The Bordeaux Connection

by John Paul Davis

  Dvorák – Rusalka, 7:30 p.m., stalls, Row T, Seats 5-6. There was no seating plan on the tickets.

  Kit, meanwhile, quietly eyed Maria’s smart appearance: a black cocktail dress, her long fingernails complementing the colour.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to impress someone,” Kit said.

  Mike looked up from examining the tickets. “I assume at least someone will be coming with us?”

  She smirked. “You really think the civil service are going to fork out for me to see the opera? You guys get all the luck.”

  “You can always come instead of Mike. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  “We understand the Deputy PM is already inside, and enjoying dinner with his wife,” she replied. “Your seats are quite a distance from his, so I’m relying on you to find a way of keeping him in check.”

  “Shame the B2s couldn’t shell out on getting us a box opposite. That way we’d have had the best of both worlds, and you’d have been able to enjoy the opera with us.”

  “Unfortunately it probably wouldn’t have made a difference, this thing’s been sold out for months.”

  “Rather good is it?” Kit asked.

  “Apparently so. Rumour has it even the director of the new Russell Crowe film failed to get a ticket.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “How did you manage?”

  “Tried my luck with a few contacts, failing that I tried corporate. Finally I tried the ticket office.”

  Kit laughed. “So we’re sitting in someone else’s castoffs?”

  “Not exactly.” She touched in her lipstick, using the sun visor mirror for assistance. “It actually turns out they have something called day tickets, about sixty that go on sale the day of the performance. In any case, I doubt you’ll be sitting all the time. It’s a big venue. Too big to survey everything in the boxes from the stalls.”

  “So why are we here?”

  “We’ve got you both inside. We can’t do everything. The rest is up to you.”

  “Keeping an eye on a man of his profile in a box from the other side of an auditorium that holds over 2,000 people is hardly my idea of anything.”

  “You prefer to be outside?”

  “I’d prefer you were in.”

  She bit her lip and smiled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too cross with you. That little toy you installed in his briefcase. Worked like a charm. We’ve been able to eavesdrop on everything. Including one little chat with the PM.”

  “I’m sure the PM won’t approve of that.”

  “Well, he did tell Mr White to leave no stone unturned. If he gets upset, I’ll leave you to do the explaining.” She caught Mike’s eye in the rear-view mirror. “That was some great work in the apartment, by the way. We’ve managed to trace one of the calls to a number in Bordeaux. Interestingly, Mr Hughes was at Dorneywood at the time, so we’re still unclear who used the TV.”

  “Who else has access to his apartment?” Mike asked.

  “Your guess is probably as good as mine at this point – better even. The most important thing is that we do know that Mrs Hughes and her husband are here tonight. Phil’s phone tap came in useful after all.”

  “Anyone coming with them?” Mike asked.

  “Nothing based on his conversation with the PM. However, the boxes on that tier hold four people. In my experience, they’re rarely left unfilled.”

  “Someone in Number 70, I bet. I heard the sound of Dvorák playing all the time I was in the office.”

  That amused Jay. “I never had you down as being into classical. Class fool, maybe.”

  Kit stared into Jay’s eyes via the mirror. “Jay, there’s a bus due in ten minutes, why don’t you get under it?”

  Maria laughed for the first time. “Could be a coincidence. I couldn’t hear it clearly over the phone. Nevertheless, you might have a point. Our earlier suspicions that the box is on permanent reserve have been confirmed. If Mr Hughes does have an extra couple of guests, most likely they’re either people close to him or fellow members of the Cabinet.”

  “No leads?” Mike asked.

  “Even if there were, your job is solely to observe. There’ll be an interval around 20:40. If Mrs Hughes does decide to leave her seat, make damn sure you keep a sharp eye on whoever she talks to. It’s a long shot, but if she is involved it’s important we have our angles covered.”

  She checked her watch. 19:03.

  “You two best be going. Enjoy the show. I’ll be asking questions later.”

  *

  Mike and Kit left the car and headed left where Russell Street ended and Wellington Street and Bow Street joined. Maria had disappeared; the last Mike saw of her, she was heading south-east towards the Strand.

  He assumed someone was picking her up.

  The Royal Opera House was located in the Covent Garden area of London. Dubbed simply “Covent Garden” by the locals, the 2,200-seater auditorium was on the south side of Bow Street in the north of the City of Westminster.

  Mike had never visited the venue before. Like many of Westminster’s world-renowned attractions, the façade was in the Georgian Palladian style with six grand columns supporting a triangular gable. The original house, so Mike understood from Kit and Google, had burned down, as had the replacement. The present day construction, currently in front of him, was on the same site where the original had been built in the 1730s and was internationally celebrated as the home of The Royal Opera, The Royal Ballet, the Royal Opera Chorus, and the Royal Opera House Orchestra.

  Kit and Mike crossed the road to the north side of Bow Street, pausing briefly to look around. Night was falling and the uniform soft yellow glow of the streetlights was almost entirely obscured by the bright star-like quality of the illumination of the Opera House.

  The crowds had gathered. Suited gentlemen, bow ties set tightly round their collars, walked the street with pomp and ceremony, many escorting well-dressed ladies towards the main entrance, some stopping to examine the famed Enzo Plazzotta statue of the Young Dancer before crossing the road. In the heavy volume of traffic, both of vehicles and people, many drivers took advantage of the delays to allow their finely dressed occupants to alight right in front of the theatre.

  Mike felt out of place. Though visually he looked the part, the jacket, the shoes, the trousers, the shirt – according to Kit, the whole package a £650 combined bill to the taxpayer – there was something about opera that had never sat right with him. There was a buzz in the air, but different to what he was used to. There was no singing or chanting or men consuming lagers or hotdogs as he expected of a day at Villa Park or a frequent away day at another premier league ground. Nor was it his usual style of concert. Absent were the merchandise retailers, traders selling knock offs out of a case while others queued for the real thing at five times the price; also absent were the touts offering to sell or buy. It wasn’t like the atmosphere he’d experienced the night before either. Edinburgh had had a unique ambience, different to the other missions he’d been on. All the thieves had been armed; the cargo they’d managed to salvage had been lined with stolen art and guns. He liked those missions above the others; they were the ones where you knew where you stood, where the enemy stood out, the targets, usually, self-explanatory.

  Tonight, on the other hand, was the type he hated. Nothing compromised a mission like crowds; worse still the highbrow. Somehow they always managed to get in the way, a magnet for delays. As he crossed the road, the masses ambling leisurely towards the main entrance, a vastly overweight woman in a dark green dress made him stop in his tracks as she leaned in towards a stranger’s baby as its mother wheeled the pram across the street.

  “Oh isn’t he the cutest?”

  Bumping into her was unavoidable.

  “Excuse me.” Mike nodded and looked away quickly, doing his best not to be diverted. Beside him, Kit saw everything.

  “Subtlety, Michael. You should always buy a lady dinner first.”

  *

 
Inside, the opera house was filling up. The main lights were on, shining down from the gods, illuminating the aisles where people came and went in a steady flow. The stalls area was a sea of red, interrupted occasionally by groups of people chatting quietly and soaking up the atmosphere in the comfortable seats. The stage itself was a wealth of colour: the grand curtains were firmly shut, their maroon coatings complemented by gold linings. From the outer trimmings to the opulent furnishings, the character was ornately regal. The insignia of the Royal Family decorated both curtains in the bottom corner and the house’s coat of arms was sighted prominently above the stage and on the Royal Box on the grand tier.

  Four boxes on, four padded chairs were presently unoccupied. There were no smartly dressed spectators sitting chatting or browsing through a programme. Most of the guests on that floor were frequenting the stunning dining room, accessible only to those with relevant tickets. It was an old tradition in these parts.

  The best way to enjoy opera was on a full stomach.

  In a less crowded area situated in the old vaulted dressing rooms, two men and their glamorous wives were enjoying a particularly intimate dinner. Unlike the popular restaurant on the amphitheatre deck and the famous Crush Room, decorated in the Flemish style of the 1600s, the small white-walled room was reserved only for the select few. While the men were dressed as expected for the occasion, their smart suits of earlier that day replaced by elaborate tuxedos, the women had both opted for cocktail dresses, though of different styles. The more flamboyant of the two, famed in certain circles for her non-thriftiness, wore a subtle blue dress that complemented the choice of silver earrings that dangled elegantly beneath her brown hair. The appearance of the blonde woman, who sat alongside her husband and opposite the well-dressed man with balding grey hair, was far more modest. The subtle purple dress blended in well with the surroundings. Like most of the women she wore jewellery, but in lesser quantities. For Lavinia Hughes, there was a time for discretion. The Deputy PM was aware of the carping and sniggering comments about her past life – particularly from members of the opposition – but even if some came too close for comfort, he knew his wife had heard them all before. Perhaps, invented some of them.

  But times change, even if thoughts don’t. What was once considered elegant can later be considered comical. It was the way of the world – one of the cruel tricks of time. The light of the dining room, despite its modest size, was an observer’s paradise. What the wrong dress failed to hide, light could reveal in its entirety. In such circles, critics were at their greatest vigilance, waiting like vultures, ready to strike.

  The Deputy PM glanced at his wife, her pink lipstick an unbroken seal as she cleaned her palate with a sorbet. Tonight she looked at her loveliest. He smiled at her and glanced at the clock.

  “The performance will be starting in twenty minutes.”

  The other man smiled. “Excellent. That leaves just enough time for dessert.”

  *

  Backstage the hubbub was reaching fever pitch.

  The final minutes before a performance were always anxious times. Stagehands moved in every direction, costume girls ducked in and out of doors. Most of the performers were still in their dressing rooms, their eyes focused on the mirrors or conducting voice exercises to make sure everything was perfect for the real thing. Most of the instruments were already set up in the orchestra pit, awaiting the arrival of the musicians.

  The cellist had seen it all before, even in this venue. In a twenty-year career he’d toured the world, experiencing everything from being an understudy to a stand-in conductor.

  But not tonight. Instead, the padded seat that cushioned his back and lower body was one reserved purely for customers. The left side of the stalls circle was a decent place to sit, all things considered, close to the orchestra and the stage, and close to an aisle, but not too high up. In his experience, the grand tier was the very best place to enjoy a performance; tonight, however, that would not only be superfluous, but, potentially, counter-productive. A view from higher up might be something that many would envy, but there was one thing the grand tier didn’t facilitate so readily.

  Escape.

  9

  Mike felt a light tap on his shoulder as he headed for the main doors.

  “I almost forgot, these are for you.” Maria was standing behind him, holding a leather case. She passed it to him. “They might come in useful.”

  Mike opened it, revealing a set of opera glasses.

  Kit was unimpressed. “How far back are we?”

  A wry smile. “Phil said they’d come in handy. Enjoy the show, boys.”

  Maria disappeared amongst the crowd, heading north. Mike, meanwhile, removed the miniature binoculars from the case and examined them as they walked. Despite clear evidence of modern additions, including computerised features around the eyepieces, the style was typically 19th century lorgnette, mother of pearl, and clearly original. There was a set of buttons close to the right eyepiece; Mike pushed the first and was immediately lost for words. Out of keeping with the Victorian appearance, each eyepiece incorporated a 25x zoom, infrared and night-vision capability and a digital distance gauge.

  He showed them to Kit. “At least one of us will be able to see the stage.”

  “In that case, you can be the one who keeps to the seats.”

  *

  The lobby and foyer areas were packed, as were the gangways. An announcement came through the speaker system, accompanied by a fanfare, informing the operagoers that the performance was about to begin and that guests should begin making their way to their seats. Mike led the way, following the crowds and the signs along a narrow carpeted concourse and through a doorway that led into the orchestra stalls.

  The seats were exactly what Kit had expected. Row T, Seats 5 and 6, on the floor and close to the back. Though the seats were comfortable and the view clear, Kit guessed they were among the worst in the house.

  Mike checked his watch. 19:27. Three minutes until the performance was due to begin. Above them, the grand tier, the balcony boxes and the amphitheatre were full to capacity, the final influx of guests taking their seats. In front of them in the orchestra stalls, the ocean of red that had greeted the early guests was now a multitude of colour: dinner dresses, cocktail dresses, hats, scarves, fedoras, interrupted by consistent smatterings of penguin suits.

  The large attendance aside, the first thing that caught Mike’s attention was how lavish everything was; every tier was gilded and painted with murals, and illuminated by candelabra-style wall lights that caused a consistent glow effect, complementing the lining of the famous domed ceiling that reminded him of the basilicas in Rome. Maria had referred to the venue as the place where magic happened.

  The statement felt peculiarly apt.

  Mike removed the opera lenses from the leather case and experimented with its capabilities. With the main house lights on, the infrared and night-vision settings were both redundant, but the distance gauge worked perfectly. From their seats to the stage the display read 38m; 33m to the beginning of the orchestra pit. The furthest point from their seats was the ceiling that fluctuated between the high fifties and low sixties. He concentrated on the grand tier, the first tier from the ground. From what he had gathered from Maria, the Deputy PM and his wife were sitting in a box on the right side, four along from the so-called Royal Box.

  Three of the seats in that area appeared to be taken.

  *

  The Deputy Prime Minister had been in his seat less than a minute before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “You know, I can’t tell you how delighted I am we were able to do this. Dvorák has always been something of a weakness of mine and this is the great man’s best. Tell me, are you familiar with his work?”

  The Deputy PM smiled, his eyes taking in the familiar features of the man sitting behind him. The man’s name was Richard Pickering, formerly Secretary of State for Justice.

  More recently appointed Foreign Secretary.
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  “Mozart and Handel have always been my favourites. Though I must admit, I’ve always had a soft spot for the Sinfonía Number Nine.”

  “Ah, a connoisseur, I see. Have you seen it before?”

  “The piece or the venue?”

  “Well, both I suppose.”

  “The opera house and I are old friends. Aunty Pat used to bring me here when I was a child. I must admit, I didn’t share the same passion back then I do now.”

  “How about for Dvorák?”

  “Once, I think. Though, again, I must confess whatever I saw I now remember little of it.” He turned fully in his seat. “You’ll know far more, I expect.”

  Pickering smiled, his white teeth practically glowing against the lighted backdrop. “Compared to the average man, maybe; then again, I have been told there are some in my constituency who would consider a bar crawl in Prague a good alternative to wine tasting. But I daresay, I’m out of my depth in the current company.”

  The Deputy PM laughed graciously, as he felt a presence to his right. His wife had arrived. She seated herself awkwardly and reached into her bag for her opera glasses.

  “I was just telling Richard about my trips here when I was young. I suppose you attended more than I.”

  “I’m not ignorant, if that’s what you mean.” She smiled. “At least, so my boyfriend keeps telling me.”

  The Deputy PM looked over his shoulder. “I hope Rachel isn’t long. I’d hate for her to be caught with the lights out.”

  The Foreign Secretary smiled. “You know, I did warn her about the menu. Woman’s a terror for mussels.”

  *

  Mike had spent the last minute staring at Box 63 through the opera glasses. The view on full zoom was impressive. Phil had done a good job creating something with so little camera shake.

  “Do you see anything?” Kit asked from his left.

  Mike handed over the glasses. “See for yourself.”

  Kit removed his black-rimmed spectacles and put the opera lenses to his eyes. Sure enough, the Deputy Prime Minister was sitting in the front row, alongside his wife, who was dressed impeccably in an elegant purple dress. Beyond them was a balding, grey-haired man, aged around fifty, attired in a black tuxedo.