LETHAL SCORE

by Mannock, Mark

  I sat there staring ahead, allowing a couple of minutes to pass by. The didj was casting its mystical spell, defying intrusion. When the timing was right, I raised my fingers to the keyboard. Beforehand, we had only agreed on the key of the music; everything else would be in the moment. Now it was my moment. I played a few gentle chords, just enough to introduce the piano without distracting the audience from their Patrick Jay–induced trance. Gradually, I let the didgeridoo envelop the piano and encourage it to explore. At first, I lightly worked my way up the keyboard, then, before long, gently cascading waves of arpeggios eased their way back down.

  I knew it was me playing, but I didn’t seem to have any control over what was happening. The music wasn’t coming from me, it was coming through me. I slowly allowed the sound of the piano to grow in complexity, weaving in and out of the didgeridoo’s rich tone. Gently but consistently, the almost unidentifiable chords seemed to build. The intensity grew as the sound moved toward a searing climax.

  Then I backed off … it was time.

  If Aislinn didn’t have the voice of an angel, the angels certainly sang through her. Her first tender, almost frail note left her lips, quivering in the air, high above the digeridoo and a world away from the piano. Then came a second note, higher, stronger. Before long, her melodic seduction soared and danced through the room. Only a stone heart could have remained unaffected.

  Three minutes later, our sounds were entwined, flying, swooping, writhing across the room. Questioning, answering. It was totally out of our hands now, as piano, didgeridoo and voice complemented, challenged, and serenaded each other into another realm.

  We had begun.

  The next fifty minutes seemed like five. Then the audience were on their feet, clapping loudly, cheering, and this was only the intermission. We had twenty minutes to rest, take a drink, and reenergize. Playing into the darkness as we did, with every note and phrase an improvisation, takes it out of you. Patrick Jay, Aislinn, and I gave each other a smile and then disappeared to our dressing rooms to freshen up. Words were unnecessary.

  The second half of the show began differently. Aislinn stood alone at the center of the stage. Patrick Jay and I stood in the wings, waiting for our delayed entrance.

  The audience grew silent in anticipation. Then there it was again, the angel’s voice. God’s enchantress. She began low and quiet. I stood there taking in every note and nuance. Her voice began to rise. My heart rose with it. She was captivating. The room was hers.

  Suddenly, I heard some commotion behind me, then I felt a tugging on my sleeve. The moment was broken. I turned, annoyed. Greatrex was standing there with Antonio Ascardi. They both looked worried.

  “We have a problem,” said Greatrex.

  “Look at this, Nicholas,” said Ascardi, producing his cell phone. A text message was displayed on the screen. I read it carefully.

  There is a bomb. It will not destroy the entire building, but if it explodes many lives will be lost, important lives.

  Monsieur Antonio Ascardi, you must immediately deposit the equivalent of 5 million American dollars in cryptocurrency in the following account. The account is untraceable, as is this phone number.

  If the money is not deposited by the end of tonight’s show, the bomb will be detonated. If you stop the show and try to evacuate the building, the bomb will be detonated.

  We do this as a statement of solidarity against the corrupt politicians and business leaders who are guiding Europe on a path of economic and cultural self-destruction.

  The note was signed:

  The Ghosts of the Revolution

  The account details were below the signature.

  I looked at Greatrex and then Ascardi.

  “Holy shit,” was all I could say.

  In the background, Aislinn’s voice climbed in pitch and intensity. The audience sat besotted.

  “I’ve notified security,” said Ascardi. “There is little they can do without causing panic that would lead to the bomb being detonated. They are looking for anyone behaving in a suspicious manner.”

  “Who may or may not be inside or outside the building,” added Greatrex.

  “And they are covertly inspecting the building for anything unusual,” finished Ascardi.

  Reading the concern on our faces, Patrick Jay had wandered over. I showed him the message. He grimaced but said nothing as he passed the phone back to Ascardi.

  Aislinn’s rich tone reverberated through the air, penetrating the atmosphere with unbridled emotion.

  “Nicholas, Patrick,” said Ascardi. “You must ensure that the show continues until we have apprehended these people, found the bomb, or deposited the money.”

  I sighed. No pressure there. The expression on Patrick’s face indicated he was thinking the same thing.

  “How long will it take you to deposit the money?” I asked.

  “At least an hour, maybe more. Five million dollars is a lot of money to gather together at no notice. I’ve got Norbert talking to my accountants as we speak.”

  Her voice was rising higher, growing more intense with every note.

  My thoughts were muddled; I needed to clear my mind. I was due on stage in about three minutes. The prearranged cue would be Aislinn hitting a peak and then pausing with a small nod of her head.

  I desperately needed time to think.

  Her voice had reached its upper range. Each note she sang was piercing and powerful, flooding the vast space with pathos.

  “Why would anyone do this to us?” Antonio Ascardi was visibly upset. I couldn’t blame him.

  “That’s a question for another time,” I responded shortly. “For now, we just have to find that bomb.”

  I looked at Greatrex. He just shook his head in frustration.

  Where would I plant a bomb to cause some, but not total, destruction in a building like this? I had no definitive answer.

  I looked at my watch; it was now about two minutes until I had to walk back on that stage acting like nothing was wrong.

  Her dynamic was building, climbing to the heavens. The climax was close.

  Think, damn it, think.

  Ascardi looked around expectantly, as though the bomb would just appear through willpower alone. It didn’t.

  “Show me the message again,” I said urgently. I read through it, then read it again.

  Aislinn’s voice was so high and so intense that it seemed to cut through the air like shards of glass.

  Maybe I had an idea, or maybe I was losing the plot.

  Her voice soared through the air, infiltrating every soul in the room.

  Focus, fool, it’s right in front of you, somewhere …

  Then … it wasn’t in the message. It was the signature.

  The Ghosts of the Revolution

  Greatrex looked at me, trying to read my thoughts.

  “Who’s in box five?” I demanded of Ascardi. “Do you know?” I knew I sounded desperate. I was desperate.

  “Why yes, of course I know that—box five is my box. I am hosting Jacques Milland, the Ministre de l’Intérieur.”

  “Anyone else?” I pleaded.

  “Yes,” said Ascardi. “Your new acquaintance, Nicholas: Gabriel Arquette, the minister of culture, and a couple of very old friends from my early years in Italy.”

  One minute until I was on stage.

  It was as though Aislinn’s spirit had enshrouded the room, singing the song of truth.

  I looked over at Greatrex; I was agitated, he was perplexed. “That’s it, box five. The bomb is in box five!” I yelled as I turned and began to run. The big fella was one step behind me.

  Her voice was so high now it was about to peak. The entire room was on edge, focused on the purity, the purpose, the sound … until the explosion.

  I felt the shockwave before I heard the blast. In an instant the room was filled with smoke and the sound of panicked screams. I was almost at the rear curtain at the back of the stage when it exploded. I turned to look. In the place where box
five had been perched to the right of the stage, there was nothing but a tangled mess of wreckage. No one could have survived. Below, flaming upholstery still rained on an innocent audience. There were bodies, some deathly still, others writhing in pain.

  I then looked at the center stage. Aislinn was lying sprawled across the stage floor. Without thinking, I ran to her.

  She was barely conscious and badly dazed. Her dress was torn and her face scratched, but I could see no obvious injury, thank God.

  “Aislinn, are you all right?” I asked as I cradled her head in my arms. Her eyes opened and she nodded.

  “Nicholas, what was that? What just happened?”

  I gave her the briefest explanation I could and then asked, “Are you okay to walk?”

  “I think so,” she said. I helped her up. Greatrex had joined us. He took her other arm and we guided her off the stage.

  It was shattering. In the space of a split second, a moment of beauty had become an eternity of anguish.

  Within minutes there were first responders everywhere. Greatrex, Patrick Jay and I helped evacuate the uninjured audience members on the ground floor. Security personnel led the way. We moved as fast as we could. I didn’t think there was another bomb, but there was always a chance. To her credit, Aislinn recovered quickly. She ignored her own discomfort, found a first-aid kit side of stage, and moved directly into the audience area, helping the ambulance personnel treat the injured. Our songbird was much tougher than anyone thought.

  As everything that could be done was being done, I paused and took a moment to look around the room. I saw destruction, I saw pain, I saw suffering. It was the human—or perhaps more accurately, inhuman—face of terrorism.

  What evil bastard would do this?

  Chapter 13

  It was around four in the morning when we staggered back through the lobby of the hotel and up to our rooms. We had been extensively questioned by the French authorities for several hours. As we stood by the lifts, we didn’t say much to each other. We were talked out, exhausted.

  Up in my suite I poured myself the required scotch, but it hardly touched the sides. I lay on my bed, certain sleep would elude me. Again, I stared at the ornate ceiling. I felt I would get to know it very well over the next few hours. I was too tired to think, and too filled with adrenaline to sleep. I got up again.

  Poor me … another one.

  The next day at noon, Greatrex and I had arranged to meet downstairs in the hotel’s “La Bar” for a coffee. I felt like I needed more than one. As Jack entered the room a few minutes after me, he looked beaten.

  “I’ve ordered coffee,” I said.

  “How much?”

  “A limitless amount,” I responded. That seemed to satisfy him.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “We do. Conversation might even help me think. I seem to be having trouble with that at the moment.”

  “You did all right last night,” he said. “In fact, tell me, how the hell did you work out where the bomb was?”

  “It doesn’t really matter now. The point is, I didn’t work it out in time, and people died because of that.”

  “Don’t go all guilt ridden on me,” said my friend. He took a large gulp of the newly arrived coffee and gave me the sort of look that only one good friend can give another. The one that means, ‘Don’t give me any of your shit’. “Not your fault, Bucko; you didn’t plant the explosive device among a crowd of innocents.”

  I knew he was right. For better or worse, my need to protect was a natural trait that had only been strengthened further by my time as a marine sniper. Watching from rooftops, M40 rifle in hand, scouring the streets for the potential threat of insurgents as US troops performed their duties, day after day, month after month …

  “Anyway,” continued Greatrex, “I don’t really think there was an opportunity to save those lives. The more I think about it, the more I think the bomb was intended to go off anyway.”

  As I thought about it, what the big fella said made sense. We hadn’t broken any of the “rules” laid out for us. We hadn’t stopped the concert nor evacuated the building.

  “Then why?” I asked. “Why go to all the trouble of sending Ascardi the message asking for the money?”

  “Let’s come back to that,” directed Greatrex. “So, back to my question. How did you know the bomb was in box five?”

  “Well, this will sound a bit stupid,” I said, “but it was a mixture of things. The first was the note. It said not only that lives would be lost, but it specified ‘important lives.’”

  Greatrex nodded, but his face still looked like a human question mark.

  “So, I figured that the ‘important people’ at that venue, in fact at most opera houses, would be in a private box,” I said.

  “That makes sense, but why box five?”

  “Well, this is where it gets a bit weird. Most musicians are aware of the famous story of the Phantom of the Opera.” I explained.

  “Lloyd Webber wrote a musical about it. Just a minor success,” said my friend sarcastically.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” I continued. “I know it sounds like a bit of a disconnect, but the original Phantom story took place in Paris, at the Palais Garnier in fact.”

  I had Greatrex’s attention.

  “In the original story, box five was set aside as the place from which the Phantom could view his opera. In fact, he blackmailed the opera company that a catastrophe would befall them if they did not follow his instructions and leave that box free for his use. But it was when I looked at the text message the second time that something twigged. It wasn’t in the message but rather in the signature.”

  Silence from across the table.

  “It was signed by the ‘Ghosts of the Revolution,’” I said. “We all assumed that to be some sort of reference to the French revolution, considering we were in Paris.”

  Greatrex nodded.

  “Well, the ‘revolution’ wasn’t the key word, it was ‘ghosts.’ In the Phantom of the Opera story, the Phantom is referred to as the ‘Opera Ghost.’”

  “That’s a bit of a long bow to draw,” was Greatrex’s response.

  “Well yeah, I was thinking that as well,” I admitted. “That’s why I hesitated. But the thing was, when I asked Ascardi if he knew who was in that box and he told us it was the minister of the interior and the minister of culture, it all connected … ‘important lives.’”

  Greatrex was silent for a moment. “Sherlock freakin’ Holmes” was his only response.

  There was silence. The coffee seemed to be working as another thought bounced into my mind.

  “There is one more very important aspect to consider,” I continued. “It seems to me the issue is not only who was in the box but also who wasn’t in the box.”

  “You mean …”

  “Yes, I mean, Antonio Ascardi.”

  As a thoughtful silence overtook our conversation, the familiar faces of Aislinn Byrne and Patrick Jay Olden appeared at the door of the bar.

  “Here they are,” announced Aislinn, turning to Patrick Jay.

  “Mind if we join you?” asked Patrick as they wandered over to our table.

  Before either Greatrex or I could say anything, they both sat down. Deal done.

  “Coffee?” I asked. Two nods, and I waved the waiter over and ordered fresh coffee for all of us.

  Looking at our two colleagues, and friends, it was fairly obvious that the events of the preceding evening had drained them. Patrick Jay looked worn out. Aislinn looked a little brighter, but there was a sadness in her eyes that I hoped was only temporary.

  “How are you two doing?” asked Greatrex.

  Patrick was the first to reply. “The news this morning says fifteen dead and twice that many injured. It’s bad, but I’ve seen bad before. You know, I’ve seen injustices dealt to my own people on our own land,” he continued, “but nothing could prepare anyone for what happened last night. For the rest of my life, the Palai
s Garnier will always be a black hole of despair.”

  “For a knockabout didgeridoo player, you’re pretty goods with words,” I said.

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” chimed in our songstress. “The tragedy of last night will forever be etched in my mind. I don’t think the memory will ever fade,” she added.

  Greatrex and I looked at each other.

  “It does fade,” I said, “but it never leaves. It’s how you deal with it from here on that will define who you are and how you let it change you.”

  Both Patrick Jay and Aislinn looked a little puzzled. Greatrex answered for both of us.

  “In another world, a different time, and doing a different job, both Nicholas and I have had to work through more than our fair share of trauma,” he said.

  Neither Aislinn nor Patrick Jay asked for more information. We appreciated that.

  “Has anyone seen Ascardi today?” I asked.

  “Yes, we just left him,” said Aislinn. “We bumped into him in the foyer. He looked very shaken and upset.”

  Again, Greatrex and I exchanged a look.

  “He has already cancelled the next show in Munich. As you know, it was scheduled two days from now,” added Patrick Jay. “He thought we needed time, and that the authorities here would want to talk to us some more.”

  “The one thing he did request,” said Aislinn, “was that we resume the tour when we are ready. He was hopeful we would perform in Venice, at the Gran Teatro La Fenice … if we felt up to it.”

  I had a feeling this tour was not done with us, whether we wanted to end it or not. It felt like a roller-coaster ride you couldn’t leave halfway through.

  “How do you two feel about that?” I asked.

  “I’m okay with it,” said Patrick Jay.

  “I think the music will help us heal,” offered Aislinn, “so I’m in. Besides, we can’t let these bastards win,” she added.

  I looked at Greatrex, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay,” I said. “We go on. We begin again in a week’s time in Venice.”