“Well, I’ll be.”
Mike laughed. “I know; I should have thought after the day he’s had, spending an evening in the company of the DPM would be the last thing he’d have wanted.”
“Oh I don’t know, a Dvorák opera, nice company, an eight-course meal beforehand. An excellent place to discuss a few things.” Kit paused, glancing at Mike. “They share a country retreat don’t they?”
“Chevening, a mansion in Kent. The DPM also shares Dorneywood with the Chancellor.” He recalled his earlier conversation with Mr White and then the later one with Maria, Phil and Atkins.
“I believe we have a friend who visited Dorneywood recently.”
“Apparently Dorneywood is his favourite. Found it interesting, I suppose?”
“I understand he found it as much to his liking as another of my friends did one in Knightsbridge.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “I wonder what they’re saying.”
“Was wondering the same thing. Maria said it worked – the phone that is.”
“It did. Phil has apparently been listening.” He looked again over his shoulder and lowered his voice further. “However, between you and me, I don’t think now is really the time or the place to ask him any questions.”
They both heard Phil’s voice in their earpieces. “Nothing important. Apparently Mrs Pickering has been forced to make an unscheduled pit stop.”
Mike grimaced, Kit laughed.
“You know, I was wondering who the final seat was for. It would be unlike a man of his stature to arrive stag at a place like this.” Kit leaned closer to Mike, peering again through the lenses. “Hope the poor dear is okay. After all, I’d hate for her to miss the beginning.”
The voice in their ears said, “The Deputy PM just said exactly the same thing.”
“A man after my own heart.”
“They have rather strict rules here apparently,” Mike said. “If you happen to arrive late you can’t enter until the interval.”
“You’re quite sure?” Kit asked.
“No. But it’s what I’ve heard.”
He looked at Mike and raised his voice. “So tell me, Michael, what motivated you to come here tonight?”
Mike grinned. “Does a man need a reason for indulging in some culture after a tough day at work?”
“Absolutely not. So have you been to the opera before?”
“Twice. We took my mother on Mother’s Day once. Carmen.”
“How lovely.”
“Other than that, just musicals.”
“Sound of Music? Mary Poppins?”
“Blood Brothers.”
“Well shag the vicar,” Kit said, quoting a line from the production that Mike instantly remembered. “I remember studying the tale of the Johnstone twins at Harrow.”
“And I at secondary school. So what about you, Kitford? I hear attending the theatre is almost compulsory at Harrow.”
“Yes, along with fagging.”
“The cause of it, I heard.”
Kit looked at Mike, suddenly annoyed. He held his tongue and looked again at Box 63. The Deputy PM had his eyes focused on the stage; alongside him, his wife did the same through elaborate opera glasses. The Foreign Secretary sat in the row behind with his arms folded, a broad smile on his face. Mrs Pickering was still absent.
A bad case of mussels, apparently.
Kit reached beneath the seat. He’d bought a programme on the way in, which Mike was still to see. “I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the story?”
“The Little Mermaid – more or less anyway.”
“You’ve seen it before?”
“Not personally, but I know it’s the only one of his operas regularly staged outside the Czech Republic.”
Kit laughed. “However are you still single?”
“You never fancied taking Sharon – or Maria for that matter?”
The main lights went down and a gasp came up from the crowd. As the 2,200-seater auditorium became enclosed in darkness, the guide lights from the nearby aisles formed a sole romantic white glow around the outer rim as the stage became engulfed in light.
Kit changed the setting on the lenses to night vision. The wavy green backlight cut perfectly through the darkness, revealing the shapes of the three guests in Box 63.
“One day maybe. However, I suspect tonight is unlikely to afford me the opportunity to enjoy the performance.”
Mike took the glasses from Kit and reverted his gaze to the box. “No, I think you may have a point.”
*
In one of the public toilets on the grand tier, the wife of Richard Pickering heard a roar from inside the venue. According to her watch, the time was seven-thirty exactly.
As usual, the opera was starting on time.
The toilets were deserted; even with the door closed, she could sense the solitude. In the quiet surroundings, the sound of her mobile phone bleeping the arrival of an incoming text message seemed louder than usual, causing her heart to palpitate. Adjusting her dress as she sat on the closed lid, she read the message.
Starting now. Hope your stomach’s okay.
Of all the ideas her husband had ever come up with, this was easily her least favourite. Of all the operas she had to attend, and miss with a fake stomach complaint, it had to be Rusalka. Even before they’d got married, she’d always been partial to opera. And Dvorák. Still, she wasn’t going to let him off that easy, she’d decided. He’d promised to take her to see it in Prague to make it up to her.
Replying simply, I’ll be out in five minutes, she sent the text and deleted the delivery report. The plan had been discussed in detail. Five minutes meant twenty, out meant out of the building. That gave her twenty minutes to wait.
With nothing to do but pretend to have a bad stomach.
*
The Deputy PM felt another light tap on his shoulder. “Rachel is feeling better. She’ll be with us in a few minutes.”
Hughes smiled and immediately returned his attention to the stage. A second round of applause went up as the curtains opened.
Forgetting about his colleague’s absent wife, he folded his arms and relaxed deeper into his chair.
*
On the opposite side of the auditorium on the ground floor, the cellist was enjoying a perfect view. His opera glasses, despite their antique appearance, were capable of much, even if they weren’t the most powerful or sophisticated in the room.
As the minute hand of his watch struck six, the smaller hand pointing midway between seven and eight, the main lights extinguished suddenly. While the majority of the guests focused on the stage, he glanced up and to his right at Box 63. The four-seat box on the first tier, empty just five minutes earlier, was now three-quarters occupied. Even from a distance he recognised the faces. Each was a celebrity in their own right, though some more so than others.
Through the night-vision scope, he made out the figure of the Deputy PM; he could tell from the man’s lazy posture he’d enjoyed his meal and was in no hurry to leave his seat any time soon. Sitting alongside him, his wife was altogether more rigid and focused, her opera glasses fixed on the stage.
Behind him, the Foreign Secretary checked his watch before glancing across the auditorium, uncannily in his direction. He couldn’t decide if the Foreign Secretary could make him out or whether it was simply a coincidence.
Seconds later he saw the man look down at his lap and, almost immediately, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Casually, he removed it and scanned the message.
The message was from him, the words more or less as expected. He replied ‘Yes’, looked across the theatre and nodded. Through his opera glasses, he saw the Foreign Secretary was once again focused on his phone. Then he looked in his direction, nodded and folded his arms.
19:31.
Leaving just fourteen minutes.
10
The opera had been in full swing for almost ten minutes. The music was loud, the stage colourful, the story proceeding
at speed. What was happening, Mike had no idea. Even if he had been paying attention, he didn’t understand a word of Czech.
During that time, Phil’s voice had come through twice in his ear. Hughes and Pickering had bantered briefly about Mrs Pickering’s digestive system, though they’d remained quiet since the singing started. Mike had hogged the eyepieces, his attention alternating between the stage and Box 63. There was still no sign of Mrs Pickering; nor, as far as he could tell, was anybody moving their lips.
He guessed little would change until the interval.
Kit spoke in his ear, “Right, down to business. What can you see?”
Mike took a further look through the lenses. The Deputy PM and his wife remained engrossed in the production, whereas the Foreign Secretary appeared to be concentrating on his phone.
He passed Kit the glasses. “I think one of the guests must have something else on his mind.”
Kit adjusted the settings. In addition to the night-vision and infrared settings there was also one labelled X. Using it for the first time, he saw various objects highlighted in a range of colour; X clearly stood for X-ray. “Well, uneventful though it may be, at least we know the gimmicks work.”
“I’m surprised that boy never got picked up by NASA.”
“Still time, Michael. You know, during his thinner days he spent some time at MIT.”
“Really?”
“Indeed. Then later as an intern at Silicon Valley, so you never know. He’s the kind of chap people at Cape Canaveral go for.”
“Not to mention, the FSB.”
Kit laughed. “Either way, be a shame to lose him.”
“Certainly would. You did say you’ve been here before?”
“Yes, my Sharon has always been rather partial to a bit of culture.”
“How easy is it to get to the boxes?”
“Difficult. There’s staff everywhere, particularly along the aisles and on the stairs. They don’t like it when you move during a performance. Different during the interval.”
Mike expected as much. He remembered what Maria had told him. Her job was only to get them in. The rest was up to them.
“You think we should stay here?”
“You have a better idea?” Kit looked around. “I suppose we could always climb up to the balcony.”
Mike grinned. “You volunteering? Sadly, I’ve never been blessed with great grip.”
“No, I think that sort of thing is best left to Bear Grylls. Our orders were to keep watch. For now, that shouldn’t be too difficult.”
*
The Foreign Secretary felt a further vibration in his pocket. Removing his phone, he read the latest message in his inbox and leaned forward close to the seat in front of him.
“I’m just going to check on Rachel.”
The Deputy PM smiled and waved him away.
*
Mike saw movement at the back of the box. “He’s moving,” he whispered to Kit.
“Who?”
“Pickering. His wife is still absent.”
“How about the others?”
“Still engrossed by the magic.” Through the night-vision setting, he saw the bearded Deputy Prime Minister barely acknowledge his fellow cabinet minister as the Foreign Secretary rose to his feet. What he saw next surprised him.
“Hello?”
Kit was intrigued. “What?”
“Seems our friend here was looking at someone across the theatre.” Mike scanned the stalls circle, the inclined area of seating to the left of the floor seating. A man was leaving a seat three rows back, two blocks from the orchestra pit. Mike zoomed in and saw the man attempting to pass four well-dressed people who separated him from the nearest exit.
“Where?” Kit whispered. “Show me.”
“Here.” Mike passed over the opera glasses. “Guy with the beard. Third row at the back.”
Kit focused on the area Mike had described. Only one person was standing in that section; sure enough the man was bearded and dressed in a smart tuxedo, complemented by a bow tie. He’d made it to one seat from the end, apologising and smiling politely at the visitors as he passed.
“You’re quite certain they were looking at each other?”
Knowing for certain was impossible. “I saw Pickering nodding in his direction.” He retrieved the opera glasses and focused on the empty seat the Foreign Secretary had recently vacated. “You never know. Maybe they’re preparing to meet.”
“In that case, I think one of us better check it out. Better safe than sorry, and all that. You stay here and listen in.”
Mike nodded and put his finger to his ear, while Kit casually left his seat and made his way swiftly to his left.
“My apologies,” Mike overheard him say twice in succession before leaving Row T and heading for an exit to the rear of the stalls. Gazing through the powerful lenses, he saw the man with the beard depart along an aisle located in between two blocks of tiered seating.
Mike guessed the exits all led to the same concourse area.
*
Kit turned right on leaving the auditorium and took a moment to familiarise himself with his surroundings. The concourse was in keeping with what he’d seen of the lobby, a stylish combination of red carpet complemented by dark brown wooden walls intercepted at regular intervals by cosy yellow wall lights.
The concourse was largely deserted. A well-dressed usher nodded and smiled at him as he passed, while a bald-headed punter wearing a red bow tie and a smart tuxedo followed him through the exit and headed straight for the gents. He remembered from his research, it was on this side the opera house adjoined the Paul Hamlyn Hall, the stunning glass structure that had been reinvented from a dilapidated floral hall to a champagne bar and restaurant.
The area was presently closed and deserted.
The man with the beard emerged to the right, walking confidently in his direction. Kit got out his phone as the stranger passed, successfully avoiding eye contact.
He’d timed the move perfectly. A split second is a long time, particularly if you’re a trained operative. The man was about five feet eight in height, possibly of French descent and he estimated fourteen and a half stone in weight. Kit detected a strong smell of scent from the man’s neck; he recognised it immediately as Bleu de Chanel, a personal favourite. It was in keeping with the man’s smart appearance, but not with his character, Kit felt. The beard, though nicely in trim, was capable of hiding the odd scar or mole, while indents into the bridge of his nose suggested recent wearing of spectacles or sunglasses.
As the man disappeared from view after making his way around the curvature of the concourse, Kit turned and followed after him. He saw the man again as he approached the doors to the lobby, apparently admiring the architecture as he walked. Kit recognised the area from their earlier entry, the grand façade of the Bow Street entrance largely hidden by the ceiling of the 19th century foyer. Rather than heading for it, the man instead strolled towards the Pit Lobby and passed the grand staircase.
*
The cellist had seen the Foreign Secretary’s nod. Even without the aid of his powerful opera glasses, the gesture had been clearly visible. Within seconds, a new text message came through, the subtle vibration evident against his right thigh.
Even to the nearest second, everything was on schedule.
The Foreign Secretary appeared along the corridor in front of him, instantly recognisable.
“I trust Mrs Pickering will make a speedy recovery?” the cellist said as their stride patterns overlapped. “It would be a great tragedy should she miss this superb event.”
“A gentleman must never get in the way of a woman and a good meal, Everard.” He steered the cellist away from the lobby doors, checking they were not being observed. “I trust everything is set.”
“I trust you left your jacket in the place we had previously agreed?”
The Foreign Secretary was clearly wearing his jacket. “I took the liberty of leaving the liquid beneath the seat. I
think it’s highly unlikely it will cause any suspicion.”
“The boss has never been known for tolerating alterations to his plans.”
“Well on this occasion, your boss is going to have to make do. If any remains were to be found in the pocket, I stand to personally incriminate myself. Besides, you don’t throw away things from Savile Row without good reason.”
The cellist was unimpressed. “I can think of no worse reason than to compromise something so delicate over something so unnecessary.”
The Foreign Secretary’s face reddened. “Well that’s hardly your concern is it? I mean, it’s all right for the rest of you. You don’t have the world and his wife lying in wait for your latest slip up. Your every breath scrutinised.”
“I trust the Prime Minister was satisfied by the events of the day?”
Pickering checked his watch, stern faced. “Eight minutes. Long enough for me to get comfortable on the john. I don’t expect to see or hear from you ever again. Is that clear?”
“May I say it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, sir.”
*
Kit kept his distance. His view was good enough to see that a conversation was underway, but he was too far away to be able to listen in. Staying on the left side of the concourse and with his back to one of the walls, he spoke into his mouthpiece.
“Mike, can you hear me?”
A mumbled reply confirmed he had.
“Seems congratulations are in order. You were right, after all. The Foreign Secretary and the creature from the black lagoon are having a conversation just off the Pit Lobby as we speak.”
*
Back in row T, Mike whispered into his hand, “Any idea what about?”
“No. I’m too far away. How’s his right honourable friend?”
Mike checked Box 63 through his opera glasses. “Pickering’s wife’s still absent. The others haven’t moved.”
*
Kit smiled at a smartly dressed woman as she passed him by, heading for the toilets. He held his phone to his ear as a diversion.
The Bordeaux Connection Page 8