.” He clicked off his phone and walked out into the bright square.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  WASHINGTON, D.C. FIVE P.M., JULY 7

  The dark bar at the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue thrummed with the voices and secrets of Washington’s pre-dinner crowd.

  In the corner near the fireplace, the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations sat hunched in the shadows like a vulture waiting for its next victim. Alone on the deep-cushioned sofa, he drank one hundred-year-old brandy and watched the shifting faces from beneath his hooded eyes. The silver wheelchair was folded on the carpet beside him.

  He raised his hand in greeting but turned away to discourage conversation. Two senators, several congressmen and one congresswoman, a high-profile judge, White House aides all dressed alike in the blue blazer uniform, a few would-be Woodwards from the Post. All trying to save the world. Or sniff out its secrets.

  And the biggest secret of all was right under their clueless collective noses…

  He glanced at the Post reporter who’d broken the story of the attack near the French bistro where the Secretary of State was holding his meeting. You missed your Pulitzer by not digging deeper.

  Orsini had struck again. The Secretary was safe—no great cause for celebration there—but a group of Japanese tourists by the fountain had not been so lucky. And that damaging leak of the name of the CIA’s Paris Chief of Station—damn Orsini for firing one more shot across the CIA’s bow.

  And then there was the murder at the Kennedy Center Opera House.

  Victor Orsini was becoming a huge problem, a rogue elephant in the circus. The Admiral smiled grimly at the metaphor and scraped a hand across his jaw. His leathery palm made a whispery sound against his whiskers.

  He had to have the names in that journal Sofia Orsini had hidden. Then he could take aim and destroy the rogue.

  It had to be all over by his granddaughter’s wedding day.

  His hand shook as he drained the last inch of brandy. Fire ignited in his stomach, but he ignored the pain and signaled for another. The whole damned operation hinged on an innocent concert pianist who was no bigger than a minute. Hunched in the shadows of the fire-lit bar, the Admiral knew, suddenly, what he had to do.

  A full brandy snifter was placed in front of him. He drank slowly, moving the chess pieces carefully in his head. Then he nodded and punched a number into his cell phone.

  * * *

  Several thousand miles to the East, in Southern France, it was almost one a.m.

  In the darkened bedroom, Victor Orsini was still awake, pacing.

  The bombing in Paris had gone successfully. Worth the money he’d spent, one more move in his intricate game of chess. It would not be long now. He pictured the Admiral’s face and smiled.

  Victor slipped a CD into the Bose player, and the notes of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D spilled into the room. He heard the violin enter in its lowest register, and waited for the storm. His sister had always insisted that the fiendishly difficult solo was “un-violinistic.”

  But she had managed it.

  He resumed his pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Now the brilliant cadenza, the intensity, building to the great dash in double time for the finale. He turned up the volume and the huge notes tumbled like roaring thunder into the room. People who spent so much time alone always filled the silence with music.

  The lighted glass case in the corner of the bedroom drew him closer. Two rare music manuscripts rested on a deep blue velvet background. Pages from an authenticated Paganini Concerto that had been lost for three hundred years, and an original score of a Piano Concerto by Bach. His eyes moved to the third space, in the center of the case. Empty now. He stared down at the blue velvet lining. Months earlier, it had held his most important possession. A musical score, very old. Stained, marked. Signed. A violin concerto that had never been played. A concerto lost for centuries. Meant for his sister...

  But his wife had stolen it. He turned away with an oath. Spiteful bitch. She had taken the concerto to hurt him. What had she done with it? Did you send it to your closest friend, Sofia? Did you send it to Magdalena O’Shea?

  And that was not all Sofia had stolen. He glanced back at the darkly-glowing Rubens on the far wall. Behind it, his wall safe—found almost empty after Sofia disappeared. Did she know the value of what she had taken? The damage that the information in his journal could do?

  Just beyond the case, on a small table deep in shadow, lay the del Gesù violin and bow. One of only two hundred del Gesù violins still remaining, the instrument was as beautiful and curved as a woman. He still could see a pale, narrow hand on the bow, still hear the notes that fell into the air like a silver river of sound…

  That del Gesu was meant for you, il mio amore. He closed his eyes as the old pain, never far away, sliced sharply into him once more. Don’t think of that night. Don’t think of her.

  He turned, forced his eyes to rest on the small, exquisite Monet on the far wall. One of the artist’s studies of The Street at Argenteuil. A village street, bare tree limbs, huge flakes of swirling white snow. The image triggered a long forgotten memory, and he closed his eyes and let himself fall. It was 1985, the year that changed everything. He was in a small office in DC. It was snowing.

  * * *

  He stood by a bare desk looking out the one narrow window. Outside, on K Street, the snow swirled wildly. The calendar on the gray wall behind him, with its photograph of the Lincoln Memorial, showed the month of February, 1985. The newspapers were calling it “The Year of the Spy.” Revelations of John Walker, Ronald Pelton, Edward Howard.

  Washington was tense during the last days of CIA director William Casey. Orsini was deeply involved in Veil, the code name for the covert action compartment in the Reagan administration. Iran-Contra, Middle East assassination attempts, behind-the-scenes election upheavals in Europe, paramilitary worldwide operations. Secrets hidden under a veil. The list was endless.

  Orsini paced back and forth in the small office, waiting to meet the new hotshot assistant deputy who would be taking over several of the Veil operations. The man rumored to be an aggressive operative, known only as The Admiral, who would push to expand the “off the shelf, secret runaway missions” that ran deep in the CIA bloodstream. What did The Admiral want with him?

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Outside, the snow whirled through the barren branches, turning everything to white. Like a veil.

  Behind him, the door opened. Orsini turned. A man of perhaps forty entered, tall but stooped, with prematurely white, long hair secured at the nape of his neck and heavily hooded eyes.

  “Orsini.” The voice was deep, raspy as wet sand scraping over rocks.

  “Admiral. What can I do for you?”

  I want to meet your sister.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  SOUTH OF PARIS. ONE A.M., JULY 8

  Beckett drove well, but very fast. Already the black Fiat was two hundred miles south of Paris. The air was deep blue with the memory of twilight. The dog was asleep, twitching and occasionally whining in the rear seat. Nightmares.

  I get it, Dog.

  He glanced once again in his mirror—the headlights were still there, half a mile back—then down at the woman by his side. Her eyes were closed, the lashes dark fans against skin that was bruised and pale as bon
e. The long slim legs were drawn up beneath her in an innocent, vulnerable way. But tonight the words on her t-shirt carried a stark challenge. Don’t Shoot the Piano Player.

  Right, this was all about music. But it placed the beautiful pianist next to him at the very center of the storm. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if it had been someone’s plan all along to get her to Provence.

  Damn it all. Why couldn’t he shake the image of Maggie O’Shea on the rooftop of Notre Dame, those bright eyes blazing with defiance, caught against the glimmering sky.

  He accelerated into the next curve.

  * * *

  Maggie was awake. She couldn’t get the wolf-like face out of her mind. Couldn’t stop the chilling voice from echoing in her head.

  I’ll tie your hands behind your back and touch you the way you need to be touched.

  The Fiat swerved, braked, and her eyes shot open. Beckett had pulled the car off the road, into the shelter of a dark stand of fir trees. Out on the highway, headlamps speared the darkness, probed, moved on.

  The Golden started, jumped to his feet, and thrust his head into the front seat between them. Maggie smiled as Beckett offered him a treat, then tossed an orange at her. “Dinner is served, ma’am.”

  She searched in her purse, found the small red army knife she’d taken from her checked luggage, and began to peel the fruit. “My son gave this to me when he was an Eagle Scout,” she murmured, waving the shiny blade at him as she handed him a slice of orange. And then, “Don’t you think it’s time you tell me what’s been worrying you since we left Paris?”

  The first rays of moonlight slanted through the high pines in bars of soft, cloudy light. He glanced at the dog, opened the door. “Break time. Don’t go far.”

  The Golden jumped awkwardly from the car and loped for the trees.

  “Damned dog doesn’t know he has only three legs.” Then Beckett looked down at her. “You’re right, Mrs. O’Shea. There is something you need to know.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “The monster who attacked you today. Sugar and I think he’s a professional killer. And the same man who hurt your friend Luze Jacobs.”

  “Luze,” whispered Maggie, “was hurt because of the photograph I saw?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God!” Her eyes flew to his, her voice urgent with new fear. “Brian?”

  “Your son is fine. I swear it.”

  “You’re certain?” She gripped his arm so tightly that her fingers turned white. “Colonel, if anything happens to my son…I couldn’t bear it.”

  “He’s safe, ma’am. I’ve had two men on the Cape since the attack.”

  She searched his face and saw something she needed to see. “But, that man today. He had me. He could have—”

  “You’re too useful running free,” he told her. “And he may think you have something he wants.” He waited.

  “If I do have something, I don’t know it.” Her head came up sharply. “But as long as I stay here in France, that blond monster will stay here, too. Brian and his family will be safe.”

  Beckett stared at her. “You’re making yourself the bait. He’ll come after you.”

  “Isn’t that what you really want?”

  He looked at her as if he’d been punched. Without speaking, he whistled to the dog and turned on the engine. In moments they were driving south once more into the gathering darkness.

  * * *

  The Jaguar gleamed like liquid mercury in the moonlight.

  Dane downshifted as he headed into the long curve that edged a dark copse of pines. Once more his eyes left the road to scan the dark countryside. His Juliet was on her way to Aix. He would find her there. And bring her to Victor.

  When he was ready.

  His foot pressed down on the accelerator. Soon he would reach Ménerbes, where another woman waited for him.

  “One fire burns out another’s burning,” he murmured.

  * * *

  The music came from the grand piano on the edge of the beach. The night was black, flickering with rain. A ringing phone. Roaring waves. A pale hand breaking the water…

  The Fiat swerved and Maggie jolted awake. Indigo shadows concealed the face of the man beside her. Large hands shifted on the steering wheel.

  Johnny? Is that you?

  Fine hairs on his knuckles glinted silver in the shadows and brought her wrenchingly back to the present. Strong scarred fingers. No wedding band.

  Not Johnny. God, she hadn’t thought of her husband once since—when?

  Only silence in the dark Fiat. She moved restlessly.

  “Having trouble sleeping, Mrs. O’Shea?”

  “Your hands,” she said simply. “I was dreaming. I saw your hands move in the shadows, and for a moment I thought…” She turned away. “I know my husband is dead. The moment I open my eyes each morning, it hits me. He’s gone.”

  “And you grieve all over again.”

  “Yes. Every damn morning, it’s a stunning new loss. Why am I alone in this bed? And then I remember.”

  “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,” he quoted.

  Her breath caught. “Whose words are those?”

  “Gerard Manley Hopkins.”

  She nodded. “He understood. I glimpse Johnny’s face in a crowded room, smell his cologne, hear his voice behind me. I dream that he’s with me in the night, and reach for him…”

  “You must have loved your husband very much.”

  “I still do, Colonel.”

  “In Iraq,” he said, “I would dream of home.” His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then back. “Those blue Virginia hills, an old hound dog named Red, fishing on a summer mornin’, peaches big as fists piled on the grass…”

  His easy drawl was soothing, the big hands strong and steady on the wheel. In the shadowed intimacy of the car Maggie was very aware of the man beside her. Dark antagonist—and gentle protector. Suddenly she wanted very much to tell him about the nightmares. Wanted him to take her in his arms and hold her so tightly that the dreams couldn’t touch her.

  I’ve got you, he’d said.

  He made her feel safe.

  She pulled her eyes away from his hands, cracked the window, and drew a deep breath. The air smelled of grapevines and wood smoke.

  “I was never able to cry after my husband died,” she said into the silence. “I’m full of unshed tears. Choking with them. But I can’t cry.”

  “Numb,” he murmured. “I know what it feels like to lose your way—and to not be real interested in finding it again.”

  She stared at him as if he’d just read her mind.

  “But you’ve got to learn to live with loss. Because the ghosts will come no matter what.” Beckett’s gaze fixed on the Golden and he stopped speaking.

  “I should have known Johnny was dead,” she said. “You would think you would just know, when you love someone so much, that exact moment they draw their last breath.”

  “When you’re ready, Mrs. O’Shea, you’ll cry. Then, very slowly, you’ll stop crying.” He reached out as if to touch her. “Love runs deeper than grief.”

  “I don’t know who I am without my music,” she said bleakly. “I don’t know who I am without my husband.”

  “Ready or not, one of these days life will come roaring back. You won’t forget your husband. Those ghosts, they’re a determined lot.” The glimmer of a smile. “You’ve got to remember, it’s not about death. It’s about piecing your life back together after the unthinkable happens. You will move on. You will heal. You will play the piano again. And you will learn to love again.”

  She watched him shift down for a curve, then keep his hand on the seat between them. There was a disturbing sense of intimacy in the dark car. The air electric. His hand, so close to hers. She could almost feel the sparks leaping off his skin.

  Johnny, I need you tonight. Where are you?

  * * *

  The crush of her pain hit him hard, and he turned
to her. He flexed his fingers, so close to hers, and sighed with frustration. This physical attraction to Maggie O’Shea was so unexpected, so…disconcerting. Beckett looked down at her in the darkness and felt the faint, unfamiliar stirring of his heart.

  It was the very last thing he wanted.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  SOUTH OF FRANCE. DAWN, JULY 8

  Hidden by dense pines, the stone house on the hillside could not be seen from the Provençal village of Ménerbes.

  A young woman stood by the open window, waiting for the dawn. The fire was in embers. Next to the silk-covered bed, candles guttered in a pair of candlesticks made of a stag’s horns. A gilt-edged mirror reflected the flickering flames, the waiting bed, and the portrait over the fireplace, an oil of a woman in a golden gown whose hair glowed with black fire.

  Somewhere out in the darkness a night bird sang a last song before the sunrise, but the young woman found no beauty in the sound.

  She hated this room and the degrading, painful things he did to her here. The last time she had spat in his face and, in her rage, sworn to kill him. Her fury had only excited him. He had hurt her.

  And yet she returned, again and again, when he called. Because he knew her secrets. Because he could take away the one thing she loved.

  Behind her a door opened and closed softly. “Dane,” she whispered.

  Still she did not turn around. She heard his duffel bag drop to the floor, ice against crystal, the sound of pouring liquid, then his footsteps, coming closer.

  A hand brushed the feathery hair on her neck. She felt the soft mustache rub against her skin.

  “You’re not wearing the scarlet nightgown, Lapin.” Dane stood behind her, his chest pressed to her shoulder blades. His voice was as smooth as the silk of her shirt.

  She looked down at her blouse and trousers. “I can’t stay. Gideon wakes up so early…”

  “Tell him you went for a sunrise walk.” He laid long fingers lightly on her arm. Slowly, he rubbed them back and forth on her skin. Their intricate, sexual dance had begun.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she said.