Scott Mariani - The Mozart Conspiracy

Ben raced between them and heard the Volvo slide to a halt behind him. He hurtled down the steep alley, the downward slope giving him more momentum. The Volvo’s doors opened. A shot cracked and a bullet sang off a wall.

Ben ran on. The alley curved round to the right, taking him out of sight of his pursuers. He could hear their running footsteps coming down the hill. He rounded the lip of a crumbled wall, and suddenly the alley opened up into a little square. There was an old fountain in the middle.

He leaned against it and paused for breath, stuffing the empty pistol in his belt. He looked around him. From the square, a whole network of tiny streets ran off in different directions. There were six ways he could go. He stole a glance over his shoulder and chose one at random. It was even steeper. He ran as fast and as lightly as he could, to mask the sound of his footsteps. There was nobody following him. They must have gone a different way, but he still had to hurry. They could split up, they knew the city better than him, and he was unarmed.

Ahead of him, the downhill alleyway opened up onto what looked like a bigger street. Thirty yards, twenty. As he approached the bottom, he looked over his shoulder to check if they were following. He couldn’t see-

Brakes screeched. He couldn’t stop in time. He ran straight out in front of the red Peugeot.

The car knocked the wind out of him. He flew across the bonnet, cracked his head on the windscreen and tumbled to the ground.

The driver’s door burst open and a young woman got out with a look of horror on her face. She rushed over to where Ben was slowly picking himself off the ground. She spoke in a flurry of German, apologizing profusely.

Ben staggered to his feet and rested against the side of the car. His head was spinning badly. He tried to focus his vision up the alleyway. They would be here any second. ‘It’s OK,’ he muttered. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You’re American?’ she said in English.

‘British.’ He tried to formulate his thoughts. ‘I was mugged back there.’

She looked confused.

‘Robbed,’ he explained.

She nodded. ‘Bastards. I’ll call the police,’ she said, taking out her phone. ‘You get in the car. Setzen sie hier. You must rest.’

‘Nein. No. Keine Polizei. There’s no need for the police. Just get me out of here, please. Quickly.’ He picked up his fallen haversack and slumped in the passenger seat. The alleyway was still empty, but his pursuers couldn’t be far away.

‘Then I have to take you to the Arzt- to the doctor. To the hospital. You’re hurt.’ She looked at his bleeding head with concern, biting her lip as she started the car and pulled away over the cobbles. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before. I-’

‘It’s not your fault,’ he repeated. ‘Look, I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be all right. I need to rest a bit somewhere. If you can drive me to a cheap hotel, that’ll be fine.’

She looked perplexed, then nodded hesitantly. ‘Whatever you want,’ she said. She drove out into the main street and filtered into the traffic. Ben struggled to twist round in his seat. There was no sign of anyone following. He hoped Kinski was OK.

She drove in silence, looking uncomfortable and distressed, then shook her head. ‘Listen, my flat is just half a kilometre from here. I have some stuff I can put on that graze, and you can rest there. Please, it’s the least I can do.’

Ben’s head was throbbing. Maybe it wasn’t a bad suggestion. Staggering into a hotel with a bleeding head was a little too public. ‘All right.’

‘I’m Ingrid,’ she said. ‘Ingrid Becker.’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Jesus, my head.’

Ingrid’s phone rang. ‘Ja? Hello Leonie. Yes…I can’t talk now, I’m with a friend…maybe see you later, OK? Tchüss .’ She switched off the phone. ‘Sorry about that,’ she smiled. ‘My cousin. Here we are.’ She flipped on her indicator and turned the Peugeot into a basement car park.

Ingrid helped Ben into the lift and pressed the button for the second floor. He slumped against the lift wall and watched her. She was in her mid-twenties or so. Her hair was short and dark with a few reddish highlights. She was dressed in jeans and combat boots, an Afghan coat over a check shirt, but for all that she still managed to look strikingly attractive.

The lift opened and she carefully took his arm to walk him to her door. ‘You OK?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

Ingrid’s flat was small but comfortable. She directed him to a two-seater sofa in the main room. It was warm in there, and he took off his leather jacket and laid it on the arm of the sofa. He sat down and reclined into the sofa as she hurried to the bathroom to fetch cotton wool and disinfectant. ‘This will sting a little,’ she said. She leaned over him and dabbed his head with a ball of moist cotton.

‘Ouch.’

‘Sorry I feel so terrible about this. Can I get you something to drink?’

Ben took out his flask. ‘You have some as well,’ he said. ‘I think you need it more than me.’

Ingrid fetched two tumblers and sat with him on the sofa. He emptied what was left of his Scotch into them. He looked at her face. She had a nice smile and soft, dark eyes. He could see sadness in them, too. ‘Cheers.’

‘Prost’

They clinked and drank. ‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘You like Schnapps? I have a bottle.’

‘I’d love some.’ His head was spinning a little less now, and he was beginning to feel more composed. Concussion wasn’t going to be a problem-but fatigue was. It was coming over him in waves.

‘Do you want a painkiller?’

‘I’d rather have the Schnapps,’ he said wearily, and she laughed. ‘I’m so glad you’re OK, Ben. I was worried I’d killed you or something.’

Ben drained the Scotch and she uncapped the Schnapps. She poured some of the clear liquor into the glass and he sipped it. It tasted about twice the strength of the whisky. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not that easy to kill.’

‘Smoke?’ She pulled a crumpled pack of untipped Gauloises out of her pocket. Ben took one and reached for his Zippo. Her long fingers clenched his hand as he lit hers first. He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

‘You’re a rare breed,’ she said, watching him, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

‘In what way?’

She jiggled the cigarette and pointed at the glass of Schnapps in his hand. ‘I don’t know any men who smoke proper cigarettes and drink proper drink any more.’ She smiled. ‘They’re all so concerned about their health. Wimps.’

‘My Irish grandmother smoked over a million cigarettes in her life,’ he said.

‘A million!’

‘Sixty a day, from the age of fifteen to the day she died. You do the maths.’

‘Mein Gott. What did she die of?’

‘She got drunk on her ninety-fifth birthday, fell downstairs, broke her neck.’ Ben smiled at the memory of the old lady. ‘She died happy and never felt a thing.’

‘That’s it, I’m going to start drinking and smoking more,’ Ingrid said. She laid a warm hand on his knee. It stayed there for an instant longer than normal. ‘Hey, you like music?’ She jumped up and went over to a hi-fi on a sideboard.

‘You haven’t got any Bartók, have you?’

She laughed. ‘No way. Music to chew your fingernails to. Far too intense for me.’

‘I like intense.’

‘You’re an interesting one,’ she said. ‘I like jazz. What about some jazz?’

‘How about Don Cherry or Ornette Coleman?’

‘You do go for intense,’ she said. She ran her finger along the rack and plucked out a CD. ‘I’ve got Bitches Brew. Miles.’