LETHAL SCORE

by Mannock, Mark

  “Well, there you go,” said Greatrex.

  “There you go,” I repeated mindlessly. “It certainly is a strange sort of peaceful protest that involves attacking and shooting at an unarmed man and planting military-grade explosives in a nuclear reactor.”

  “Even stranger that the situation has been covered up,” observed the big fella.

  “Asian shadow theater,” was my response. “Silhouettes maneuvering behind screens.”

  “I will have to talk to Elena,” I continued. “There is no other way around it. Everything hangs on that. We need answers that only she can give. It’s most likely Antonio Ascardi has absolutely nothing to do with this. There is even a strong possibility he is being set up.”

  Greatrex looked at me as though I was a child struggling with a difficult concept. “To ask her anything, you will need to find her.”

  I paused for a second. “No, I won’t,” I responded. “I won’t have to look for her at all because she’s going to find me. That’s how she operates.”

  I got up from my chair and walked over to the window. The sky was clouding over, but the beauty of the river view was not lost. Nor was the frantic heartbeat of a city full of life; Londoners and tourists alike braced themselves against the winter chill as they scurried to attend to their affairs. I took another sip of my drink. I could feel that Elena—mysterious soul, the elusive provocateur—was out there somewhere. I knew she was not done with me yet. I also knew that she would find me whether I wanted her to or not.

  Despite Greatrex’s sarcasm, there was no doubt I was consumed by my Achilles’ heel, curiosity. Even though I knew this girl meant trouble, I was sure there was a bigger issue to explore.

  The problem was that, despite my outward protests, I knew I would probably welcome not only Elena but also perhaps the trouble she brought with her.

  Chapter 8

  It was just after 3 p.m. as we stood outside the Royal Opera House in London’s Covent Garden. To say the building was impressive was an injustice. I was in awe as I eyeballed the majestic Roman columns spiraling upwards toward the beveled eaves and the grand balcony suspended above the entrance like a regal guardian. This was a place where kings and queens had championed their chosen artists for centuries. History was unveiling itself before me.

  As Patrick Jay and I pushed through the opera house’s front doors, the foyer struck me as equally impressive. Plush red carpets and gold-embossed railings suggested luxurious formality. The wide staircase under a majestic archway promised an experience that those performing would have to honor. As we paused to digest the atmosphere, a short, balding man in an expensive-looking charcoal designer suit appeared out of nowhere.

  “Mr. Sharp, Mr. Olden, it is a pleasure to welcome you here. I am Norbert Fontana, Mr. Ascardi’s personal assistant here in London. Mr. Ascardi has asked me to make your visit to this wonderful venue as memorable as possible.”

  We shook hands, and Norbert Fontana raised an arm to lead us toward a closed door on the far side of the foyer.

  “This way please, gentlemen. Ms. Byrne is in the greenroom backstage. Mr. Ascardi will join us later, after he has fulfilled some business commitments.”

  We followed.

  “This sure is a long way from an Uluru desert sunset,” said Patrick Jay.

  “About as far away as you can get,” I agreed, surveying the grandness before me.

  It had been over forty-eight hours since my return from Scotland, and nothing more had eventuated. No contact from Elena and nothing more in the news regarding the events at Cinaed. As perplexing as the situation was, I was starting to doubt that anything further was going to happen.

  It was time for a change of focus. Our London performance was tonight, and we were here to do a job. There was a sound check to be done and a show to prepare for.

  Fontana led us down a series of corridors, left, then right then who knows where. We followed him through the labyrinth until finally we entered a large sitting room furnished with generous couches, comfortable armchairs, and a bar. The surrounding industry-green walls were tempered by a series of ornate paintings tracing the building’s cultural heritage and punctuated by large framed mirrors. You couldn’t go astray allowing for a performer’s vanity. It almost felt like we hadn’t left the Savoy.

  The beautiful Aislinn Byrne was perched on a sofa across the room; she was looking very much like the elegant leading lady that she was.

  “Hi, Aislinn,” said Patrick Jay. “What about this place?”

  “It’s glorious,” she responded. “I can’t wait to stand on that stage and feel the presence of all those greats who have performed here before us.”

  I sat down next to Aislinn; Patrick Jay lounged on a chair.

  “Well, you may have to wait a little longer than you expected,” echoed the voice of Jack Greatrex as he appeared in the doorway. “I’m afraid there are a few technical issues with the sound system. Nothing major, but it will probably take an hour or so to sort them out. It looks like some unauthorized idiot has messed around with the wiring.” Greatrex disappeared down the corridor as quickly as he had arrived.

  Rather than look crestfallen, both Aislinn and Patrick Jay appeared as though they were ready to settle in with caviar and Cristal. No diva tantrums here.

  I got up from the sofa, feeling restless. I’d been edgy for a couple of days now. A distraction was called for.

  Obviously sensing my unease, Norbert Fontana, who until now had been standing quietly in a corner of the room, made a suggestion. “Mr. Sharp, would you like to take this unexpected opportunity for a personal tour of the building? Mr. Ascardi is very well connected here. I’m sure we could arrange access anywhere you wanted to go. Oh … and of course anyone else who would like to join us.”

  I didn’t think he expected a positive response from Patrick Jay or Aislinn, and nor did he get one.

  “I’m fine here,” said Aislinn.

  “Likewise,” echoed Patrick Jay.

  Fontana looked directly at me.

  “Mr. Sharp?”

  “Why not,” I answered. “Let’s go.”

  As it turned out, Norbert Fontana was a terrific tour guide. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about this grand old building, and what he didn’t know was provided by an older gentleman called Cedrick, who had joined us. Cedrick had apparently worked at the Royal Opera House for thirty-seven years. He knew the building and its history forward and backward. He also had keys to access all areas.

  Walking through the massive backstage rehearsal chambers was like gliding through a parallel universe. Sets, props, and costumes seemed to beg you to listen to their story. The space was large enough to host its own performance. Fontana spoke of the venue’s recent history. “Not too long ago there was a major rebuild and remodeling of the entire building.”

  “It took years and cost millions,” added Cedrick, “but the result is a world-class modern facility cloaked in the guise of an historic landmark.”

  As we headed toward the main stage, where Greatrex worked on my keyboard rig, Cedrick stopped and pointed his hand upward.

  “This is the fly tower,” he said.

  I craned my neck to get a look.

  Cedrick continued. “It spans fifteen stories to facilitate the largest of sets and backdrops.”

  The black void above me was seductive. A tall metallic canyon soared into the darkness. Racks of lighting towers, scaffolding, and gantries formed on all sides. It was something like the heart of the Death Star.

  Norbert Fontana seemed to sense my fascination. “How are you with heights, Mr. Sharp?”

  Memories of hot roofs and exposed hilltops in Iraq flashed through my mind, only now I didn’t have an M40 sniper rifle in my hand.

  “Mr. Sharp?”

  “Not bad,” I responded, snapping out of my daydream. “I’ve done a little work in elevated situations.”

  Fontana smiled.

  “We don’t normally do this,” said Cedrick, “but Mr. Fontan
a has made arrangements that allow me to take you up to the rooftop of the fly tower. It has one of the best views in London.”

  I looked at them both. “Again, why not?” I answered. “As long as we have time.”

  “Oh, we’ll have time,” responded Fontana with certainty.

  “Lead the way,” I instructed.

  Twenty minutes later, after ascending the fly tower by a series of stairs and a lift, we found ourselves on a gantry overlooking the metallic canyon we had previously been surveying from the ground. From fifteen stories up, I had a heavenly perspective on the Bard’s words about all the world’s men and women being players on a stage.

  “Quite something, isn’t it, Mr. Sharp?” asked Fontana.

  I couldn’t argue with him.

  “Come this way,” instructed Cedrick as he led us along a high gantry toward a locked door.

  A moment later, he had pulled some keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and was leading us up the remaining few stairs. He opened the final door, and light flooded into the darkened space in which we stood. “The rooftop,” he announced.

  We passed through the door and out onto the roof of the building. To our left was some plant machinery covered in some sort of tin housing; the rest of the rooftop was clear. There was a parapet all the way around to ensure the safety of the few people who ventured up this high.

  As we walked around, from every angle we could see the famous buildings and iconic monuments that were London’s signature. To the south was the Thames, leading down to the Tower Bridge; to the west were St James Park and Buckingham Palace. Virtually adjacent to the building where we stood was the Covent Garden Market.

  “Take your time, Mr. Sharp,” said Norbert Fontana. “Enjoy the experience. Not many people are granted this opportunity.”

  He was right: this was a rare privilege, and despite a blustering winter wind cutting though my exposed skin, I was glad to be there.

  All good things must end. Thirty minutes later, we were back down on the stage level and I was thanking Norbert Fontana and Cedrick for their time.

  Greatrex walked hurriedly around the corner. “Good timing, Nick; we’re ready to do the sound check.” Tour over—time to get to work.

  The applause of the crowd washed us in a sea of acclamation. We had just finished our final piece, and Patrick Jay and I were standing either side of Aislinn, soaking in the atmosphere. Looking out from the stage, it seemed like the room was wallpapered with people, all the way up to the ornate circular ceiling. People in the balconies were clapping, those in the stalls were cheering. It seemed like we had won quite a few hearts. Patrick, Aislinn, and I looked at each other. Our smiles were not forced; we were feeling good. We had just played the Royal Opera House in London. Not bad for this former marine from Venice Beach, California.

  Off to the side of the stage, I noticed Antonio Ascardi grinning and applauding vigorously; next to him Norbert Fontana was doing the same. I could even see old Cedrick just in the shadows, smiling and clapping. Music for all people.

  We took another bow and left the stage. The audience kept applauding, but we had already performed an encore. As the saying goes, “Leave them wanting more.”

  Ascardi was the first to greet us; after all, he was footing the bill. “Bravo, bravo. You three are magic,” he enthused as he kissed Aislinn on the cheek. “Just listen to that crowd.” The audience were still carrying on. It was hard for us not to be affected by their reaction.

  “Well done,” said Fontana, as he shook our hands.

  I looked around for Jack Greatrex. In a world of gushing fans, Greatrex was the one I could always count on for an honest appraisal of a performance. I saw him standing on the other side of the stage, holding his hands out in the classic “two thumbs up” pose. We must have been all right then.

  Antonio Ascardi announced, “After you shower and greet some well-wishers, I am taking you out to dinner. One of my favorite restaurants, Rules, is just around the corner, and they are reserving a private room for us.” It was more of a command than an invitation.

  I sat across the table from Tony Ascardi, quietly observing him as he spoke animatedly to Aislinn Byrne on one side and Patrick Jay on the other. He was again holding court, and again we were his audience. From his excessive manner, you would think that it was he who had just performed onstage at the Royal Opera House. It didn’t matter; everyone had enjoyed the sumptuous meal, and contagious laughter rippled around the table. My own appreciation centered on the expensive scotch in my hand.

  “Paris next. They will adore you, it will be ‘amour,’” Ascardi said, over-gesticulating as he spoke. Everyone laughed some more.

  I was still finding Ascardi hard to read. At times like this he was the gregarious extrovert. Other times I’d seen him zone in on the minutest details, repeatedly checking figures over and over, ensuring the logic of the results provided were to his standard. Earlier I noticed him giving the ticketing manager for the concert a not-too-subtle grilling. Like the wine incident, it was done quietly, not for show. I supposed his was an empire built on detail. Despite his proclamation of love for our music, I wondered why the entrepreneur was so involved in the tour. In fact, I questioned why he was involved in the music industry at all. Surely the income we were generating paled in comparison to his primary business activities. Maybe, as Greatrex and I had discussed, we just didn’t understand the philanthropic nature of the new generation of tech tycoons. As I looked at Antonio Ascardi across the table— animatedly telling stories, enthralling his subjects in amusement and awe—I concluded that I didn’t really know the man at all.

  So I ordered another scotch.

  Fifteen minutes later I had downed the Glenfiddich and made my apologies, announcing, “I’m going to swing back via the opera house and pick up Jack.” Greatrex had stayed back to supervise the pack-up. I was on my feet and out the door before anyone had the chance to object.

  It was a short walk back to the opera house. I entered though the stage door. Almost immediately I heard Greatrex call out, “Five minutes, Nicholas, then you owe me a drink at the American Bar back at the Savoy.”

  “It’s a deal,” I responded, looking around for a way to amuse myself for a few minutes while I waited.

  To my surprise, Cedrick appeared out of the shadows.

  “Good evening, Mr. Sharp.”

  I turned to him. “Hello, Cedrick. Thanks again for your time today. That was one heck of an experience up on the fly tower.”

  “It was an absolute pleasure, Mr. Sharp, as was hearing you play tonight,” he responded.

  “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

  “It’s a peculiar thing though,” he said.

  I looked at him a little awkwardly, I thought he was talking about our music. “I know our sound isn’t to everyone’s taste,” I said.

  “No, it’s not that. Your performance was wonderful. What seemed peculiar to me was the tour.”

  “I know you don’t take many people up there, Cedrick, but was it that unusual today?”

  “No. Again, I’m sorry; I have not made myself clear,” he said. “It wasn’t the visit to the rooftop that was so peculiar, it was the fact that Mr. Fontana had arranged it yesterday, before you even arrived.”

  “You’re sure of this?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  As if on cue, Jack Greatrex strolled up. “Ready to go, Nicholas?”

  I stared at him vacantly.

  “Nicholas?”

  “Yes,” I said, distractedly. We said goodnight to Cedrick, and I led Greatrex out the stage door.

  Out in the alleyway, my friend turned to me. “What’s wrong?” He could read me like the proverbial book.

  “Let’s find that bar,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter 9

  The morning sun penetrated my brain like ray guns from outer space. I knew I should have closed the curtains. My head ached from too many drinks. The only redeeming factor was that the scotch had bee
n of a high quality; otherwise the pain would have been worse.

  Greatrex and I had sat up until the small hours, drinking and chasing ideas around the room. We had started at the American Bar downstairs and ended up in my suite.

  It was clear to us that I had been manipulated by Norbert Fontana to tour the opera house, including the fly tower and the roof. For the life of us, neither of us had the faintest idea why. What could Fontana possibly have to gain by delaying the sound check and showing me the sights of the venue? Fontana worked for Antonio Ascardi. Ascardi knew Elena. I had been manipulated by Fontana and Elena. Was I being manipulated by Ascardi as well? Pass the scotch.

  About 4 a.m. we had given up, or perhaps our brains had given up on us. Greatrex returned to his room, and I clambered into bed.

  Now my head hurt. I should have closed the curtains.

  Just as I was drifting back off to a merciful sleep, my laptop chirped. I’d forgotten to turn that off as well. I climbed out of bed and walked a little unsteadily over to where the computer sat on the coffee table. There was a message. No surprise there: that’s what the chirp meant.

  “We need to talk urgently. Dukes Hotel Bar in Mayfair. Tonight, 8 p.m. E.”

  That was it, the whole message—simple but world changing. It didn’t require Hercule Poirot to figure out who “E” was.

  I sat on the sofa, lost in thought. Then I got lost some more.

  Finally, I decided on three definite courses of action. First, I was going to meet Elena, no matter the consequence. Second, I would tell Greatrex about the email later today.

  The final course of action was a little more straightforward, and could be done immediately. I closed the curtains and went back to bed. Merciful sleep, please overpower my aching mind.