She walked back across the darkened red carpet and tried the handle of her dressing-room door. The door was locked. She’d locked it before the start of the performance. He didn’t have a key anyway. So where was he?
She only had a couple of minutes to get backstage. No time to wait. He’d have to catch her later. She turned to start running back.
That was when the cold leather of the gloved hand had clapped over her mouth and strong fingers had gripped her arm.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Ben pressed through the crowd backstage. The Queen of the Night’s aria was over and he caught sight of her coming through the wings. He moved quickly towards her. ‘Who are you?’ he asked her. She looked surprised.
A hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw a heavy-set man with long greying curly hair tied in a ponytail, looking at him nervously. ‘Claudio,’ he said, recognizing the stage manager.
Claudio was biting his lip. ‘Where is she?’ he asked. His English was perfect.
‘I came to ask you that,’ Ben said.
Claudio looked confused. ‘Your message—’
‘What message?’
‘You called the desk and asked for Leigh to meet you at her dressing room.’
‘When was this?’
‘Just five minutes ago. She went to meet you. She hasn’t come back. We’ve been going crazy looking for her. We had to fill in for her.’ He motioned towards the young soprano in the Queen of the Night costume. She was still standing there uncertainly. ‘This is Antonella Cataldi, her understudy.’
‘I have to go,’ Antonella said. Claudio nodded to her and she filtered away through the crowd with a last glance at Ben.
The stage manager looked irritated. ‘Where did she go? She’s never done anything like this before.’
‘I never left that message,’ Ben said.
Claudio’s mouth fell open. ‘Then who did?’
Ben said nothing. He was already pushing back through the crowded wings towards the performers’ dressing rooms.
The corridor was half dark. He tried her door. It was locked. There was nobody around. Claudio caught up with him, out of breath, sweat shining on his cheeks. ‘This is crazy,’ he said. ‘Where did she go?’
Ben stood back from the door. He took two quick steps forwards, bounced on his left heel. The flat of his right shoe crashed into the door, five feet from the carpet. It burst open, tearing a long splinter out of the frame. It juddered against the inside wall.
The dressing-room walls were lined with rich blue satin. There was a cluttered dressing table surrounded with lights. A chaise longue with Leigh’s clothes neatly folded on it. Her coat was hanging from a hook on the back of the door. Her handbag was slung from its strap over the back of the dressing-table chair. Her shoes were neatly lined up on the rug. The book she’d been reading was propped open on a side table. But the dressing room was empty.
‘So where the hell did she go?’ Claudio asked. He was looking more worried every second.
Ben walked fast out of the room. He ran up the corridor. Something was lying on the red carpet up there. He knelt down beside it. It was black, silvery, soft. He picked it up. It was the starry crown from her opera costume. He examined it. Nothing unusual. Except that it was here and she wasn’t.
‘There must be an explanation,’ Claudio was saying. He was sweating heavily.
‘The message is the explanation,’ Ben said.
‘Who could have left it, if not you?’
‘I didn’t leave it.’ Ben pointed up the corridor, past where he’d found the crown. ‘What’s up there?’
‘More dressing rooms. Some storage areas. Offices. A fire exit. The way down to the basement.’
‘Who was the last person to see her?’
‘I was,’ Claudio said. ‘I told her to be quick. She said she’d be right back. I don’t unders—’
His phone rang in his pocket. It was a classical music ringtone. He flipped the phone open. ‘Barberini,’ he said. He listened for a moment. His eyebrows rose. His eyes flickered over to Ben. Then he handed Ben the phone.
‘It’s for you,’ he said.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Ben hadn’t thought he’d ever hear that voice again. But it was right there in his ear. It sounded a little different, indistinct, garbled, like there was something wrong with the man’s mouth. But it was definitely Jack Glass on the other end of the phone.
‘You know who this is,’ Glass said.
Ben didn’t reply.
‘You know what I’m calling about,’ Glass continued.
Ben stayed silent.
‘I have something of yours. Meet me outside.’
‘When?’
‘Now. Right now, Hope.’
Ben shut the phone. ‘I might need this,’ he said. He dropped it in his pocket. Claudio didn’t argue.
Ben ran up the corridor. He passed the crown lying on the carpet and ran on.
A side door was flapping open and he stepped out into the night, into the icy fog hanging over Venice. There were no stars. His footsteps echoed up the pitted walls of the narrow street. He could hear the swish and gurgle of the canals, the water lapping at the old stone banks and the sides of the buildings.
He ran out onto the piazza, the white stone steps and columns of the Teatro Fenice behind him. Ahead of him was a stone quay.
Jack Glass was standing near the edge. There was a street light above him, mist drifting in its glow.
He had his arm around Leigh’s neck. A black hand clapped across her mouth. Her eyes were dilated with fear, her hair plastered over her face.
Glass’s other hand clutched a knife. It was a Ka-Bar US military killing knife. It had a seven-inch blackened carbon steel blade with a double-edged tip. Its sharp point was pressing hard against Leigh’s stomach.
Ben took a step closer. He looked at Glass’s face under the peak of the baseball cap he was wearing.
He was disfigured. He had no nose. He had one eye. His skin was bubbled and yellow and black, still raw and seeping in places. One side of his mouth was stretched downward, the skin puckered and loose. His lips were mostly gone.
In a cold rush of horror Ben remembered the helicopter explosion. He and Clara had got out and run across the snow to safety. Two seconds later the chopper had gone up. Two seconds. Maybe just enough time to scramble out of the cockpit. Not enough time to escape entirely from the blast.
He took another step. As he came closer Glass’s mouth twisted into what used to be a smile. ‘Here we are again,’ he said. His voice was lumpy and fleshy.
‘Let her go, Jack. It’s no use.’
Glass smiled. He pressed the point harder into Leigh’s stomach. She struggled in his arms.
Ben winced. He took a step back. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘You took my life away, Hope,’ Glass said. ‘Now I’m going to take something away from you.’
‘You want a ransom,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll pay you whatever you want. I’ll give you the money to get your face fixed up. Whatever it takes. Let her go.’
‘You don’t get it,’ Glass shouted. ‘I don’t want money!’
Ben felt ice in his heart. This wasn’t a kidnap. ‘Kroll’s dead,’ he said. ‘It’s over. Let her go and leave now. I won’t come after you.’
Glass just smiled.
‘Please,’ Ben said. He took a step forward again. ‘Let her go.’
Glass just smiled.
‘I promise you’ll be left alone,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll help you. I’ll help you get whatever it is you want. But you’ve got to do the right thing. You’ve got to let her go.’
Glass grinned.
‘Take me,’ Ben said. ‘I don’t care. Take me instead. Let her go.’
Across the misty piazza he could see people walking. A young couple. Behind them, a family. Someone pointed. There was a yell. Then another.
That was what scared him most. That Glass just didn’t care any more.
‘Le
t her go!’ he shouted. Desperation was starting to rise.
Glass was still grinning. Leigh struggled.
Their eyes met. Ben looked into hers and he made her a promise he prayed he could keep.
‘This is for you, Hope!’ Glass screamed.
Ben saw the intent flash through the man’s mutilated face and he knew what was coming. He saw the black gloved fingers tighten on the leather handle of the Ka-Bar. He saw the muscles of the right arm and shoulder tense under the heavy coat.
‘No, no, no—’
The arm pushed. The knife drove in. Glass’s knuckles pressed against Leigh’s belly. She went rigid and drew in a sharp breath, the gasping sound of surprise people made when a cold blade pierced deep into their body. Ben had heard it before.
Glass let her fall. She dropped like a puppet with the strings cut. Her knees folded under her. She hit the hard ground with the knife embedded in her stomach. It was in up to the hilt.
A woman’s scream echoed across the piazza.
Glass gave Ben a last look and ran. His footsteps echoed away down one of the backstreets.
Ben rushed to Leigh and sank to his knees beside her. She was lying on her back, sprawled across the stone quay, coughing gouts of blood. It was leaking out all over her costume. He held her. His hands and face were sticky with it. There was so little he could do. The passers-by were running over. Someone screamed again. A young woman held her hand over her mouth.
‘Call a doctor! Ambulance!’ Ben yelled at them. Ashen faces peered down at him. Someone pulled out a phone.
She was trying to speak to him. He pressed his face against hers. She convulsed. Her eyes were rolling in fear. He held her tight. He didn’t want to let her go.
But she was going.
‘I love you,’ he said.
She mouthed something in reply.
He held her as her pulse became weaker and slower. Then weaker still. Then nothing.
He shook her. There was blood everywhere. He was kneeling in a spreading pool of it.
‘The ambulance is coming,’ someone said in a hollow voice.
Nothing. No pulse. Her eyes were open. There was no breath coming from her lips.
He shook her again. ‘Fight!’ he screamed at her. ‘Fight it!’ The tears were mixing with the blood on his cheeks. They streamed down and dripped on her face.
‘She’s gone,’ said a voice overhead.
He buried his face against her shoulder. She was soft and warm. His shoulders heaved as he clasped her tightly. He rocked her.
‘She’s gone,’ the voice said again. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up. A young blonde woman was gazing down at him. Her face was contorted. She was crying too. She knelt down beside him and took his hand. ‘I’m a nurse,’ she said in English. ‘I’m sorry. She’s gone. There’s nothing more to be done.’
Ben knelt there with his head hanging. The nurse reached out and closed Leigh’s eyes. Someone laid a coat over her. People were crying. An elderly woman blessed herself and muttered a prayer.
People were coming out of the opera house. A crowd gathered quickly. There were cries of horror. A couple of voices said her name. Claudio ran out of the building. His hands were clutched to his face. There were sirens in the distance, growing louder.
Everything faded. Ben’s mind became still. He couldn’t hear the noise. He could see only one thing. He opened his eyes. They were white against the streaks of blood. He stood up and looked down at Leigh’s shape under the coat.
The crowd moved aside for him. Eyes followed him. Hands touched him, lips moved.
He walked away. He looked up and saw someone at a window, waving to get his attention. It was an old woman. Her face was wild. She was gesticulating. Pointing down the shadowy backstreet. He understood what she was telling him.
He began to walk, and then his walk quickened to a run, and then his footsteps were hammering under him and clapping off the walls of the twisty, murky alleyway.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Glass couldn’t run that fast. His injuries from Vienna were still too fresh to have healed and the pain in his shoulder was grinding.
The backstreets of Venice were dark and deserted. The fog was coming down, settling heavily over the city. That was good. The fog would help him to slip away. He’d wait a while, hole up somewhere and try to heal, become strong again. He wanted Ben Hope to hurt during that time. Then he was going to come back and finish him. Do it right, slowly and properly. The way he would have, if that stupid old bastard Kroll hadn’t stopped him.
The water slopped against the side of the canal. He limped on. Through the drifting mist he saw the arched bridge across the water. There were some steps leading down. He hobbled down them. They were slippery. Down near the waterline, the old pitted stone walls were slimy with green-black mossy scum.
The little boat was moored down there, rocking gently in the shadow. He climbed into it and fired up the outboard motor. The boat burbled into life. Glass gripped the tiller and cast off. He turned the boat around, leaving a churning white wake in the darkness. A few hundred yards up the narrow canal he would pass Piazza San Marco and then he’d be heading for the open water of the Grand Canal.
After that, he could disappear. Five minutes-and he would be gone.
The dying echo of the outboard reached Ben’s ears. He got to the arched bridge. His heart was pounding and his sides were aching. He saw the ghost of the wake in the water, already breaking up, the foam dissipating against the scummy, streaked edges of the canal.
He ran on. He could only see one thing. He was sharp and focused. It would be different later, when the pain and the grief would hit him. There’d be a lot of pain. But there was no room in his mind for that now.
Glass had to be in the boat. There was nowhere else to run. If he got out of the narrow canals and into the broad waters, he could vanish all over again.
A light cut through the fog. The purr of a powerful twin-prop motor. A fibreglass hull bumped gently on rubber buffers against the canal wall. Ben walked that way.
The guy was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was well-dressed, well-groomed. He looked like someone who drove a fast boat, took a pride in it, took good care of it. He stiffened when he saw Ben approach out of the fog. ‘I need your boat,’ Ben said in Italian. ‘I’ll bring it back when I’m done.’
The guy didn’t argue. Thirty seconds later the speedboat kicked up a foaming wake and Ben powered hard down the dark canal.
He reached the mouth of the canal. Glass was nowhere. Through the fog the lights blinked and reflected like stars on the wide, dark expanse ahead of him. Hundreds of boats out there, all going their own ways. Even on a cold winter’s night, Venice was a busy marine thoroughfare.
He motored out into the open water. A bank of fog drifted in and suddenly he couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead. The water was black and the icy fog stung his skin. The boat drifted.
Glass was nowhere.
From the darkness he heard the revs of an outboard and the whoosh of bows slicing water. He was dazzled by a bright light and put his hands up to shield his eyes.
The crash almost knocked him out of the boat.
Glass slammed across his bows. Fibreglass splintered under the impact as the prow of Glass’s boat sliced through. The crippled boats fused together, lying transverse. Engine revs soared as Glass’s propeller rose out of the water.
Then Glass hurled himself at Ben, attacking like a wild animal. A slamming punch threw Ben down in the boat, winded. Glass towered above him.
The two locked boats were tacking in a tight circle. White foam churned. The airborne engine screamed. Water gushed in through the shattered bows of the speedboat. In three seconds it was closing over Ben’s chest as he lay on his back. They were sinking fast into the freezing water.
‘I was going to let you live a little while longer,’ Glass shouted over the engine roar. ‘Looks like I made a mistake.’
Ben fought to
get his wind. Glass bent down, picked him up by the collar of his jacket and hauled him to his feet. The man’s burnt face was twisted like a nightmare in the boat lights.
Then the broad puckered forehead was heading for Ben’s face. Ben dodged it and punched a knee into Glass’s groin.
Glass staggered back. ‘Pain?’ he yelled. ‘You can’t hurt me with pain.’ He stood upright and came on again, throwing himself bodily at Ben. Ben was driven backwards towards the exposed outboard propeller. He felt the scream of the spinning prop in his ear and the wind of it in his hair. A stab of agony as the blades sliced his shoulder.
He kicked back and heard Glass grunt from the blow. They went down, wrestling frantically in the bottom of the sinking boat. Then Glass was on top, forcing him down into the water, fingers around his throat, thumbs pressing deep into his windpipe.
Bubbles exploded from Ben’s mouth as he fought desperately to wrench the hands from his throat. But Glass’s strength was wild, and his was failing. He wasn’t going to make it. He was going to drown.
So he prised the two little fingers away from the black fists and he snapped them. Left and right, snap, snap, both together.
Glass let go with a scream. Ben’s arm flailed up out of the water and smashed what was left of Glass’s nose.
Then Ben was back on top, up to his waist in water as he pinned Glass down with his knees. He drove the man’s head against the splintered fibreglass side of the boat. Felt a crunch. He did it again. He felt another crunch, saw the blood spurt.
Jack Glass was a hard man to kill. This time Ben was going to make sure. He didn’t want to hear that Glass was dead. He wanted to see Glass dead. He hit him again. ‘You killed her!’ he was screaming. ‘You killed her!’
The floor of the boat slid another foot into the black water. The spinning propeller hit the surface and foam flew. Then the boats slipped completely under and Ben was suddenly swimming loose, treading water. His suit and shoes made it hard to stay afloat.
Glass’s head reared up out of the water two feet away, gasping for air, his mangled lips drawn back from his teeth.
The Mozart Conspiracy Page 32
