by Steve Cole
‘Your voice. Ruskie, are you?’ The doorman’s look of incredulity hardened to suspicion. ‘Elmhirst warned us you might find your way in here. The anarchist couple . . .’
I knew it. James’s heart sank. He’s already turned everyone against us. However much we protest, we’ll never be believed. ‘Listen, I can prove what I say,’ James said quickly. ‘We have a stick of hexogen hidden in the basement storeroom, right next to where the emergency generator is kept—’
‘That’s enough.’ The doorman reached under his jacket for his gun, but Anya launched herself forward and grabbed his other arm, spun him round in a tight circle – and James’s fist connected hard with his jaw. The man staggered back and James followed up with a punch to the solar plexus that brought the man to his knees. Anya snatched up the Derringer pistol and brought the butt down on the back of his neck.
James felt a twinge of guilt at their systematic destruction of the doorman, but quickly removed the uniform. ‘There’s no time to convince anyone of the truth,’ he said, mind made up. ‘We’re going to have to think of something else.’
Anya didn’t answer. She had noticed a playlist pinned to a board on the wall beside her, the scenic designer’s varying needs scrawled beside each point. ‘At the end of this act,’ she said, ‘after the soprano has sung “Un Bel Di Vedremo” – “One Fine Day” – there is a ballet performance. An extract from the second act of Giselle.’
James was only half listening, struggling into the doorman’s jacket. ‘The one that you danced in before?’
‘Yes. It is the scene where Giselle’s spirit rises from the underworld . . .’ Anya frowned. ‘The lady with the veil, she thinks she is clever. All these performances concern death – the Dying Swan, “When I Am Laid in Earth” from Dido and Aeneas . . . and, James, look.’
‘What?’
‘The first act will close with Queen Gertrude’s monologue from Hamlet, Act Four, Scene Seven.’
‘So?’
‘The announcement of Ophelia’s death . . . by drowning.’ Anya looked at James. ‘Could that be the moment when the fuse is lit?’
‘Perhaps . . .’ James imagined the scene as the explosion rocked the auditorium, shook the chandeliers from the ceilings; as mass panic broke out, Elmhirst would seize the advantage and hurry the King away via the ‘approved’ escape route, where there would be no witnesses – to his death.
‘How long will this first act last?’ James asked quickly.
‘Perhaps forty-five minutes?’
‘Damn it, is that all?’ He winced. ‘Well, I can think of only one way to upset La Velada’s plan right now.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It won’t stop her, but until we find someone who can, it’s the only thing I can think of.’
Anya looked at him. ‘Well?’
‘I . . .’ James took a deep breath and looked down at the Derringer. ‘I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’
30
World and Underworld
DRESSED IN HIS stolen doorman’s uniform, despite the short trouser legs, James had not been challenged as he moved through the Opera House. Now he stood on the mirrored first-floor landing, overlooking the busy entrance foyer. Glittering chandeliers, looking like diamanté spinning tops, lit the spacious, eggshell-blue Crush Bar that ran across the front face of the building.
As quickly and discreetly as he could, James was pouring the dregs of several leftover brandies into a single glass. He prayed that Anya would go through with his plan, that she wouldn’t baulk at the last moment. If they didn’t act in concert, they would fail.
James knew that a second chance was unlikely. The act would close as planned, and Ophelia’s drowning could well trigger London’s.
Boldly, he picked up a silver tray, placed his highball glass upon it, then carried it down the grand staircase, through the ivory and mahogany lobby with its bronze-capped pillars, and out onto Bow Street.
Such sweet air! The evening was warm, the night kept at bay by the electric brightness from windows, headlights and streetlamps. The sounds of music, street traders and traffic filled his ears as the mingling smells of Covent Garden Market, florists, tea shops and exhaust fumes caught in his nose. A London night like so many others: familiar and exciting – and precious too, James realized, because if he couldn’t succeed, there might never be another.
Quickly he turned the corner onto Floral Street and approached the Royal Suite’s private entrance. A stocky man, in his thirties perhaps, with a round face and neat ginger hair, was standing inside in a dress suit, black against the white and gold, his arms folded in a forbidding manner.
James didn’t hesitate. He walked up to the door and pulled it open.
At once the man stepped forward to challenge him.
‘Someone ordered this,’ James said.
‘No drinks in the auditorium,’ said the doorman.
James lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Bar got the order from one of your lot ahead of the interval – a Mr Adam Elmhirst? Said he could get away with bending the rules.’
‘That sounds like him. Bloody SIS, treading on our toes, pleasing themselves.’ The man smiled and gestured to the staircase. ‘All right. Take it up to my colleague on the door upstairs.’
‘Thanks.’ James kept his face neutral, but inside, fear and adrenalin sent electricity through his body. As he climbed the splendid white staircase, he thought again that his timing would have to be perfect, and if Anya didn’t come through for him . . .
It’ll be the death of me.
James felt in his pocket for the old Beretta that had passed from Anya’s father to his. As he gripped it, he felt a real connection to Andrew Bond. He could almost imagine him standing here now, watching this drama, begun four years ago, edge second by second to its final act.
I wanted you and Mother to live for ever, James thought. Every child wants that, don’t they? Think of all we could have done and shared together.
But it’s not only the way we live that defines us; it’s what we die for.
He climbed to the top of the stairs.
In the gloom of the under-stage area, Anya dabbed tears from her eyes with dirty fingers. She’d knocked out a stagehand, his body sprawled at her feet, but her tears were not for him, nor for the violence she’d been made to witness and, in turn, perform.
Her tears were not for the beauty of the music score she knew so well, but had not listened to in years, nor even for the principal dancer who would soon join her down here in the darkness. The girl must be making ready for her grand entrance as Giselle, all set to rise up through the trapdoor beside her grave as if summoned by the undead spirits of the Wilis, the dancing spectres who clung to an afterlife, driving men to their deaths. Anya knew this moment would be the high point of the young girl’s life, the start of a glittering career. No, Anya cried because she would soon overpower this girl and take away her dream, and she was afraid for herself, that she would feel nothing.
A soft movement stage right. Ah, here was the girl! Tall and beautiful, no doubt dressed in her white tulle like Anya, her face covered with an ivory veil. She looked like a virginal La Velada.
‘Who are you?’ the newcomer asked.
Anya pulled the Derringer from the waistband of her skirt and pointed it at her. ‘Be silent,’ she hissed, wondering how she would bind and gag the girl while holding the gun. But the problem was solved when the prima ballerina fainted dead to the floor.
Anya couldn’t help but scoff a little as she pulled away the veil and looked at the girl’s dark hair and fine cheekbones. ‘Yes. Very young, very beautiful.’ She closed her eyes, but a tear squeezed out just the same. ‘I’m sorry, little girl. It is not your fault. I am sorry.’ Anya wiped fiercely at her eyes, placed the veil over her face and pulled a decorator’s dust sheet over the bodies before calling backstage, ‘Hello? There’s no stagehand – how am I to make my entrance above . . .?’
Another man appeared, looking around crossly for the person she’d already
dealt with. ‘He should be here. I’ll kill him.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Anya said quietly, standing in place on the platform. The stagehand didn’t suspect the switch – why would he? On a one-off night like this the stage was dizzy with dancers. But those above her on the stage now, those trained, hungry, ambitious ballerinas, they would know.
And they’ll see, Anya thought. See that I cannot move as they do. Not any more. Nerves began to buzz fiercely, and she felt her neck flush. Her legs ached and throbbed, suddenly worse than ever.
No, she thought fiercely. I have carried myself this far, run all the way from the jaws of death and back again.
I can do this.
‘Break a leg, love,’ the stagehand murmured as he pulled on the lever working the pulleys that propelled Anya upwards from the darkness, like Giselle, into . . .
Into the glare of the footlights, blazing like suns, and the shrouded shape of the seated audience beyond. For a long breathless moment she stood there, adjusting to the shock. The other girls, the Wilis, had turned from her as the age-old choreography dictated: only Myrtha, the Queen of the Wilis, was facing her from across the stage, summoning her to the shadow world.
Become the character, Madame had always said. Anya knew that Giselle’s first movements as she emerged from her grave were always very slow and measured. Just as well, since her legs felt like they would drop her with each step. But as she looked out over the sea of people, felt the gaze of rulers and royalty upon her from the finery of the Royal Box, it was as if something was coming back to life.
As she paused in the middle of the stage, with one arm raised and leaning forward with one leg bent à fondu, it was as if the moment was gathering itself just as she was. She couldn’t remove her veil, not without giving herself away, but almost on instinct as the music swelled around her, Anya – Giselle – launched into a series of hopping, spinning movements with one leg raised behind her. She felt heavy and clumsy, but her legs held. They held. The dance was trapped in her muscle memory, and the joy she felt as she released it . . . From stage right to left she performed small, quick jumps in series, ending with the two turning leaps at which she had always excelled. But she stumbled on the second jeté élancé and felt herself waver as she launched into the quick series of chaine turns. Her veil fell away, and her face was revealed. The other dancers, the audience, the orchestra, the King of England, they were all watching Giselle become Anya. Poor, ruined Anya.
No. That is not true. She abandoned her final arabesque, sprang back to her plywood gravestone and pulled out the Derringer she’d hidden there. Giselle only ever saved one soul, her beloved Albrecht, before returning to the grave. Now, perhaps, Anya Kalashnikova might just save thousands.
She made for the front of the stage.
James found a security guard standing outside the panelled doors to the anteroom that led to the Royal Box. The man had his fists clenched, keeping an eye out for trouble.
‘You,’ he called to James. ‘What do you want?’
‘Brandy.’ James checked the fob-watch and pointed to the drink on the tray. ‘Ordered by Adam Elmhirst.’
‘You sure?’ The man eyed the drink, licking his lips. ‘He can’t drink on duty. He’s guarding the King . . .’
‘All I know is, I’m meant to deliver this for Mr Elmhirst to enjoy in the interval.’ Inside the auditorium the music of the orchestra was faltering, dying out in confusion. Something’s happening on stage, James thought. Anya’s doing it! Just as I knew she could.
‘Give that here,’ the man said. ‘I’ll make sure he gets it.’
‘That’s good of you.’ James smiled. The time had come. ‘I really want to let him have it . . .’ He started towards the man and raised his voice. ‘Drink for Adam Elmhirst – with the compliments of Andrew Bond!’ The sentry brought out his gun to challenge him, but James threw the drink in his face and smashed the tray down on his gun hand; the man fired but the shot hit his foot and he fell backwards with a cry.
James kicked open the doors to the anteroom, saw the entrance to the Royal Box. A large mirror hung on one wall, affording a reflected view of the stage for those seated at the rear; in it James glimpsed the King himself, with Elmhirst and his men just behind, whirling round to face him.
Elmhirst held his weapon at the ready to gun James down.
On the stage, the other dancers milled about in disarray as Anya barged through them. She glimpsed the dark, gaunt figure of La Velada in the wings, stage right. Sick with fear, tears threatening to overwhelm her, Anya raised her gun in the air and fired it. The crack of the pistol echoed out, silenced the orchestra, brought a sharp and dreadful hush down upon the auditorium.
How ironic, she thought, that the only thing that might save King George was for Anya to fake a threat to his life.
She bellowed into that silence, ‘Death to the King!’ and fired again. A collective scream went up and shook the auditorium, twisted applause for her performance. Anya stood, staring up at the Royal Box as its occupants were either brought down to the floor or hauled away. The front rows erupted, well-heeled figures scrambling for the aisles in horror.
Anya had fulfilled her side of the bargain. Her performance was ended. Be on time, James, she thought, and leaped from the stage in a grand jeté before security could catch her.
At the sound of Anya’s gunshot and rallying call, Elmhirst turned back in surprise, gun lowered for a moment. James flipped the round tray through the air and struck him on the side of the head. The agent staggered back against the mirror, cracking it, and James turned and ran out of the anteroom. Catch me if you can . . .
A bullet blew splinters from the top of the ornamental staircase as James hurled himself down the stairs. ‘Priorities, Elmhirst!’ he shouted. ‘While you’re shooting at me . . . what about your day job?’
‘Death to the King!’ Anya’s shout electrified the auditorium, and – in Elmhirst’s absence – the King’s remaining bodyguards acted to protect their charge. James stopped halfway down the stairs to the lobby; the red-haired doorman had heard the disruption and brought his gun to bear, ready to fire. But he had no choice but to lower it again as King George V himself appeared, bundled away down the stairs by two loyal men. As they pushed past James, intent on their rescue, the doorman ran to the ornate lobby doors and opened them so that they could race straight out. James ran after them as if towed along in their wake.
‘No!’ Elmhirst now appeared at the top of the stairs, ashen-faced at the loss of his prize. The rattled doorman swung round at the noise, gun at the ready – only to be blown backwards as Elmhirst fired again with a bellow of frustration. James glimpsed the man land on his back – eyes staring, a hole drilled through his chest – and kept running, out into the night.
Was that bullet meant for me? he wondered. Either way, the next one will be.
James watched gratefully as the King was borne into the back of a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost parked across the street. The first stirring winds of a summer storm plucked at James’s hair and clothes as, with a throaty roar, the motor car tore away, taking the monarch to real safety even as Elmhirst burst out of the private entrance. He ran after the vehicle, frantically waving his gun arm. Don’t stop for him, James willed the chauffeur, whatever you do . . .
The Silver Ghost turned the corner, and Elmhirst abandoned his mad flight. Other dignitaries from the Royal Box were starting to emerge into Floral Street with the sentry who’d shot himself in the foot. James turned smartly away, making for the main entrance. We did it, he thought breathlessly. We saved the King, just me and Anya—
His elation faded as a panicked crowd came bursting out of the main auditorium, stampeding through every exit in a wild rush for the safety of the blustery night. James marshalled the little energy he had left and began to push his way through this desperate monster of his own making, back inside the foyer. The sheer volume of people, pushing, clawing and trampling each other, intent on escape at all costs, left him shaken a
nd frustrated as he shouldered his way through a choked doorway, back inside the auditorium. Someone was on stage appealing for calm and order, but no one was listening – least of all James.
He had to find Anya. He had no idea if she was at large or had been captured by security, but he decided to make for the set shop where they’d first emerged into the Opera House, the gateway to the underground passage leading down to the trigger and its colossal fuse . . . It had to be shown to the proper authorities. If Anya was able, she’d surely be making her way there now.
Keeping close to the side walls, forcing his way through the throng, James supposed with a cold dread that La Velada would be headed there too. And what of the other players? Where was Mimic now – and Elmhirst? He’d lost the King but was still at liberty.
And beneath the Opera House, the fuse that would ignite this last great wickedness was still waiting to be lit. He couldn’t imagine his enemies cutting their losses to escape into the night.
The endgame, James knew, had finally come.
31
To Pull the Trigger
JAMES MADE HIS way through backstage chaos, tripping over ballerinas and pushing past panicking stagehands, sweating, exhilarated, praying that he would be in time to finally end the conspiracy his father had tried so desperately to destroy.
Reaching the set store, he saw that the door to the emergency generator room stood wide open, and so did the hidden door to the staircase inside. He’d hoped, forlornly, that he might find Anya here waiting for him, but no. Sadness turned to weary fear as he saw that Demir had gone, but at least the stick of hexogen explosive still lay in the crate where he’d left it. James decided to take it with him – who knew how many tricks La Velada might have up her black silken sleeve? He would feel better for having one or two himself.
Panting for breath and sweating hard, James pulled off the doorman’s jacket and began the long trek down. He ran along the ramp, then took the steps as quickly as he could, ignoring the stitch in his side, the thick, iron tang in his dry mouth, and the cramp creeping into his muscles. He pictured the stockpile down below, looming in the darkness like some sinister pagan totem, waiting to deliver death to thousands . . .
