LETHAL SCORE

by Mannock, Mark

  “I could get used to this lifestyle,” announced Patrick Jay.

  “Yeah, millionaires for a month and then back to our humdrum lives,” I responded. Nicholas Sharp, embracing the downside.

  “It’s just lovely.” Aislinn, as ever, singing a positive note.

  A short while later we had been shown to our suites. From my balcony the roofs of the Paris skyline pointed upward like rows of doll’s houses in pastel shades. It seemed like every struggling artist in the world has spent some period of their creative time honing their craft in one of these attic apartments high above the streets, as they allowed the view through the expansive dormer windows to inspirit their work. I would’ve appreciated the ambience more if I weren’t too tired, too perplexed, and now a little too worried about Elena and what lay in wait on the rest of the tour. I needed sleep, and I was damn well going to get some.

  An hour later I lay awake on the huge bed staring at the ornate ceiling. Elena, the Natural Earth Army, nuclear reactors and a hundred other strange and intrusive terms had hectored me into wakefulness. Some people count sheep to get to sleep; I was counting complications, and I was getting angry with the whole damn mess. I got up, poured myself a scotch, swallowed it in two gulps and then had another. I lay back down on the bed and thought about the previous night. Despite my best efforts, I felt a smile creep onto my face, and I was asleep in five minutes.

  I must have slept right through the night because the morning sun flooded my room as I awoke to a loud knock on the door. I knew who it would be.

  “Greatrex, do you have to bash so loudly?” I said as I opened the door. “You’ll wake up half the freakin’ hotel.”

  “Come on, Rip Van Winkle, it’s a big day in tour-land,” announced my friend. “We set up and sound check today. Tomorrow is the big show.”

  He was right. The next night was one of the biggest shows of the tour. We were performing at the Palais Garnier, one of the greatest opera houses in Europe. Most of the European music press would be there. After a decent sleep, I was beginning to feel a rising excitement at the thought of playing such an iconic venue. Just as it had been in London, a performance in such a celebrated environment filled me with almost youthful anticipation, only slightly muted by a dash of realistic trepidation.

  “Give me half an hour and we’ll grab some breakfast,” I said. Greatrex left. I looked out the window at the sun shining down on the wonders of Paris. The problems that had kept me awake started to recede. What could go wrong in an environment like this?” Nicholas Sharp, eternal optimist.

  As things turned out, “Nicholas Sharp, naive fool” would have been more appropriate.

  Chapter 11

  We weren’t walking into a building as we ascended the steps to the Palais Garnier from the famed Avenue de l’Opéra. We were walking into history. To a musician there is no moment that matches your realization that you are no longer observing the rich tapestry of cultural evolution but are now part of it.

  Aislinn, Patrick Jay, and I looked at each other as we entered the cathedral of gilded majesty that was the building’s foyer. Before us, the venue’s Grand Staircase beckoned like a stairway to the heavens.

  “Oh shit,” said Patrick.

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” I responded. A child in an amusement park.

  “This is beyond any expectation I could have ever had,” pronounced Aislinn.

  “Oh shit,” said Patrick again.

  “What are we doing here? How can we do this?” asked Aislinn.

  “Well, someone thought we were up for this,” I said.

  “Antonio,” replied Aislinn.

  “Always loved the man,” responded Patrick. There was a certain irony in his tone.

  We had arrived early to get a feel for the place. We should have arrived much earlier.

  Before we knew it, the now familiar figure of Norbert Fontana came barreling up. Obviously, Fontana covered Paris as well as London for Antonio Ascardi.

  “Aislinn, Patrick Jay, Nicholas, I am so glad to see you. Can I show you to your dressing rooms?”

  We looked at each other. I felt that I spoke for all of us when I said, “No thanks, Norbert, I think we’d just like to wander around for a while.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “Oh well, you have plenty of time. Just call me if you need me.”

  And so it began, Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Lion walking along the yellow-brick road. The Tin Man couldn’t make it. This place had enough heart for us all.

  We must have wandered around for over an hour. I had never seen a place so grand, so inspiring, and so intimidating. The regal architecture bathed in ornate gold leaf, the countless statues and figures decorating walls of rooms so large you could land a plane in them. We hadn’t even got to the main auditorium yet.

  Eventually, time and reality caught up with us. “Ah, my talented runaways.” It was the voice of Antonio Ascardi. “So good to see you all.”

  We hadn’t seen Ascardi since we’d arrived in Paris. He’d been busy with more “business commitments.” The man looked tired—a bit of lost sleep maybe. I wondered what could be bothering him.

  After we had greeted each other, Ascardi announced, “I know it’s time for you to go to work now. But tonight, I have booked the finest restaurant in Paris. We will have a fabulous dinner in your honor.”

  With that, he led us off to the backstage area. I couldn’t help but feel like a naughty student being pushed around by the headmaster. It made me uncomfortable. Also, I was beginning to question if the headmaster was hiding some sordid little secrets. That made me more uncomfortable.

  “It is with great honor that I introduce to you tonight three very special people. I have brought them to this magnificent city to share the magic of the enchanting music that they make together.” Antonio Ascardi’s voice resounded around the cavernous private room in which we all sat. The table was large and elegantly decorated. Heavy blue velvet curtains framed the room’s ceiling-height windows, overlooking the alluring lights of the Parisian streets. The sheer scale of the room itself was nothing less than you would expect from an exclusive French restaurant with three Michelin stars. Opulence laced with extravagance. We were certainly playing out of our league.

  Ascardi continued. “It has been my privilege to bring these great artists together, first to record and then to bring them to you live on stage.” I was starting to think he was going too far—it was getting a little embarrassing—then it occurred to me that Tony Ascardi probably didn’t understand the term “too far.”

  I looked at Jack Greatrex sitting across the table from me. He rolled his eyes and sipped some more soup. Next to me, Patrick Jay wriggled in his chair, looking decidedly ill at ease. Only Aislinn looked as though she was born to be there.

  At the end of the table, Ascardi was on his feet. He was dressed in a black dinner suit with his hair swept back. He looked like he was thriving in his role as visionary entrepreneur and host. There were positive murmurs from guests around the table, then some polite applause. I wondered if the appreciation was more for Antonio Ascardi’s benefit than our own. Everyone in the room knew he wielded great power and influence. He was winding up. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the delightful Aislinn Byrne, accompanied by two of our label’s most accomplished musicians: Mr. Patrick Jay Olden from Australia and Mr. Nicholas Sharp from California in the USA.”

  More applause and Ascardi sat down. Thank God.

  We had arrived about an hour earlier after being ferried across town in our black chauffeur-driven SUVs. Strolling through the restaurant doors on the first floor of a classic seventeenth-century building near the banks of the river Seine, I was met with a picture way beyond what we expected. Judging by the venue, our host was really laying it on thick, almost too thick. Maybe I was just being ungracious. Was that a chip that I could feel on my shoulder?

  The thing I hadn’t expected was the guest list. There were politicians, movie stars, celebrities, and members
of Paris’s social elite. All for us? I didn’t think so. Patrick Jay and I had mingled uncomfortably before dinner. The ever-gracious Aislinn, of course, was right at home in this elite company. She had won everybody’s hearts.

  Patrick Jay sat to my left, and an elegant middle-aged gentleman who had introduced himself to me as Gabriel Arquette, France’s minister of culture, was on my right. While they were each distracted in other conversations, I took the moment to retreat into silent observation. A professional habit for a creative … and for a sniper.

  Ascardi chatted comfortably with those around him. No matter how rich or influential the company he kept, he was never out of his depth. He was a tall man, classically good-looking, charming, and mega-successful, a combination that made him a powerful social aphrodisiac. Judging from the way some of the women around the table were looking at the entrepreneur, maybe the aphrodisiac wasn’t just social. Was Greatrex right when he said there was something troubling under that outward warmth? We’d already seen that there were layers to this man. I wondered how many people had managed to peel off those layers and see the real Antonio Ascardi.

  I was sure that I had caught moments when he looked a little too sorrowful for his surroundings, his face a little blotched, his mouth drawn tight as though he was carrying some private burden. But then the look would vanish, and the warmth returned. If I was right, he wouldn’t be the first soul on the planet to wrestle with his demons. As if I could talk. Looking at him here, charming the A-listers and entertaining those around the table, I thought guiltily that any doubts I’d had about him seemed unfounded.

  “Do you know Tony well?” The voice of the minister on my right shattered my daydreams.

  I turned to him and answered, “No, not really. We haven’t been working together that long. We’re just getting to know each other.” Nicholas Sharp, diplomat.

  “He’s a fine man and so talented,” continued the minister. “Apart from his own gargantuan success in the field of social media, he has been a generous benefactor to the arts as well as many other causes across Europe. His contributions have been appreciated, and he is well respected.”

  “You sound like you know him well,” I observed.

  “Yes, we go back a long way. Years ago, I spent some time living in Italy. I got to know Tony Ascardi just as his business was beginning to grow. I was aspiring to get into politics, and he was a great support to me. It’s wonderful to see him back to his normal self.”

  I was reluctant to interrupt his flow, but I asked, “Normal self?”

  “Yes, he went through a very bad period a while ago, when his younger sister died.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he had a sister.”

  “Yes, her name was Vittoria. He named his record label after her. He believes music stands for so much that is good in the world. That’s why he gave the label her name, and why he spends so much time and money supporting it. Of course, that is probably why you and your colleagues are here, Mr. Sharp.”

  The minister became distracted by his phone ringing. “Pardon.”

  I took another moment to let my mind navigate these new facets of Antonio Ascardi’s world. Clearly, I’d read too much subversion into this whole damn thing. The possibility of Ascardi’s involvement was becoming more and more remote. It was time to back off.

  I was staring vacantly in the minister’s direction when I noticed a deep look of concern envelop his face as he listened on his phone. “You are sure?” he asked. Then a sadder look of resignation.

  Another phone rang at the table, then another. Three minutes later it seemed like half the people in the room were talking animatedly on their cell phones, including Antonio Ascardi. Greatrex and I looked across the table at each other; we both shrugged in ignorance.

  A minute later Ascardi was back on his feet. “I do apologize to you all. For those who have not yet heard, I have just been informed that the British Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Phillip Morton, whom I’m sure many of you know personally, has been assassinated.”

  Murmurs of shock reverberated as more people reached for their phones. Assistants started dribbling into the room seeking instructions from, or passing on information to, their masters.

  “Poor Phillip,” said the minister next to me.

  The room was abuzz.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Have they caught the assassin?”

  No one seemed to know the answers.

  Antonio Ascardi turned to the tuxedoed gentleman on his right, who alternated between listening attentively on his phone and barking instructions to two lackeys who had appeared out of nowhere. “Jacques?”

  Jacques put up a hand to block any interruption. The minister next to me leaned in and said, “That is Jacques Milland. He is our Ministre de l’Intérieur. If anyone knows what is going on, he will.”

  Milland finished his call and stood up. “I am very sorry, but I will have to say goodnight.” He looked in Aislinn’s direction and nodded to Patrick Jay and me. “I particularly apologize to our guests of honor.” He then gave a short bow to Ascardi, who looked like he was expecting more.

  “Can you tell us anything before you leave, Jacques?”

  Milland looked at Ascardi then turned to the table of guests. He shrugged and said, “I am thinking you will all find out by the morning anyway. As you have just heard, the British Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Phillip Morton, has been assassinated. The information that I have just become privy to has not been released yet. I’m sure, however, in this era of social media”—the minister glanced sideways as Ascardi—“and the constant news cycle, it soon will be available to all. The fact is, Sir Phillip was actually murdered in the late afternoon yesterday, in an apartment in Covent Garden, London. The investigation is already twenty-four hours old.”

  “Why the delay in reporting it, Jacques?” asked Ascardi. Everyone nodded; it was a reasonable question.

  Milland seemed to hesitate for a moment. “It would appear that the chancellor was not only away from his own home when he was shot”—the room was quiet—“but also that he was not alone.” More murmurs engulfed the table. With that announcement, the Ministre de l’Intérieur turned and left. Next to me, Gabriel Arquette smiled sadly and said, “Yet they say that it’s we, the French, who are the amorous ones.”

  Jack Greatrex and I sat alone in the back of our SUV as we were driven back to our hotel. The party had broken up quickly after the announcement of the British chancellor’s death. There were too many important people in that room who would have to react to the news.

  We both had our phones out and were scouring the news sites for details. Ascardi’s sites had no more information than the rest.

  “It says here that British investigators put a news blackout on the assassination for twenty-four hours while they tried to establish the identity of the person in the apartment with the chancellor,” said Greatrex.

  “I’m assuming it was a woman, although in this day and age in politics that’s a pretty big assumption,” I responded. “I’m also assuming that the so-far-unnamed person survived, or they would have been identified.”

  “Makes sense,” said Greatrex. He tapped on another website. “It says here that authorities are looking for a yet-to-be-identified witness.”

  “Survived and fled,” I added. “Well, as traumatic as these events are, they have little bearing on us and the tour, except for interrupting an exclusive but way too boring dinner party.”

  “Too damn right,” said Greatrex. “Although one thing is certain. Every British and European government agency is going to be looking for that missing woman.”

  What neither of us could have possibly realized at the time was that within twenty-four hours I would be desperately searching for that same woman. I would be looking for her not only to ensure her survival but also to guarantee my own.

  Chapter 12

  They were in front of us, they were above us, and they
surrounded us.

  As we walked out onto the stage at the Palais Garnier, the audience sat like expectant shadows, silhouetted by the dimming house lights wherever we looked. It was the nature of the classic horseshoe design of the opera house. The audience on the floor rolled out to the back of the room, but then there were four levels of people in boxes around the walls all the way up to the roof. And what a roof it was. The ceiling was well lit and painted in bright, luminous colors, a tribute to the great composers of opera. The layers of balconies were supported by huge ornate gold columns that rose out of the floor. On three of the upper levels, individual boxes provided luxurious comfort for the aristocracy. It was a pallet of muted gold and red velvet.

  As I walked toward the piano, I inhaled deeply. Nothing could prepare a performer for this moment. The room was an ocean of anticipation—that of the audience but also that of the ghosts of legends past. Across the stage I noticed that Aislinn’s and Patrick Jay’s faces seemed to reflect my own trepidation. No matter how many shows we had done, this was big.

  I sat at the piano, adjusted my stool, and stretched my hands. Aislinn stood straight and erect at the microphone; she was in the zone. The start of the show belonged to Patrick Jay. As the applause died down, he shifted on his seat to make himself comfortable. The end of his didgeridoo rested on the stage floor in front of him, its traditional brown and yellow ochre markings luminescent under the warm stage lights.

  The audience grew silent. Patrick Jay drew a long, extended breath and began to play.

  You could hear the audience gasp at the power of the sound. Most would never have heard a didgeridoo live before, certainly not in an atmosphere like this. The ancient, haunting sound seemed to permeate every corner and crevice in the room. As his circular breathing deepened, Patrick seemed to draw on millennia of ancestry to allow the audience to immerse themselves in the low, fathomless drone. The cry of a thousand souls.