by Magnus Flyte
“Sarah Weston, allow me to introduce—”
“Hello, I’m Charlotte Yates,” she said to Sarah. She turned to the Secret Service agent who had been guarding Sarah’s room. “Oh hello, Tad.” She handed the goodie bag off to Tad. He seemed used to this.
Her handshake was firm.
“Madam Senator, we’re honored to have you,” said Sarah, making good eye contact. It was important to stand up to your enemies, her father had always said. Look them in the eye. Do not be cowed by bullies.
“Sarah is a musicologist from Boston who joined us this summer,” said Miles.
“How nice for you,” said the senator. “Tell me about all these lovely things.”
Sarah couldn’t believe the woman’s cool. But she could match it.
“Of course. This is the centerpiece of our—the Lobkowicz—collection. The 1806 score of the Eroica Symphony, which Beethoven dedicated to his patron, Joseph Franz Maximilian, the 7th Prince Lobkowicz. The story is that the composer had originally meant to dedicate the work to Napoleon, but after Napoleon crowned himself emperor, Beethoven was so disgusted that he scratched out the dedication. Whether this is true is a matter of debate, but certainly Beethoven was never a man to accept the domination of authority figures.”
“How interesting,” said Charlotte. “I don’t suppose Napoleon was too bothered by the feelings of a musician though.”
“There is a story,” said Sarah, “that after Napoleon’s victory at Jena, Beethoven remarked, ‘It’s a pity I do not understand the art of war as well as I do the art of music. I would conquer him!’”
“How funny,” the senator said. “It would seem the only ego larger than a politician’s is a musician’s!”
Everyone in the room chuckled. Charlotte’s eyes remained locked on Sarah.
At that moment Max and Marchesa Elisa walked in. In black tie and tails, Max looked like a prince from the 1930s. Like his grandfather. The marchesa shimmered in red. She looked like a flame.
“Senator Yates, I am so sorry we were not here to greet you,” cooed the marchesa. “A little problem with your security. I am mortified. Please forgive us. My name is Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti.”
“Of course,” said the senator smoothly. “You may not remember, but we actually met years ago, I think.”
“I’m charmed you remember,” Elisa said. “And please let me introduce you to my fiancé, Max. He is also a Lobkowicz, but we are from different branches of the family, so it’s all quite correct.” The marchesa smiled and then, very deliberately, turned her smile to Sarah.
“Welcome to the Lobkowicz Palace Museum,” said Max very stiffly.
“You are both to be congratulated,” said Charlotte. Sarah’s nose alerted her. Envy. The senator was simmering in envy. But even more than that, Sarah thought she detected a kind of recklessness in the woman, madness even.
“What a wonderful thing you have created here,” the senator said.
“We have managed to bring many things back to their rightful place here in Prague,” Max said. “But of course some things disappeared forever during the Nazi occupation. And under communism as well. A researcher like Miss Weston here has had many obstacles. The Nazis kept records. The communists simply stole.”
Max’s eyes were steely.
Your father would be proud of you, Sarah thought. Your grandfather, too.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed perhaps a fraction of an inch.
“Luckily, all that is behind us now,” Max said. “We can leave the past behind, all of it, and start fresh. I confess the task has at times . . . overwhelmed us . . . this summer in particular, but now we look forward to sharing the collection with the Czech people, and I personally am determined to devote my attention entirely to the preservation of these wonderful works of art. We are all honored by your presence here tonight, Madam Senator. I hope in some small way our museum will serve as a cultural bridge between the Czech Republic and the United States. Perhaps in the future we might lend certain things to American museums and institutions.”
What are you doing? Sarah thought. You’re telling her that it’s over. That she has nothing to fear from you. That all you want is to keep your precious museum open.
He’s doing what his family has always done, a voice inside her head answered her. He’s keeping what he values most safe. He’s doing it for you.
Because I love you.
“What a charming speech,” said Charlotte. “I can imagine you will not find fund-raising difficult with that level of eloquence. But if you do, you and Elisa must call upon me. I would be pleased to be of some help in your endeavor. Now please, let us continue our tour. I am quite enchanted with it all.”
And with that, she was gone, sweeping out Miles, the marchesa, and the Secret Service with her. Max gave Sarah one swift look over his shoulder.
“Should I stop playing now?” the musician asked. Sarah nodded. The senator’s perfume lingered in the air, nauseating and threatening.
But it’s over, she thought.
Then why did she feel danger all around her?
Sarah ducked into the bathroom in the corridor to splash water on her face. Stefania was there, holding a stack of linen hand towels. Sarah took one and said thank you to her in Czech, but Stefania just stared straight ahead.
“Stefania? Are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“No,” said Stefania after a beat. “I hear a ghost. And now I know what she look like.” And with that the woman handed the stack of towels to Sarah and walked out of the bathroom. Sarah put them down and followed her out, but she was gone.
Sarah walked to the long window facing the courtyard and leaned her head against the cool pane. From there she was able to watch the senator’s departure. The white silk column of her dress disappearing into the waiting car.
But she still felt Charlotte Yates’s presence in the air. Her nose wrinkled. Something wasn’t right. Her nerves were jangling. Danger. She smelled danger.
It wasn’t over.
• • •
The doors were opened to the rest of the invited guests, and a mob of Czechs, French, Spaniards, Italians, and wealthy Americans poured in.
Sarah stood in the Music Room and greeted guest after guest, pointing out the treasures, telling anecdotes, explaining the restoration process. She tried to seem professional, calm, and engaging, but her senses were on high alert. Images of fire flitted through her brain.
Jana appeared and informed Sarah that guests should now start being directed to the first floor. In a short while, there would be a series of speeches and an appeal to donors in the Balcony Room. Jana wanted to make sure everyone had imbibed plenty of champagne at that point. The researchers were to gather in the Moritz Room just before. Max and Marchesa Elisa wished to thank them for their efforts personally.
Sarah was grateful for an opportunity to leave the Music Room and check in on Pols. To assure herself that her anxiety was all in her head.
But as she made her way downstairs to wh
ere the child musicians were still playing, the lingering scent of Charlotte Yates only grew stronger. It wasn’t perfume. It was . . . evil. And it was still here.
A crowd hovered around the young performers. Pols looked so regal, violin tucked under chin, and utterly absorbed. Beethoven. String Quartet no. 10, op. 74, a work that Luigi had dedicated to Prince Lobkowicz. But the moment Sarah appeared the little girl immediately looked up and directly at her. And Sarah knew that Pols felt it, too, the disturbance in the air. Their faces were briefly mirror images of each other.
Jose appeared at her side, with Boris on a leash.
“I think he has to make business,” Jose said. “I no want to leave Pollina now, though. Can you take him?”
“Of course,” said Sarah automatically, reaching for the mastiff’s leash. “I’ll be right back. She turned to make her way toward the back exit. She would take the dog out through the kitchen. No need to subject the mastiff to a publ
ic display of his needs on the red carpet out front. They passed the Moritz Room.
Boris stopped. He was getting a little old, and stubborn. Although actually right now he didn’t look old. He looked . . . transformed. His ears were up, his eyes fixed, his carriage alert and tense, his hackles raised. Boris began tugging on the leash, pulling her into the Moritz Room, which was empty. Sarah struggled with him for a moment, and then all of a sudden, she knew. She could smell it. Boris could smell it.
“Find it,” she whispered to the dog. “Show me where.”
FIFTY-NINE
Boris was doing a kind of canine dance, inching forward and back in front of the elegant white ceramic stove in a corner niche of the Moritz Room. He growled.
“Good dog,” she whispered. “Good dog.”
Sarah moved cautiously to the stove. Boris whimpered.
“Sarah?”
It was Max.
“I think there’s a bomb in here,” she said quietly. Max was at her side in two long strides. Together they opened the stove door.
Inside was a Lobkowicz Palace Museum goodie bag. Sarah would bet her life that this was the one Charlotte Yates had handed off to her Secret Service agent. Sarah reached for it and, barely breathing, looked inside.
She could see a wire, and something blinking.
“Go,” said Max. “Go now. Tell Jana to get everyone out.” He reached inside and withdrew the bag.
“Max,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“Everyone was supposed to gather in this room in fifteen minutes. If it goes off then, a bomb squad will be too late. I’ll take it down to the tunnels. The walls are six feet thick.”
“Are you insane?”
Max straightened. Above him hung the portrait of Moritz, 9th Prince Lobkowicz, dressed in full regalia of the Order of the Golden Fleece.
“Please go now,” he said, and began running from the room with the bag.
“Go get Pols,” she said to the dog. “Go to POLS.” Would he understand? She let go of the leash and Boris took off like a streak of lightning toward the Concert Hall.
Sarah raced back to the Balcony Room, where Jana was arranging some folding chairs.
“Jana, we have a bomb scare. We need to get everyone out and away from the palace as fast as possible but without a panic.” Jana blinked once and then immediately turned to the guests in the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced loudly. “I must ask you to please make your way to the terrace and continue down the steps to the courtyard at once. Please move quickly but with consideration. We have an emergency.” She ran across the room toward the Concert Hall. “Ladies and gentlemen . . .”
Sarah was paralyzed with adrenaline. Would Max run until he hit the end or until the bomb blew up in his face? She should make sure Pols got out okay. She could get crushed, trampled. She might have to shove her way through people to get to her. Sarah could hear Jana shouting instructions in three languages with martial calmness.
Then Sarah remembered the well. She had almost fallen into it, looking for the secret library. It was the perfect place to safely dispose of the bomb. But what if Max fell into it first?
Sarah made her decision. She kicked off her heels and ran toward the stairs and the entrance to the tunnels.
SIXTY
Sarah could hear Max ahead of her as she half-ran, half-stumbled, crouching through the dank tunnel, holding her cell phone before her for the beam of flashlight.
“Max!”
“Get out of here!” Max yelled. “Sarah, go back.”
“There’s a well!” she called. “In one of the tunnels. I saw it. The ground was damp, it came up out of nowhere. Be careful. It just appears.” Suddenly, she was almost on top of him. Max was cradling the bag to his ribs like a football.
“Go,” said Max hoarsely. “There are some stairs here. I’ll go as deep as I can. I don’t even know what’s above us right now, but I’m not going to be known as the prince who blew up Prague Castle. There’s no time.”
He turned away and moved forward out of the light. She heard him grunt, and then the sound of his feet skidding. Was he falling down the well? She inched forward and suddenly found herself skidding as well. Sarah reached out to brace herself against the tunnel walls.
The tunnel was slick as ice and she felt herself sliding out of control, unable to hold on. She could hear Max grunting and sliding below her. The tunnel curved and she was falling straight down. Sarah hit the bottom of something with a thunk, curled herself automatically into a ball and rolled. To her surprise, the darkness of the tunnel was alleviated here; she could see Max’s body outlined thinly, in a heap just ahead of her. The source of light came from a narrow sliver, about three feet across, somewhere around the region of Max’s ankles.
“Max?”
“Sarah?”
The tunnel ended here, clearly. There were no other branches. They were essentially at the bottom of a well. But where was the light coming from? Not her phone, which was only emitting a tiny point light now. She groped forward. Her fingers encountered a smooth groove cut into the stone.
“We can leave the bomb here,” Max said. “But can we get back up?”
Sarah turned and tried to see up the tunnel. “No,” she said.
Sarah moved back to the groove in the stone, her fingers working around the edges.
“Max, I think this is a door.”
Sarah pushed with all her strength against the stone. She wedged her fingers into the groove and pulled. Nothing.
Max set the bag gently down on the ground. They huddled at the entrance of the tunnel, peering up.
“Shit.”
Suddenly a burst of music came flooding through the tunnel. It was so loud that for a moment Sarah thought the bomb had actually gone off. Max pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her.
But they were still alive and the music . . .
Beethoven’s Adagio in F Major for mechanical clock. Being played by a really big organ.
Sarah wriggled out of Max’s arms and moved back to the door, stepping carefully over the bomb. “It’s coming from behind here!” she shouted, over the music. The panicked feeling was back, stronger now.
“Hey!” Max shoute
d into the crack of the door. “Can anyone hear me? There’s a bomb here that’s going to go off! Can you let us out? Hello? Who’s there?”
Sarah slid her hands frantically up and down the stone. All doors had to be opened somehow. A latch, a knob, a hinge. Her hand met a small square depression in the stone. Was this some kind of . . . she shoved her palm against it and heard something click and slide.
Max, unprepared, stumbled as the door swung open. Sarah, also unprepared, fell on top of him. They landed in an awkward tangle of arms and legs, Max holding the white paper goodie bag aloft like an outfielder holding up a caught baseball after a dramatic dive. All around them things were shimmering and glowing even in the pale illumination coming from Sarah’s phone. Sarah found a narrow stairway and climbed it, and came to a door. A door with seven locks.
She came back down the stairs and shone her failing phone flashlight around the large underground space that had been hacked out of rock. Squared-off shapes loomed. Tombs.
“This is not good,” said Max. He removed something from his jacket pocket.
“Is that Suzi’s dueling pistol?” Sarah asked.
“I didn’t know what was going to go down tonight and I couldn’t bring a gun into the palace,” Max answered. “So I grabbed one I already owned.” He set it carefully down on a tomb. “But I don’t think it’s going to help us now.”
Sarah, face-to-face with what she was pretty sure was the Crown of St. Wenceslas, had to agree.
SIXTY-ONE
They had escorted the senator through the subterranean service entrance of the Four Seasons. The lobby, of course, was a much pleasanter entrée, but for security reasons one got used to seeing the machinations behind five-star elegance. Employees pushing l
aundry carts and room service trolleys stepped aside and lowered their heads almost like Victorian servants, Charlotte noted approvingly. She could hear the sound of cutlery banging. She was hungry. She did not enjoy eating publicly anymore. She thought it made her seem weak. At dinner with the prime minister Charlotte had allowed herself only a few discreet forkfuls. Perhaps she should order some room service right away. After the bomb went off, there were liable to be delays, and it would be annoying to have to wait for dinner. The hotel’s restaurant was Italian and boasted a Michelin star. Pasta. Yes, a nice dish of ziti. She would eat in her pajamas and relax. She could probably get a good view of the burning palace from her hotel room window. It would be like watching one of those cute Bourne movies.
Charlotte Yates looked at her watch. Tad should be in place now, outside St. Vitus Cathedral, a safe enough distance from ground zero. Really the bomb should only take out the main floor of Lobkowicz Palace. Of course all the key victims would be gathered to hear Prince Max and the marchesa make their gracious speeches, but a few people might actually survive the thing. Anyone lingering on the second floor would probably be either burned or suffocated by the resulting fires or collapsing building structure, but you never knew. The important thing was that the marchesa was snuffed, and everyone who might have seen the letters or known about them would soon be ash.
Smuggling the bomb in under the skirt of her Valentino had been child’s play. No one was going to dare pat down a senator’s thighs. And then the museum had provided that handy little paper sack. A trip to the restroom, a handoff to Tad, and it was done. She would have liked to keep the earrings, but some things couldn’t be helped. The headlines tomorrow would be terrific. In case anyone was slow on the uptake (and you could never count on journalists to write a story correctly), she had prepared a statement from Al Qaeda taking responsibility for the bomb. “Although we did not achieve our objective in annihilating our prime target, Senator Charlotte Yates, we still celebrate the deaths of the unholy, blah, blah, blah.” This would go viral in about four hours. In the morning, she would be on site to comfort the “victims’” families, despite the threat to her own safety. Who wouldn’t admire her after that? There would be no humiliating primary battles, just a smooth path to the presidency.
