When the operative from the Syrian consulate stepped inside, the trap closed.
Suddenly a woman's voice raged, "You'll never beat us!"
Jana Grover was staring at him as she was being slipped into a squad car.
"You'll never win!"
Seems like we just did, Middleton thought, but didn't reply.
Barrett-Bone asked, "You'll want to interrogate her, I assume. I can arrange it."
The American glanced at his watch. Barrett-Bone, the spy with Patek Philippe taste, couldn't help a faint frown of pity as he noticed the Timex.
Middleton laughed at his reaction. "Later. I have plans at the moment." Then he frowned. "But maybe there is something you can do for me, Ian."
"Whatever it might be, my friend, name it."
The houselights dimmed.
The concert hall audience slowly fell silent.
But the curtain didn't rise. And a moment later the lights rose and a voice came over the P.A. system. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention please. The management regrets to inform you that there will be a short delay. The concert will begin in fifteen minutes."
Felicia Kaminski, standing in the wings, sighed. She hadn't fully recovered from the kidnapping, the injuries, the psychological horror. Nor from the loss of her beloved Bela Szepessy violin (she now clutched a functional but uninspiring instrument borrowed from a musician with the London Symphony).
Besides she was lonely. She hadn't seen Harold Middleton since he'd returned to London to arrest the woman who'd kidnapped Felicia. She hadn't seen Nora Tesla or Charley either.
Felicia knew she needed one hundred fifty percent concentration to give a concert of this sort. Yet, under these circumstances, she wasn't anywhere close. And now this nonsense with the delayed start, made matters worse.
The concert, she knew, would be a disaster.
What was the delay? she wondered, despairing.
The answer came in the form of a low American voice behind her.
"Hello."
Felicia turned. She gasped to see Harold Middleton. She set her instrument down and ran to hug him.
"I heard you were all right. But I was so worried."
Eyes tearing, she regarded cuts and bruises.
"I'm fine," he said, laughing. He looked her over too. "You seem all right."
She shrugged.
"You know," Middleton continued, "we have one thing more in common now."
"What is that, Harold?"
"We've both been kidnapped. And escaped."
Then she stepped away and dried her eyes. "You are, I suppose, responsible for the delayed start?"
He smiled. "You deduced that."
She nodded.
"Well, there is a security problem."
"No! What?" She looked out into the crowded hall.
"Not to them," he said. "A risk to your heart."
"What do you mean?"
"You lost your Bela Szepessy at my flat. I'm responsible."
"Harold, please . . . "
"You could play on a child's toy and make angels weep. But I thought you should have an instrument worthy of your talent. I've borrowed one for you to use until your Bela is repaired. I asked the management for a delay to let you get used to it."
He handed her a package. She opened it up. And gasped.
"It's not . . . oh, my God!" She was holding a violin made by Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesu--the same instrument she'd been listening to in Harold's flat, when she was kidnapped. Only three hundred or so still exist throughout the world, half the number of those made by the famed Stradivarius. You couldn't find a Guarneri for under a million dollars.
Playing an instrument like this just once--a dream of all violinists.
"How, Harold? They're impossible even to find."
"I made a new friend in the course of the case. A civil servant, believe it or not, but he leads a rather posh life, to use one of his words. He made a few phone calls . . . My only request is that you don't brain any kidnappers with it."
"What is 'brain'? Oh, you mean, hit anyone with it?"
"Yes."
"I'll only use cricket bats for that from now on, Harold."
"So, go tune up or do whatever you have to do. The audience is getting restless."
Felicia held the fragrant wood in her hands, light as a bird. "Oh, Harold." She took the bow from the case and tightened the horsehair strands and plucked the keys, which she found perfectly tuned and at concert pitch.
She turned to thank him again.
But he was gone.
After ten minutes of practice, she was aware of the houselights dimming again. The orchestra walked on stage and then the conductor. Finally Felicia, the soloist, entered to even louder applause.
She bowed to the audience and then to the conductor and the other players and took her place stage left.
The conductor tapped his baton, leaned forward and the concerto began. As she counted the measures, waiting for her cue, Felicia surveyed the hall.
Finally she saw them, two dozen rows back. Charley, Harold, and Nora Tesla, whose hand he was holding. She gave Harold a slight smile and, despite the spotlight in her eyes, she believed he smiled back.
Then the orchestra's part grew softer, signaling the approach of hers. She lifted the priceless instrument to her chin.
At a glance from the conductor, Felicia closed her eyes and began to play, abandoning herself completely to the music, which flowed over the audience like a gentle tide.
Copyright (c) 2009 by International Thriller Writers, Inc.
Published by Vanguard Press
A Member of the Perseus Books Group
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information and inquiries, address Vanguard Press, 387 Park Avenue South, 12th Floor, New York, NY 10016, or call (800) 343-4499.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Watchlist : a serial thriller / based on an idea by Jeffery Deaver.
p. cm.
"Linda Barnes, Brett Battles, Lee Child, David Corbett, Jeffery Deaver, Joseph Finder, Jim Fusilli, John Gilstrap, James Grady, David Hewson, Jon Land, David Liss, Gayle Lynds, John Ramsey Miller, P. J. Parrish, Ralph Pezzullo, James Phelan, S. J. Rozan, Lisa Scottoline, Jenny Siler, Peter Spiegelman, Erica Spindler."
eISBN : 978-1-59315619-0
I. Deaver, Jeffery.
PS3600.A1W37 2010
813'.6--dc22
2009038746
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