LETHAL SCORE

by Mannock, Mark

  The snow-covered statue in the main square looked like a soldier wading through an ice field. I knew how he felt. Although the beauty of this small village may have been timeless, the pressures and doubts I felt niggling at me were very much of this moment.

  At one point I heard a growling rumble above me. Elena laughed. “Come here,” she said, taking my hand and stepping under the eave of the shop we were strolling past. Another growl, and a crag of ice thudded on the snow where we had stood.

  “That would have hurt,” I said.

  She laughed again. “Yes, when there is a lot of snow on the roof, the schneefang holds it there. As the snow melts, or there is too much for the grating to retain, the snow and ice break off and tumble down. Don’t worry; it won’t kill you. Besides, most times you hear that rumble just before it happens. The locals know to step out of the way.”

  We walked down a gently sloping street that opened up to reveal the surprise of a wide, fast-flowing river. Suddenly, the Christmas card had turned into a scene from a kid’s storybook. Pine forests surrounded the smattering of steepled roofs with gleaming red and blue trims belonging to the homes that lined the riverbanks. Like two ordinary lovers, we strolled toward the water, leaned against a rail, and gazed out at the view before us.

  “The Lech River,” said Elena softly.

  “We need to talk—now,” I responded, perhaps a little harshly. Nicholas Sharp, man of steel, becoming impatient.

  “Yes” was all I got back.

  In the military I had been trained that silence is key to interrogation. Current affairs journalists did the same thing when interviewing reluctant politicians. I continued to look out across the view but remained silent.

  “Nicholas, you may think less of me before this day is over, but I will answer your questions,” she said.

  Silence. The key to interrogation. Besides, I didn’t know which questions to ask.

  Three minutes later: “All right,” she sighed. “I will tell you what I can.”

  We both remained looking straight ahead over the river, avoiding eye contact. It seemed easier that way.

  “First,” she began, “I told you on the phone that I may have some knowledge about the murder of Sir Phillip Morton, the British Chancellor of the Exchequer. Well, that is true. Before I tell you any more, you need to understand that I had no idea the authorities would blame you for the shooting.”

  I nodded silently.

  Elena carried on without waiting for me to speak. “You may have read that the police are looking for another person who was with Sir Phillip when he was shot—a woman, in fact.”

  I was starting to anticipate where this conversation was going, and I didn’t like it.

  “Nicholas, the woman that the authorities seek is … me.”

  I had no idea what to say.

  Elena turned to look at me, just for a second, and then turned back toward the river. “I know you are shocked; I can see it in your face. You probably should be shocked, but there are some things you need to know before you judge me.”

  I’d uttered no judgment, but I’d sure as hell passed one.

  “First, I want you to understand that I had no prior knowledge that Phillip was going to be shot. No idea at all.”

  I said nothing.

  “Secondly, I desperately want you to understand and believe that I was not involved with Sir Phillip Morton in any romantic or physical way.”

  I was starting to wonder if this story was turning into a fairy tale; was anything Elena said true? Still I made no comment.

  “You do not believe me, Nicholas; I can feel it.”

  For the first time, I turned to Elena and spoke. “Then help me here, Elena. You were in a Covent Garden apartment with a high-profile British politician when he was shot, but you were just there to say hello?”

  “No, I was asked to be there.”

  There was no stopping me now; my mind was racing. This was about my survival as much as Elena’s credibility. “Did you think whoever put you there needed you and Sir Phillip there at a specific time so that the assassination could occur? They also needed the shooting to take place in that apartment because they had photos of me on a nearby rooftop.” Abruptly, my knuckles tensed into a ball. I knew the depth of my antipathy must be showing.

  “But Nicholas …”

  “No, Elena,” I interrupted. You set me up for a murder charge, whether you meant to or not. Why were you there with the chancellor? And who arranged it?”

  This time the silence was Elena’s. For two long minutes we watched the water flow. I knew she was wrestling with herself, and I knew I was running out of patience.

  “I knew Phillip socially. We moved in some of the same circles. He was a good man; he never suggested anything improper or inappropriate to me.”

  I waited. “Good ol’ Sir Phil. So what?”

  Elena continued. “I have been thinking about this for the last few days, and I don’t understand it even as I’m telling it to you, Nicholas. Sir Phillip Morton himself asked me to meet him at that apartment. He said he had some information to give me. No one sent me there, and no one asked me to go there apart from the very man who was murdered.”

  I was grasping for a lucid thought that would decipher all I was being told. Why would such a man invite this beautiful woman to his own murder? What information could he have for Elena? It was nonsensical.

  “What information did Sir Phillip pass on to you?” I asked impatiently.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “He was shot before he could tell me anything.”

  Convenient for someone.

  We didn’t talk for another few minutes. The sound of the gentle mountain waters flowing past seemed to moderate my anger. Something needed to. One minute I’m lying in bed, infatuated with this mysterious angel next to me, the next she appears to be the angel of death, wielding a scythe in bony hands.

  “All right,” I said, “let’s suppose what you say is true. What did you do after the chancellor was shot? Why did you run?”

  “I tried everything I could to help Phillip, but he was gone.” She paused, as though reflecting. “I quickly realized I would be held accountable. I also knew his name would be publicly sullied. The media love a story like that, particularly the British media.”

  What Elena said rang a bell of truth.

  “I must have some sort of connection to the killer. The killer knew we would be there; he knew I was there.”

  Elena was trying to be strong, but the shaking gave her away. You can’t fake the shaking.

  “So you ran,” I offered.

  “Yes, I ran and ran. I was covered in Phillip’s blood. I have no idea how I got out of there without being stopped. I wondered later if the assassin had allowed me to escape.”

  “Explaining why the authorities didn’t get to you in time is straightforward. The killer would’ve used a suppressor on his rifle. It wouldn’t have been silent, but it could easily have been mistaken for a car backfiring. So no one would have been looking for a murderer immediately,” I said.

  I paused for a minute before continuing. I was trying to gauge her reaction to my words.

  “Explaining why the killer let you go is more difficult. I don’t have an answer to that,” I concluded.

  Elena started shaking again. My own thoughts were a bit of a mess. Did I believe everything I had just been told, or had the story been carefully crafted just for my ears? Looking at Elena, I realized I wasn’t going to get any more out of her in the state she was in. Besides, there was a small part of infatuated Nicholas who wanted to look after her, protect her.

  “We have more to talk about, but not right now,” I said, guiding her gently away from the railing. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  It wasn’t until later that I realized that in my semi-besotted state I’d failed to ask one vital question.

  Who was Morton’s information intended for?

  Chapter 17

  The rest of the day passed without a lo
t of conversation between Elena and me. There were too many things to sort through, probably in both our minds. One minute I felt infatuated, a moment later suspicious and resentful. Too much going on here.

  As the afternoon progressed into evening, Elena calmed down. We agreed that we would eat and then talk. I needed to know what she knew about the Palais Garnier bombing.

  “I will cook, then we will talk, Nicholas,” was all I got out of her on the subject.

  What worried me the most was that wherever there was some sort of trouble, Elena seemed to either be there or have some insider knowledge. This girl was everywhere. It also worried me—more than worried me—that every hour I spent with her dragged me deeper into her enigma. I was treading water and losing breath.

  The daylight had surrendered to darkness, and Elena was preparing dinner when she announced she’d forgotten to get salt. “We will need it.”

  “I’ll go,” I said. Didn’t we just sound like the perfect domesticated couple.

  “No,” she answered, “I know where the shop is, and I know what I need. It’s only a five-minute walk.” She grabbed her white puffer jacket from the hook by the door, climbed into some waterproof boots, and was gone before I could object further.

  The fire crackled away as I sat beside it. Amid my brooding, guilt made an appearance. I shouldn’t have let her go on her own. Then I glanced up at the shelf on the kitchen wall. There it was, in clear view. Salt.

  Shit!

  I ran into the bedroom. All her clothes were there; if she’d done a runner, she hadn’t packed a bag. Elena had been scared, really scared, when we talked earlier in the afternoon. She was convinced people were after her, and I had let her go out on her own.

  I grabbed my own coat and boots and headed out the door.

  Outside the temperature had dropped drastically. Thick snow was building up on the street, making it difficult to navigate. Elena wouldn’t have stayed out in this weather any longer than she had to. I had no idea which direction she would have gone in, so I just started to walk. I convinced myself this would be a big misunderstanding that we would be laughing about back in our room later in the evening. Then I turned a corner and saw the flashing blue lights of the cops.

  I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. I jogged down the narrow street as quickly as I could. A small crowd gathered round a crew of medics attending to someone on the ground. As I got closer, my fears exploded. The medical workers moved with no urgency—nothing they could do. Then I saw what I didn’t want to see.

  The body lying on the white snow was clothed in a white puffer jacket. Blood made a grizzly red slushy of the snow. I ran the last few feet, only to be stopped by the arm of a member of the polizei.

  “Halt,” he said. I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t hear anything.

  I ducked and stepped in closer. My chest tightened. Elena lay on the ground a few feet away from me, deathly still, her long hair cascading across the ice. Her face was turned away, half buried in the snow, but there was no doubt. It was her.

  I turned and threw up.

  The officer who had tried to stop me appeared by my side. “Kennst du sie?” he asked. I knew it was a question from his inflection, but I didn’t understand.

  “Sorry. I don’t …” I began.

  “Do you know her?” he repeated in English.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do.” I wasn’t thinking, and it was a foolish response. The blue lights of the emergency vehicles cast ominous alternating shadows over her body, like some macabre discotheque.

  “I’m sorry,” said the officer.

  I forced myself to focus. “What happened?” I asked.

  “What is your name please, sir?”

  I stared at the officer as though I hadn’t heard him. “What happened to her?” I could feel my voice rising.

  The police obviously decided on a different approach. “I’m afraid, Herr … sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m afraid she has been shot,” said the officer. He began to pull out a small notebook when another police car pulled up. More flashing blue lights. A tall, slim, suited man with pocked skin and a weary expression climbed out. From the reaction of the other officers I assumed him to be the detective in charge.

  “Muller, bitte hier druben,” he commanded.

  The officer standing next to me seemed to hesitate. He turned to me and said, “Please remain here.” He then strode over to his superior.

  I stood there motionless, wrestling with the shocking image in front of me. I forced my mental cogs to start turning. Giving the police my details and becoming a suspect in another murder would not help me find Elena’s killer. This was likely a professional hit. Local law enforcement could well struggle to handle this.

  I needed to disappear, but it was going to be difficult. The policeman I had spoken to was keeping a watchful eye on me as he was talking to his boss. I edged behind the man next to me in the crowd. The policemen’s eyes followed me. Worse still, from their body language it looked like the cops’ conversation was winding up.

  The man who was now in front of me seemed nervous, stepping from foot to foot. He kept turning his head every which way, asking questions of those around him. His behavior spoke of a highly-strung disposition. A murder in this small village would put the whole town on edge. That gave me an idea; it wasn’t mind-bogglingly brilliant, but it was all I had.

  I tapped the man in front of me on the shoulder. He jerked his arm away in surprise. I then leaned forward and quietly spoke to my jumpy friend, “Excuse me, my German is not good.”

  “That is all right,” he said, calming a little when he realized I posed no threat. “I speak a little English.”

  “Did I just hear correctly that the police were talking about some sort of airborne virus that was used in this attack, I mean before the girl was shot. And look over there, is that policeman getting masks out of his car?”

  Instantly, the man’s nerves got the better of him as he yelled out, “Es liegt ein Virus in der Luft!”

  I had no idea what he said, but the crowd reaction was instantaneous. People were suddenly yelling out questions to the police. Others were running back up the street. A couple were just screaming. It was the moment of chaos I needed.

  Feeling faintly surprised that my little ruse had worked, I took the onlookers’ reaction as my cue. Edging quickly toward the perimeter of the crowd, I eased my way out of the glaring brightness of the surreal lightshow. Once in the shadows I moved hastily up the street, my feet searching for traction in the thick snow.

  Forcing myself to think as logically as I could, I realized I’d never been to this town. The room was in Elena’s name. The only thing that identified me was the hire car. It wouldn’t take the authorities long to find out where Elena was staying. They would also figure out pretty quickly that she wasn’t here on her own. Grief would have to wait. I would have to compartmentalize. I’d done it before.

  The streets were mostly deserted. Everyone who was outdoors had gathered at the scene of the crime. Elena’s murder was a dramatic occurrence for the village. I knew in time it would torment me as well. I just couldn’t allow that to kick in yet.

  I rounded the last corner. I was close; our small gästehaus was within sight. No sign of the polizei—I was going to make it.

  Then I heard, “Nicholas Sharp, do not move. I have a weapon pointed at your back,”

  I froze.

  “Now turn around please.” That was a phrase you didn’t want to hear when someone pulled a gun on you. If he wanted you to turn around, that meant he didn’t care whether you saw him or not. That meant—

  “Who are you? What do you want? Why did you call me Nicholas Sharp?” I was trying everything. Just throwing mud.

  “Please,” said my assailant, “do not insult me. I am a professional, as you once were. There should be mutual respect.”

  I couldn’t pinpoint the accent, but it was European, possib
ly from the south.

  “Now, Mr. Sharp, please do exactly as I say. I will not pretend that if you do, you won’t get hurt. You are about to get hurt very badly. If you scream or call out it will only make the result more instantaneous.”

  I matched the man’s stare. He was the walking definition of nondescript. Dark clothes that wouldn’t stand out, not too tall, not too short. He had an inoffensive face, but even in the streetlight I could see that his eyes were gray and lifeless, like a shark’s. He was, as he said, a professional.

  “Now, Mr. Sharp, let’s not drag this out. Please continue to walk down this street, go straight past your gästehaus and then turn left down the next laneway.”

  I had no doubt that he intended this to be my final few minutes on the planet. The man in front of me had probably already committed one murder this evening; a second wouldn’t bother him.

  “Who sent you?” I asked, inquisitive to the end. To be honest, at this point I didn’t really care. I was just stalling for time.

  “Turn and walk, or it all ends now.”

  I turned and walked. Our procession of two passed the doorway to Elena’s apartment as he shepherded me down the icy footpath. I thought about feigning a slip to give me a chance to spin around and incapacitate my executioner-to-be. Glancing behind, I saw he was close enough to watch me but far enough back that I couldn’t strike him. Any attempt to incapacitate him would be futile and end lives.

  We were almost at the laneway. Letting him take me down there was a bad idea. Then I heard it. I stopped and turned around. My assailant seemed unfazed.

  “If I am going to die tonight, at least tell me who has ordered my death,” I said. Although I was going for defiance, I really just didn’t want him to move.