‘You’re still looking at me like I’m some kind of apparition,’ she laughed.
‘You didn’t see the photo of you. You scared the hell out of me. I still stop breathing every time I think of it.’
‘That’s what comes with years of playing tragic heroines onstage,’ she said. ‘I’ve died a thousand times. Opera’s full of gruesome deaths. Carmen gets stabbed. Tosca jumps off the battlements. Lucia di Lammermoor stabs her husband, gets covered in blood, goes mad and then dies herself. You soon learn to look very dead. And they sometimes film the performances, so there are cameras zoomed right on your face. I can hold my breath like a pearl diver, and I can keep my eyes open forever without blinking.’
‘Well, you had me convinced.’
She sipped some wine. ‘It hardly seems real to me now.’
‘Let’s not talk about it.’
‘I still can’t understand how he missed me,’ she said. ‘When I heard that shot I thought I was finished. It was only after I fell down the bank that I realized I was all right. It was a miracle.’
‘It was no miracle,’ he said. ‘Don’t thank God, thank the patron saint of bent barrels. Remember the snowman?’
She raised her glass and smiled. ‘Such a sceptic, especially for a former theologian.’
‘I told you the gun was throwing to the right.’
‘Yeah, well, I hit the snowman dead centre, no problem.’
‘You did,’ he admitted. ‘But if the gun had been straight, you’d have missed.’
She laughed. ‘That is some logic.’
He let the laughter die away. His smile faded. He fingered the stem of his wine glass. There was something he wanted to say, and he thought about the best way to say it.
She noticed the change in his face and looked at him curiously. ‘Something on your mind?’ she said.
‘Leigh,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
She looked up at him attentively.
He paused, not meeting her eye.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I don’t want to do this any more.’
She blinked. ‘Do what any more?’
‘I’m retiring.’
‘I thought you already were retired?’
‘I mean I’m stopping what I do.’
She leaned back in her chair. ‘Why?’
‘It isn’t what I want to do any more.’
‘Why?’ she said again.
He looked up and met her eye. ‘Because of you.’
‘Me?’
‘I want a life, Leigh. I threw so much away when I walked away from you that time. I’m sorry. I should have listened to Oliver. I should have married you when you wanted me to. I was stupid.’
She said nothing.
‘When they told me you were dead, I realized something. I realized how much I still love you. That I never really stopped.’ He reached out across the table and took her hand. ‘Will you give me a second chance?’
She looked at him.
‘I want to be with you,’ he said earnestly. ‘Is there room in your life for me?’
She looked at him.
‘I want to marry you, Leigh. Will you have me?’
‘I’m stunned,’ she said.
He let go of her hand and fiddled with his glass. ‘You don’t have to answer now.’
‘Are you seriously asking me?’ she said.
‘Yes, I am. I’m seriously asking you.’
‘I travel around a lot,’ she said. ‘My work’s important to me. I’m not that easy to live with.’
‘I can deal with that.’
‘What about your home in Ireland?’
‘I’ll sell it,’ he said without hesitation.
‘You want to live with me in Monaco?’
‘I like France,’ he said. ‘I like the wine and the food. I have a place in Paris. France is no problem for me.’
‘You’ll get bored with nothing to do.’
‘I’ll find things to do,’ he said. ‘I already know what I’ll do.’
‘And you hate opera.’
He paused. ‘You’ve got me there,’ he said. ‘I do hate opera. Especially German opera, and especially Mozart.’
She laughed and then went quiet and serious, watching him. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said. ‘A long time since we left off. A lot of catching up to do. We’ve both changed.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I mean it. Will you think about it?’
Chapter Sixty-Four
The Bahamas
A few weeks later
Chris Anderson sipped on his martini and looked out across the white sand. A warm breeze ruffled the palm fronds over his head as the Isolde bobbed slowly on the shimmering water. There was sand between his toes. He reached out from the sunbed and picked up the newspaper.
The copy of The Times was three days old, dated the nineteenth of January. Yesterday’s news, but he liked to catch up on what was happening at home, and what could happen in three days? He rustled through the pages. Foreign news. More assassinations in the Middle East. Storms lashing the UK. Same shit as always. Chris stretched and shot another glance at his yacht on the calm blue water, then grinned to himself.
He flipped randomly through a few more pages.
A small headline caught his eye. He did a double-take.
‘I knew it,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘That bitch. Lying bitch.’
OPERA STAR WEDS.
He read it three times. It wasn’t a long article. There was a small photo to go with it. The wedding had taken place a week ago in Venice, where the bride Miss Leigh Llewellyn was in rehearsals for the celebrated new production of The Magic Flute. Chris stared long and hard at the face of the groom in grainy black and white. He looked down at the name in the article, then back up to the photo. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered. Just as he’d thought. It was Major Benedict Hope.
Chris rumpled the paper up in disgust, tossed it away and took another swig of his drink. Then he hurled the glass away too.
The Gran Teatro Fenice Opera House, Venice, Italy
Everything in the box was red velvet. Ben’s seat was upholstered with it, the wall behind him and the partitions either side of him were draped in it. He loosened his collar, leaned back in the seat. He was as casually dressed as he could get away with in this place, just a dark suit and a plain navy tie. Most of the men in the audience were in tuxes, but dressing in a tux twice in the space of five weeks was a little too much for Ben.
Perched up in the private box, he had a great view of the Gran Teatro Fenice. The Phoenix, the legendary opera house. Aptly named. He’d read in the programme that someone kept burning the place down. The last time had been in ’96. In 2003, the programme said, it had been restored to its former grandeur.
Grandeur was the right word. He looked around him. He’d seen some sumptuous décor in his life, but this was going a stage and a half further. The ornamentation of the place was beyond belief. It was like a cathedral built in the name of music.
He sighed. So here he was. Venice. His first opera. Leigh was an old hand here-half the audience were here especially to see her. The Queen of the Night was the big diva role. The media were all over her, and all over her new husband by extension.
He’d got used to being a very private man, and his first encounters with the hordes of journalists and paparazzi had been a bit disquieting. He might have been a little surly with them. Especially the overinsistent camera hound he’d threatened to ditch in the Grand Canal.
This was all something he’d have to adjust to. He wondered if he’d ever get to like opera. Maybe one day. For now, all he wanted was to see her on the stage. He’d never heard her sing live. He couldn’t wait to see her in her element.
Down below, the orchestra was tuning up and the audience was animated, the theatre filled with the hum of chatter. Ben sprawled in his seat and drank it all in. It was a heady feeling. He could begin to understand the appeal for the performers who devoted their lives to this mom
ent.
Then the conversation began to die down and the audience started applauding loudly. The conductor was coming up through the orchestra pit. He was a tall man in a black tuxedo, white tie, a thick mane of black hair swept up from his high forehead. His expression was severe, focused. He bowed to the stage, turned and bowed to the audience and the musicians, then took to the podium. Dead silence fell over the theatre for a moment before the overture began.
A huge orchestral chord sounded, the instruments all coming in together. Then a pause for four beats, and another two big chords. Another pause, followed by two more stabs. It was the composer’s way of grabbing the audience’s attention by force, and it worked perfectly. The theatre was suddenly filled with sound as the whole orchestra chimed into the main theme.
The overture over, the audience applauded again and the house lights dimmed. This was it. The heavy curtains glided apart across the stage, and Ben settled back.
The set was breathtaking. It was a wilderness strewn with ruined buildings, broken-down temples, bushes and huge rocks. It looked completely real and the lighting effects were as good as any movie he’d ever seen. He could see the Masonic influence in the Egyptian look of the ruins, a pyramid in the background. He stifled the memories they brought up. That was all over now.
A man emerged from stage left and ran across the set, chased by a giant snake, then stumbled and lay still at the foot of the giant pyramid. While he was unconscious, three women in strange costumes came out and killed the snake with silver spears. Ben watched. It all seemed very odd to him. He was taken aback by the volume of the singing. No microphones. He checked the libretto on his knee and tried to follow the storyline, but quickly lost the thread. He wasn’t that interested. He only wanted to see Leigh, and she wouldn’t appear until some way into the first act.
Until then, he drifted and let the spectacle wash over him. It was huge and impressive and fantastically staged, but it didn’t captivate him.
However, the Queen of the Night’s entrance did, completely.
She was wearing a long silvery-black robe and a wild crown, both covered in glittering stars. He could feel the impact she had on the audience the moment she stepped out onto the set. The lights followed her centre-stage. She looked totally at ease, in command of the whole theatre. Someone threw a red rose from a box across the opposite side. It sailed over the orchestra pit and landed on the stage.
Then she started to sing. The power and depth of her voice blew him away. He watched her. It was hard to believe it was the Leigh he knew. It was as if the music wasn’t coming from her, it was coming through her from some other source. She filled the room with an awesome kind of beauty he’d never experienced before.
So this was what it was about. Now he suddenly knew who Leigh really was, what she lived for. It was something you had to understand. Nobody could explain it to you, and if you couldn’t feel it you were soulless, dead inside. It gave him goose pimples.
Her aria was over far too quickly. He was left stunned by it. There were cries of ‘Bravo!’ as she exited. More flowers landed on the stage. Another scene started.
Ben knew from the libretto that she wouldn’t be on again for a while. He had plenty of time to get down to the bar and grab himself a drink before her next appearance. He quietly left his box and started down the red-carpeted passageway.
That was about the same moment that the latecomer wandered into the lobby. He looked around him. He avoided the ticket office. That wasn’t what he was here for. He kept his head low and walked fast. He aimed for a side door. The sign read PRIVATE. He pushed through it and walked on.
Chapter Sixty-Five
The latecomer had never been in this place before, but he’d been reading about it very recently. He kept his coat collar turned up and drew the peak of the baseball cap lower down over his face. He walked quickly, a little stiffly, turning right, left, right again. Here, away from the public areas, the walls were plain and some parts still looked unfinished since the last restoration. He passed some stage assistants carrying a wooden prop that looked like part of a stone battlement, performers in costume, looking nervous and checking sheets of music notation. There was activity and bustle around him-everyone too distracted and psyched up about the show to notice him. He avoided eye contact and pushed on. He could hear the sound of the orchestra, muted and damped in the background.
Suddenly he was backstage and the music was much louder. It was hectic here in the crowded wings, people everywhere, a million things going on at once to keep the huge show rolling. A stage director was hissing orders in Italian at some flustered-looking crew members. Everyone was tense, and high on adrenaline.
Too many people. This wasn’t a good place to be. He walked on quickly and pushed through another door and followed the red carpet. This looked more like what he was looking for. Decorative plants in tall porcelain vases lined the walls on both sides with doors between them. At the end of the corridor, a good-looking woman in a long yellow dress was talking to two men. He slipped into a room with a sink in one corner and some mops and buckets in another. He pulled the door to, and through the crack he watched the people leave.
He stepped out of the cleaner’s room.
‘What are you doing here?’ said a voice.
The man turned round slowly. The usher was a good few inches shorter than him. The man looked down at him and said nothing. He kept his face low, so that the visor of the cap covered a lot of it.
‘This area is for stage personnel and performers only,’ the usher said. ‘You’ll have to leave.’
The man didn’t understand the quick-fire Italian, but he got the message. He raised his head a little. The usher’s eyes opened wider. He couldn’t help himself. Most people had that same look of revulsion when they saw his face. That was why he wore the cap.
The usher was standing there gaping at him. The man laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let me explain something to you,’ he said in English. He moved him out of the middle of the corridor to where it was a little shadier, near to the door of the cleaner’s room.
He killed him quickly and quietly. It was easily done and there was no blood. He propped the body against the inside wall of the cleaner’s room and snicked the door shut. He turned the key, slid it out of the keyhole and dropped it into a plant pot.
He walked on until he found the door he was looking for. It had her name on it. He slipped to one side. He took a phone from his pocket, pressed a preset number and spoke quietly to the person on the other end. Then he waited.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Ben glanced at his watch and downed the last dregs of his whisky. He was alone in the bar. He suddenly felt a little guilty about sneaking away from the opera. He’d stayed away too long, and Leigh should be back onstage any minute now. That was something he didn’t want to miss.
He made his way back along the red-carpeted passage, up the flight of steps he’d come down and along the curved corridor that led to the doors of the private boxes. They all looked the same, red velvet inset into the red velvet wall. He found his number. Settling back in his seat, he looked down at the stage and saw that he’d been just in time.
The opera was into its second act. An aria was just finishing as the Queen of the Night reappeared. She hit centre-stage and began to sing about love, death and revenge. It was powerful.
But something was wrong.
The voice was wrong. It was a strong, vibrant soprano. It was good enough for world-class opera but it didn’t have anything approaching Leigh’s passion or depth, the things that had made his skin tingle.
He frowned. On the seat beside him were the tiny opera glasses Leigh had given him. Their magnification was scarcely military-grade but they were enough to see the faces of the performers up close. He put the little eyepieces to his eyes and focused in on the Queen.
She was wearing the same costume and she was made up to look just the same. But she wasn’t Leigh. She was another woman.
Everyone wa
s elated. Leigh had had to see a million people backstage after her first aria. She had costume check, hair check, makeup retouches. Some TV guy had sneaked in on a pretext and wanted to talk to her about chat-show bookings but she turned him away. Then one of the opera producers wanted to lavish praise on her. People wanted to give her flowers. And the show wasn’t even over yet.
A breathless runner found her as she stood talking in the wings with the overflowing producer. There was a message for her. Her husband had called the front desk and needed to speak to her. It was something important. He hadn’t said what. But he wanted to meet in her dressing room. He couldn’t see her backstage. It was a private thing. And it couldn’t wait. The runner was apologetic. That was what Mr Hope had said.
She made her excuses and broke away from the producer. It was strange. What did Ben want to see her about? She was in a rush. She didn’t have time to run back to her dressing room. It was miles away through the maze of corridors. But if he’d said it was urgent…
‘You’ve got exactly four minutes,’ the stage manager warned her.
‘I’ll be here, Claudio.’
‘Three minutes fifty-nine seconds.’
‘I’ll be here.’
She’d run. The long, flowing costume wasn’t easy to run in. The corridors were empty. She was a little out of breath by the time she reached her dressing room.
She’d expected to find him standing outside the door. Aside from that, she didn’t know what to expect. Had he been taken ill? Received bad news? The car was stolen? The house was on fire? It wasn’t like him to panic.
But he wasn’t outside the door. There was nobody there. The passage outside her door was deserted. It was in shadow. A whole row of the wall-mounted lamps had gone dark. She stepped over to one of the lamps to check it. There was nothing wrong with the switch. Someone had taken out the bulb. She checked the next one. Someone had taken the bulb out of that one as well.
The Mozart Conspiracy Page 31
