“Anne.” He had read her thoughts. “You’ve got to make it. I can’t leave you. But I’d have to.”
He was right. There was still a slim chance of saving the opera house. And she had no breath to waste on speech. Struggling to keep her icy limbs at work, she was aware of him treading water to look ahead. Then, he was beside her again, urging her towards the left bank of the stream, holding her against it. “Lights,” he whispered. “At the bridge. Checking cars, I think. Here, too. God knows how we’ll get by. The river’s as light as day there. Anne, my darling, I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she said. “We did try.” And then, “Dear God!”
Midnight. The end of the world. Thunder and lightning. Screams from the valley above them. Chaos is come again. In the sudden, blinding flash of the explosion, Anne could see the guards on the bridge, heads turned in amazement towards the head of the valley. Even the water seemed to shake around them, where they clung to the bank.
“Now,” said Michael. “It’s our chance. Now! I love you, Anne.”
As they moved out into the middle of the stream, Anne felt the water roughen. How long before debris from the explosion started to come down? She had thought she was too exhausted, too cold, to swim another stroke; and yet found herself striking out strongly at Michael’s side. The bridge loomed ahead, dark and low over the water. Lights flashed above; she must keep her head down, for fear that her white face betray her. They were under the main span of the bridge, safe for the moment, then out into the air below the bridge. Don’t turn round. No shouts. No shots. She was still swimming, but only just. She missed a breath, swallowed water, felt herself struggling, began to sink.
“I’ve got you.” Hands firm round her ears, holding her. “Don’t struggle.”
But not to struggle was to die of cold. She had not imagined cold like this. I am being refrigerated, she thought. I am in the deep freeze. I shall die … I am death …
Something was happening. Voices, not just Michael’s. Capture after all? She was plucked out of the water. Exclamations. Something warm around her. Hands. Friendly hands, surely? A boat, a small, unsteady boat. She was among knees. “Hoped you might turn up this way,” said a voice.
“Hans!” exclaimed Anne, and fainted at last.
Warmth. Why had she never understood the sybaritic delight of just being warm? “Quite a girl.” A voice she knew. Hands—clever, familiar hands—studied the bump at the back of her head.
She was lying on her side. With an enormous effort she opened her eyes and saw a familiar pair of dark, well-creased trousers, a gold watch-chain. “Dr Hirsch,” she said.
“My favourite patient.” His voice was warm. “I’m proud of you, Anne. Move a little for me, would you. Just to set an old man’s heart at rest.”
“You’re not old.” With a great effort, she moved her head, just a little. “It hurts.”
“Well, of course. Cold water’s recommended for concussion, but only in moderation. Now, the rest of you, there’s a good girl. Right hand? Good.” She had managed the slightest possible clenching of the fingers. “Left hand? Yes. Right foot?”
“It doesn’t seem to be there,” said Anne.
“Don’t worry. You were cold. More hot water bottles, Lisel, and another blanket, please.”
“Lisel? I’m at the hostel?”
“No, ma’am. We’ve got you safe in Lissenberg, where you belong.”
Belong? “Michael?” she asked.
“No need to fret about him. Very tough young man, our Michael. He’s out seeing to things.”
“Oh.” Forlorn not to have found him at her bedside. “Things?”
“All kinds. But not till you’re better.”
“I am better.” With an immense effort she pulled herself up on her elbows, dragging her non-existent feet with her.
“Good girl.” Dr Hirsch had been ready with a pillow for her head. “And here’s Lisel with the hot water bottles. And your breakfast—lunch. You must be famished. Don’t fret about those feet of yours. It’s the shock, of course, and the cold.”
“Cold!” She dipped bread in hot soup and thought it the best food she had ever tasted. “I thought I was dying of it. But, Dr Hirsch, I have to know.” Her mind was seething with questions. “The explosion; the opera house. The opera?”
“Cancelled, I’m afraid. The opera house is—just gone. They thought of using the rehearsal room, as a kind of makeshift, but with you gone missing, and the damage from the floods …”
“Someone really didn’t mean that opera to happen,” she said sadly.
“But it did,” he told her. “Don’t forget that stupendous preview of yours. When you’re a little better, you shall see the newspaper reports …”
“Newspaper? Dr Hirsch, what day is it?”
“Only Tuesday,” he told her. “You opted out of Monday, and who can blame you? It was a bad day, Monday.”
“What happened?” She knew he wanted her to ask it.
“The explosion,” he reminded her. “You didn’t ask if anyone was hurt.”
“I think I was afraid to. Who, Dr Hirsch?”
“Prince Rudolf. No one knows what he was doing there. Or if they do, they’re not saying. The blast got him. He was in the underground tunnel; terrible in that enclosed space. He must have been on his way from the hotel to the opera house, judging by the way his body was lying. Dead at once. Don’t look so grieved, child. He was in dead trouble, whatever happened, poor man.”
“He was good to me,” she said, tears slowly forming in her eyes.
“In his fashion. I’m glad someone is crying for him.”
“But—what’s happening?” The full implications of it were gradually unfolding themselves in her tired mind. “The peace conference? Dr Hirsch, what about that? Is it wrecked? Has it all been for nothing?”
“Not a bit of it. People are odd. You might have thought—I imagine someone did—that the delegates would have packed their bags and gone home after such a disaster on their very doorstep. But not at all; they’re hard at work. It was a highly localised explosion,” he explained. “An immense force behind it, but driven down rather than sideways. Lucky for you and young Michael you didn’t stay around underneath there. There’s a hole right through to the car park. Full of water, of course, from the stream. But, amazingly, the hotel is hardly damaged; a few broken windows, a cracked wall or two. They built well, Prince Rudolf’s architects. And the conference centre’s untouched. So … the conference has sent out an official message of condolence and got down to work.”
“Condolence … Poor Princess Gloria.” She knew it did not ring true. What would Princess Gloria care, so long as her cocktails arrived on time. “Alix?” she asked. “How is she, and the children?”
“We don’t really know,” he told her. “They’re incommunicado, up at the castle.”
“Incommunicado! But, Dr Hirsch, why?”
He was taking her pulse, a familiar friendly gesture. “You’ll do,” he told her. “I’m afraid you haven’t heard the half of it yet. We’re under military rule. Those ‘Italian policemen’ who came in so timely to help Herr Winkler turn out to be a kind of private army of James Frensham’s. Scum of the earth.”
“I know,” she said. “They attacked me … And what they did to Michael … Where is Michael.” She pulled herself further up in bed, her legs still frighteningly inert.
“Out trying to get in touch with Winkler. Not easy, the way things are. Frensham’s men have confined Winkler and his twelve men to police headquarters, ‘for their own safety’. As if anyone would hurt them.”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“There was rioting after the explosion. In the valley. Started by agents provocateurs, I’m sure. The Red Flag … shouts of ‘People’s power,’ all that kind of thing. My God, I’m glad you and Michael got safe through there. Otherwise you would be really dead, not just officially!”
“Officially dead? But, why?”
“T
o keep you alive. Luckily, the explosion was so total up at the level where you were supposed to be shut up, that there is no way anyone can tell whether you were there or not. Of course, it’s difficult for them. They can hardly say they know you’re dead because they left you there to die, but they’ve put out rather a clever story. Someone played a nasty trick on you after the opera. You got trapped, somehow, by the safety curtain coming down. Michael realised what had happened, and went to look for you, and got trapped too. You were both caught by the explosion, and that was that. One of these days, when we’ve time on our hands, you must tell me how you did happen to get trapped behind there. A bright girl like you. How did they manage it?”
“Really, just like that. A nasty trick. But—Dr Hirsch, who is ‘they’?”
“Basically, James Frensham. He’s in the process of taking over the country. He’s got Alix and Princess Gloria and the children sewn up tight in the castle. ‘For their safety.’ And, of course, his private army disposed of the ‘rioters’ with no trouble at all. Not surprising when you consider that the whole thing was a put-up job together.”
“But why?”
“To give him his excuse to put the country under martial law. ‘To protect the delegates at the peace conference.’ He’s doing a whole lot of protecting, is young Frensham. Not a native soul in Lissenberg lifted a finger during the riot, so far as I know, but we’re under tight curfew. Armed patrols—the lot. You haven’t asked where you are.”
“So long as you’re here, it hardly matters. I suppose I thought it was your house.” But, looking round the sparsely furnished, windowless room with its naked electric light bulbs, she realised how unlikely this was.
“One of the first places they’d look, if they should suspect you had survived,” he told her. “No, you’re in the cellar of a disused warehouse down by the river. Michael used to play here when he was a boy. I suppose you could call it his pad now. There are about five ways into it, all of them inconspicuous. And the river handy for a quick getaway down to the Rhine if necessary.”
“I don’t understand.” She was getting tired. Her head ached, and the numb non-existence of her legs was increasingly frightening.
“No wonder, child. You need sleep. But first let me explain. We’ve known for a long time that young Frensham had plans for Lissenberg. That’s why Winkler asked Michael to come home and help keep a quiet eye on things. Because we had no idea what form they were going to take. Now we know. Half his blasting has been done for him by that explosion. All he needs is to drain off the river and he can start mining for szilenite. Once he has the authority.”
“Authority?”
“As elected Prince of Lissenberg. He announced his engagement to Princess Alix this morning. Poor girl, I thought she would have held out longer, but since he’s got her mother and the children it’s understandable enough. So, tomorrow, when the Diet meets to decide on Prince Rudolf’s successor, Frensham can expect to have it all his own way. No ban on women here in Lissenberg. As the eldest child, Alix should succeed, if ratified by the Diet.”
“Will they?”
“Ah, that’s asking. But he’s got a lot going for him, has James Frensham. Prince Rudolf left a desperate load of local debt. Well, you know …”
“I do indeed.” She remembered those crimson and white rose petals with their concealed final demands.
“And the one thing Frensham has, is money. That’s what got him where he is. That, and his ruthlessness.”
She shivered. “Yes, that’s the word.” And then, “Dr Hirsch, I heard him. On the walkway, coming down from the castle. Talking to the man who was going to plant the bomb. If I told the Diet?”
“Good girl. You do remember. Michael told me you’d heard something. But I didn’t want to lead you. Now do you see why we are keeping you hidden? You’re to be our surprise witness when the Diet meets tomorrow. It’s public, you see. The twelve members up on the platform, debating. Then, when they have come to their decision—which is usually at once—there’s a moment like the one in the marriage service. The leader of the Diet rises and comes forward to the edge of the platform and makes a short speech in Liss. ‘Speak now, or forever after hold your peace,’ is the gist of it. That’s when you’ll get up and make your accusation.”
“Get up?” She looked down at the lifeless lump of bedclothes where her legs were.
“Don’t worry, child. The worst thing you can do. Now, relax. I’m going to give you an injection to help you sleep. You’ll be fine in the morning.”
“Michael?” she asked.
“I doubt if he’ll be back before it’s time to get you to the Rathaus. He’s got a lot to do.” She hardly felt him give the injection, but sleep came warmly rolling over her.
She was waked, what felt like several centuries later, by Dr Hirsch, frantically shaking her shoulder. “Anne, get up! Quick. They’ve caught Michael. There’s not a moment to lose if we’re to save him.”
“Michael!” She pushed away the duvet and swung her legs out of bed. “Oh!” she swayed, but she was standing.
“Just so,” said Dr Hirch with satisfaction. He helped her to a chair and wrapped the duvet snugly round her. “That’s earned you your breakfast.”
“But—Michael?”
“Nothing wrong with him that I know of. I just thought that would blast you to your feet. I’m a wicked old man.” He sounded thoroughly pleased with himself. “How do you feel?”
“Shaky … but better. My head’s stopped aching.” She stretched out first one foot, then the other, from under the duvet. “Look!”
“That’s good. That’s wonderful. I’ll send Lisel in with your breakfast. Then you’d best get yourself dressed. Lord knows what time Michael will want you to start for the Rathaus.”
“But what about Frensham’s men?”
“That’s what Michael’s working on. Security’s tighter than ever in town this morning. ‘Police’ at every corner, checking identification, and a special guard round the Rathaus.”
“It sounds hopeless.”
“It isn’t. Remember the weakness of Frensham’s position. He’s got a whole conference of international diplomats sitting up in the valley watching everything that goes on down here. And the international press buzzing round harder than ever after that explosion. Naturally, they have asked to watch the quaint old-fashioned custom of electing the Hereditary Prince, and naturally, he has had to agree. We’re hoping the delegates will take time off and come too. So, it’s all got to seem open and above board and democratically sound. James Frensham protecting the good citizens of Lissenberg from the Red Terror—that kind of thing. He’s on the side of sweetness and light, and got to act the part. He’ll have to have Alix there, too, and my bet is she may surprise him. Now eat your breakfast, and save your strength. You’ll need it all before the day is over.”
Coffee and croissants and two boiled eggs. “Lord, I feel better,” she told Lisel and then tried again, haltingly, in the Liss she had begun to pick up.
Lisel beamed her approval and produced Anne’s bra and pants, good as new, a shabby pair of well-patched jeans and a teeshirt with a message: I love Lissenberg. “Und hier—” With a smile of pure mischief she handed over a polythene bag containing the shaggiest wig Anne had ever seen. “Studenten,” she explained.
Anne had worn her own hair, cut short and straight, as Marcus. The transformation wrought by the outfit and wig was quite extraordinary. “I don’t recognise myself,” she told Dr Hirsch when he appeared.
“I don’t believe even Michael would know you. You’ll have to choose your moment to take off the wig and be known. Not too soon, for God’s sake.”
“No. But, Dr Hirsch, I’ll have to speak English.”
“No problem. There will be enough people who understand. It’s the first language in our schools.” He laughed. “James Frensham speaks bad German and no Liss. It’s one of his disadvantages.”
“Will you teach me a couple of Liss phrases? You know, some
thing like, ‘It’s God’s truth, believe me.’”
“Of course I will. You’re not stupid, Anne.”
“I may not be stupid, but I’m frightened to death.” She slashed the scarlet lipstick Lisel had brought onto pale lips and marvelled all over again at the transformation.
“Wow,” said Michael, at the door. Or at least it was Michael’s voice.
“Oh, Michael!” She did not know whether to laugh or cry. “Your poor hair! And what’s happened to your face?”
“Purely temporary, I promise you.” He ran a hand over the bristling crew-cut. “It’ll grow again. And as for my face, that’s Dr Hirsch’s work, and he promises I can undo it as fast as he put it together.” He pushed a finger into one of the soft, plump cheeks that effectively took away all character from his face. “We’ve not much time, I’m afraid.” A quick look at his watch. “It’s all taken a bit of organising. You know what to say, Anne? When I give you your cue, just tell it exactly as you heard it. Right?”
“Right.” If it went wrong, this might be their last meeting.
As so often, he read her thoughts. “We’re going to win this one,” he said. “Word of a Liss. Then there’ll be time to talk. And you’ll forgive me.” It was more statement than question. “Ah. There they are.” They could all hear a curious, familiar grinding sound from above.
“What on earth?” asked Anne.
“Garbage day.” He produced a peaked cap from the back pocket of his jeans and put it on at a jaunty angle. “We’re meeting the others in the Rathaus square,” he explained. “The problem was getting you there. I never did get to see Uncle Winkler,” he told Dr Hirsch. “So—no papers. But we picked the cleanest garbage can for you. Come in.” He opened the door and two brawny garbagemen walked in, dressed, like him, in jeans and the official-looking cap, and carrying a huge, battered garbage can.
“We did the best we could,” said one of them, in Liss, his look of apology as he removed the lid explaining the words to Anne.
“Phew!” said Anne.
“Sorry, love.” Michael grinned at her, the familiar smile strange in the fat face. “It won’t be long, I promise. We’ll have to do a couple of other pickups for the benefit of the men on duty in this street. Then straight to the Rathaus square, and you’re out of it.”
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