The others looked surprised, but I was all too aware that both Greatrex and I had other things on our minds.
“Yes,” continued Aislinn. “Tony has planned for us to meet the Italian press at the opera house tomorrow afternoon. There is an equally spectacular smaller room there called Sale Apollinee.”
Patrick Jay took over. “The idea is for is to play for around twenty minutes and then answer questions.”
I looked across the table at Greatrex. Ascardi must have a reason for calling the impromptu presser and performance. I just had no idea what it was.
“Let’s order,” said Patrick, as an impeccably penguin-dressed waiter with a bow tie and white jacket moved toward us, bottle of wine in hand.
After we’d ordered, Greatrex said, “I’ve been doing some research. Do you know what ‘la fenice’ means in English?”
We didn’t respond.
“The phoenix,” he said.
Prophetic.
“To the phoenix,” I toasted. Three of us raised our glasses.
Greatrex raised an eyebrow.
Chapter 26
“Signore e signori della stampa, benvenuti, Aislinn Byrne, Nicholas Sharp e Patrick Jay Olden … Ladies and Gentlemen of the press, please welcome Aislinn Byrne, Nicholas Sharp, and Patrick Jay Olden.”
The bilingual announcement was met by polite applause. Members of the press were never as enthusiastic as the ticket-buying public. Their job was to remain cool, aloof, and, with regard to the music industry, frequently judgmental. We didn’t know the MC, who’d introduced himself to us earlier as Roberto Bianchi from a local music society. As we swanned through the tall double doors that led to the small stage, he turned to us, applauding and smiling. He’d done this before.
La Fenice’s Sale Apollinee held about one hundred and fifty people sitting on carefully aligned pink and gold chairs. We gazed around the room as we took the stage. Apart from the fashion, you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d walked into the eighteenth century. Cream walls with yet more gold leaf were decorated with oversized gold-framed mirrors. An ornate balcony surrounded the room, its balustrade another example of the intricacies of Venetian design. The few bits of technical equipment that enhanced a modern performance were kept as hidden as possible. The stage on which we were about to perform was simple and unobtrusive, but clearly not part of the original design.
Sale Apollinee was a room in which you would expect to hear a Vivaldi string quartet rather than a didgeridoo. Nevertheless, here we were. Looking out at the faces of the Italian music press, I wondered if they were thinking the same thing.
As was our way, we began our short performance with Patrick Jay’s haunting introduction. The didgeridoo had a different quality in this room, but it was still captivating and challenging. I joined in, playing the magnificent full-size grand piano before me. When Aislinn began to sing, I was sure several members of the press were suddenly jerked into paying attention. Yet again, she had won hearts, in this case some very tough ones.
One long piece and twenty minutes later, we were finished. The applause from the floor was noticeably more enthusiastic than it had been at the start.
A stagehand moved up and put three chairs in a semicircle at the front of the stage and indicated we should sit. It was time for questions.
“Buon pomeriggio a tutti. Good afternoon, everyone,” said Aislinn. More applause.
Roberto Bianchi rejoined us on the stage to compere the questions, all of which were to be in English.
It took all of two minutes to realize that the reporters and journalists in front of us were not just the Italian music press.
“What was your reaction to the bombing at the Palais Garnier in Paris?” asked the first reporter, in a distinctly British accent.
Before anyone could answer, another voice: “Aislinn, how did you feel when you realized so many people had died right in front of you?” This time the accent was French.
Bianchi tried to exhort some control. “Ladies and gentlemen, Signorina Byrne, Signor Sharp, and Signor Olden have graciously agreed to answer questions about their music. That was made perfectly clear to you in your invitation.”
I turned to Aislinn; her upper lip was quivering and she clutched at her chair, her knuckles like talons. I reached out for her hand. Patrick Jay had done the same on the opposite side. Despite Roberto Bianchi’s words, the barrage didn’t stop.
“Mr. Olden, what do you say to those who have said the bombing was an attack on multiculturalism?” The questioner had a German accent.
At the back of the room, two large double doors opened. Antonio Ascardi strode purposefully through the doorway. He was flanked by two very large men with short-cropped hair. Even from where I was sitting, the bulge in their oversized jackets indicated that they were each carrying a firearm. That was new. Ascardi stood there in his trademark black suit and tieless white shirt. His arms were crossed, face drawn tight in concern … or was he just a better method actor than me?
The MC looked at us. I shook my head and began to stand up, trying to give Aislinn and Patrick Jay a lead.
Then another question, an Italian accent, “What do you say, Signor Sharp, to reports that you had something to do with the Palais Garnier bombing?”
The room erupted; people were calling out everywhere. I began to lead the others off the stage. As I turned, I was sure I saw a curt smile sneak onto Ascardi’s lips. Then it was gone.
Amid the chaotic cries emanating from the press, we marched across the small stage, climbed down two steps, and exited the room through a pair of oversized double doors. Our refuge was the large ornate chamber that acted as stage wings. I waited till the others had passed and then slammed the doors closed behind us. Tears were streaming down Aislinn’s face as Roberto Bianchi apologized and tried to comfort her.
I marched over to Jack Greatrex, who’d been waiting for us.
“That’s it then,” I said quietly. “That was the whole reason for this press conference. Public suspicion has now fallen on one Nicholas Sharp.” I was furious.
“Get ready for the ride,” said Greatrex. “This is going to be tough.”
I thought for a moment and then turned to Bianchi. “Who organized the press passes for those people out there? You?” He took a step back, his back arching as he recoiled at my anger. I didn’t care.
“No, Signor Sharp, it wasn’t me. As I just said to the reporters, I was told that the discussion was to be all about your music.”
“Then who organized this?”
“Well, sir,” replied Bianchi, “my understanding was that the press list was organized by Mr. Norbert Fontana and Mr. Ascardi himself.”
I looked over at Greatrex.
“Here comes that world of pain,” I said as I turned to see Aislinn crumpled in a chair, her tearful face a portrait of anguish. My thoughts went to Elena lying murdered in the snow, the wretchedness of the people who senselessly lost their lives in Paris, and finally the desperation of my own predicament. “Whatever that bastard has in mind, I’m ready to roll.”
We remained in the same room for another twenty minutes while Bianchi and the opera house staff cleared the Sale Apollinee. As we prepared to leave, the heavily framed door at the opposite end of the room opened, and Ascardi’s two armed offsiders walked in.
“Signor Ascardi would like the room please, said the man on the right.” It was a demand, a polite demand, but definitely a demand. “Signor Sharp and Signor Greatrex, please remain.”
One of the men held the door open as Aislinn and Patrick Jay turned toward it; at the door Patrick Jay turned around to look at me. I just nodded in affirmation. Things were about to get interesting; our friends were best gone.
We sat there in silence. The two henchmen didn’t say anything more. Greatrex and I just looked at each other. Finally, after keeping us waiting for several minutes, the door opened again, and Antonio Ascardi strolled casually into the room.
“Nicholas, Jack,” he began, “this give
s me no pleasure; however, I think it’s time we dispensed with any charade of cordiality and transitioned directly to the truth.”
I nodded.
Ascardi continued. “I thought I had generously provided everything you needed to immerse yourselves in our little tour. Yet perhaps I failed to cater for your incessant curiosity. The two of you have been nauseatingly determined and persistent. The break-in at Safe-Tech, so many enquiries behind my back, and, Nicholas, your latest escapade in Malamocco.”
So much for that going unnoticed.
“If you can forgive the rather clunky musical metaphor, I’m thinking the two of you suspect I have punctuated our musical adventures together with a slightly edgier, perhaps even Machiavellian counterpoint.” Smiling and gesticulating as he spoke, Ascardi seemed delighted with his sobriquet. It was almost as though he was describing one of his own rare wines. His mouth widened, rising at the edges through pursed lips. The man’s eyes, however, remained impassive and disinterested, as though there was a level of emotional detachment going on here that was even more worrying than his words.
Greatrex and I looked at each other. “To be honest, yes,” I said.
“Well, I am here to put your minds at rest,” he said. “I think that this is an opportune time for you to know you are completely correct.”
A cutting silence filled the room. We weren’t expecting that.
“Tony, are you admitting to being responsible for the trail of death that has followed us around Europe?” I asked. Even though we had been almost certain of his involvement, I still felt a blood-pumping fury envelop me as the conversation developed.
“Yes,” he said. “I am telling you exactly that. Now, before you start asking a series of questions that I have no intention of answering, let me just say this: it has given me no pleasure at all to pursue this path of tasteless violence. To be honest, the whole situation really has me pissed. I have, however, deemed it necessary.”
“No pleasure?” said Greatrex. The big fella’s fists were clenched and his neck was pulsating. His frustration radiated across the room. “No freakin’ pleasure. Innocent people have died!”
I knew my friend too well. The manner in which his shoulders kicked back and his arms tensed in anticipation told me an explosion was imminent. The two henchmen shifted on their feet, preparing themselves.
“Oh, I can surely see your need for self-righteous anger,” said Ascardi. “I would probably feel the same if I didn’t know about the other pressures at play here. Sadly, you will never see what I see. All I will tell you is that what I do, I do for the good of our fragile little world. People don’t know how to help themselves; I can help, so I do. I’ve told you before, I search for alternative solutions. In this case, that is exactly what I have found.”
Greatrex glanced at me, tacitly expressing surprise at the level of Ascardi’s escalating ramblings.
“The expression on your face is so readable, Nicholas. Yours even more so, Jack. No, I am not a madman. As in everything I do, from the day I wrote my fist line of code, I see ahead of the game when others can’t. The world will be thankful one day.”
I’d had enough; so had Greatrex. Without thinking I rushed forward at Ascardi, knowing Jack would be right behind me. If we moved quickly enough, we would have the element of surprise … but we didn’t make it halfway across the room before the two henchmen had withdrawn their guns from underneath their jackets, pointing them directly at us.
“No,” said the man on the left, “you would be dead before you could touch us.”
He was very calm, very cool. Yet another professional—it seemed Ascardi had an unlimited supply of them. We stopped.
“There is no need for that sort of behavior. Get a grip, guys,” said Ascardi. “We shall sort this out together, as adults.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This man’s grip on reality seemed to be tenuous at best.
“At least tell me one thing,” I asked. “Why have you gone to so much trouble to implicate me in the eyes of the authorities? Why am I your scapegoat?”
“There are a couple of reasons, Nicholas, but as I said, I’m not going to elaborate on my motivations now.”
Ascardi’s demeanor was calm, almost friendly. He had just admitted to murdering numerous people, yet now he spoke as if discussing online gaming
The entrepreneur then grew silent, absent in thought. I noticed the skin on his neck tighten and his forehead furrow as tension slowly enveloped his face. It was the same look I’d seen in the car in Paris.
“It’s time to talk business. There is something I need you to do. You won’t like it, so I will give you some choices. Nicholas, I believe you left the military because you wanted to make you own decisions, your own choices. Well, here I am, trying to help you out.”
This was going nowhere good.
Ascardi spoke again. “As you know, tomorrow evening you are scheduled to perform here at Gran Teatro La Fenice, in the main concert hall. You have seen the concert space; it is a remarkable room. Unfortunately, that performance will not be taking place. The reason is simple: at best, Nicholas, you will be in prison; at worst you will be dead. If that is the case, I shall offer the press a moving obituary outlining what a wonderful man and musician you were and how surprised we all were to learn about your subversive activities. I shall ask the world to remember the best of you, and all that you brought to the arts. I will insist that the demented condition that led to your violent demise was not an indication of who you really were.”
Ascardi paused. His facial muscles seemed to relax and his eyes softened momentarily. “I must say that I really do believe your death would be a loss to the music world. You play beautifully, and the sound that you, Aislinn, and Patrick Jay have created together is irreplaceable. You will be missed.”
The man’s feigned empathy defied belief.
“Are you done yet?” I asked. “Nothing you can say or do will make me help you. As soon as we’re done here, Jack and I are heading straight to the authorities to give them all the information we have.” I hoped I sounded convincing, but in my gut I knew I didn’t.
“All the information,” said Ascardi smiling. “What information do you really have? What evidence? You are the man under suspicion. The press is calling for your head—or they will be after this afternoon’s press conference. I imagine your name will be all over the late news. Who would then believe anything you said?”
He had a point.
“Now let’s get into the fine print. Tomorrow afternoon the Italian prime minister, Angelo Mancini, will visit the Basilica San Marco here in Venice. Some recent restorations were financed by a generous private benefactor: me. I will accompany the prime minister as he inspects the finished renovations. As we leave the basilica and before we walk back across the Piazza San Marco, the prime minister will stop to talk informally to the press, giving him an opportunity to express his gratitude to me, as a well-known supporter of European culture. That is when you will assassinate him.”
“Not going to happen,” I said defiantly.
Ascardi raised his hand, as though to stop me wasting my breath. “Now, Nicholas, here are your choices. First, you do as I ask, shoot Prime Minister Mancini and attempt to escape. You won’t escape, of course. You will be seen; in fact, I may even point you out myself. Obviously, you will be arrested. Given the current rumors in the press about your unsavory activities, no one will be particularly surprised that you were ‘caught in the act,’ so to speak. In time, you may even grow to enjoy prison life.”
The henchmen either side of Ascardi allowed themselves a wry grin.
He continued. “Your second option is to choose not to take the shot. The prime minister will live, and this will be inconvenient to my plans but not catastrophic. There is, however, a consequence for this choice. On the other side of the piazza, Norbert Fontana will be sitting at an outdoor table having a coffee. He will be joined by Aislinn Byrne; that has already been arranged. Also joining him will
be Domenico here.” The henchman to Ascardi’s right nodded at the introduction. “Now, here is the kicker for option two. Norbert will have a cell phone with him. It will be on the table but out of your sight. If you fail to carry out the assassination, he will dial an encrypted number that will detonate a bomb planted somewhere in the piazza. You will not know where. I would caution you to think carefully about this option. There will be an untold number of families and children scattered around the square. You will have no idea which ones you would be about to murder,” he said.
Greatrex’s body language spoke volumes. His shoulders sagged as he stared down at the polished marble floor. The tiredness rippling over his face was like a torrent of defeat. I knew it was the thought of kids being harmed that had hit him. In contrast, I was feeling a little more optimistic. As a sniper, I had always looked for alternative courses of action to achieve my kill. An idea was already forming in my head. What if I took out Fontana? Then …
“I know what you are thinking, Nicholas. If you shoot Norbert Fontana, I can assure you it will be no effort for Domenico to reach over and press the key on the cell phone.”
What if I take out Domenico first? I thought to myself.
“Of course, as we are supplying the rifle, we will also supply the only ammunition available to you … one bullet.”
“Shit,” I thought.
“Finally,” said Ascardi, “there is a third option, which I suspect you may find tempting. You may decide to assassinate me. I have lived a committed, if slightly flawed, life. It may be my time is up. If that is your choice, so be it. I should warn you, however, that the consequences for this third option are the same for that of the second. Norbert will detonate the bomb and many innocent people will die.”
Three choices. No choice.
“Oh, one more thing I might add. If you decide to be a hero and use the gun on yourself …”
“The bomb,” I said.
“Exactly.”
I thought again about making another lunge for this deranged bastard, but the abrasively stern look on the two bodyguards’ faces told me my effort would be wasted.
LETHAL SCORE Page 16
