Scott Mariani - The Mozart Conspiracy

‘Miles is good,’ he said. They sat for a while and listened to the music, drinking their Schnapps and talking. She asked him what he was doing in Vienna, and he told her he was a freelance journalist. It made him think of Oliver.

His eyes were burning with fatigue, and his head nodded a couple of times. He’d been hoping the frenetic Miles Davis fusion jazz might help to keep him awake, but it wasn’t working.

‘You look exhausted,’ Ingrid said, looking concerned. ‘Perhaps you should sleep a while.’

‘Perhaps,’ he muttered.

‘Lie down here on the sofa,’ she said with a smile.

He was too tired to refuse. She turned off the music, laid cushions under his head and fetched a blanket from her bedroom to cover him. He drifted off.

He awoke as though it were seconds later. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, watching him with a tender expression. He propped himself up on his elbow, blinking. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Just over an hour. I’m hungry,’ she said, getting up. ‘How about you?’

He stretched, got to his feet and followed her to the kitchen. It was small and clean. ‘I shouldn’t stay here too much longer,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘No, really, no trouble. I’m glad of some company. And anyway, I’m using you.’

‘Using me?’

She giggled. ‘To practise my English.’

‘I’ve been sleeping most of the time. And your English is fine.’

‘You like Wurst?’ She opened the fridge. ‘And I’ve got some cold roast chicken.’

She took out two plates and served him some pieces of chicken with sliced sausage and some bread and salad. They sat on two high stools at the kitchen worktop and she poured him a glass of mineral water. As he ate he could feel his strength beginning to return. ‘I never asked you what you do,’ he said.

She made a sour face. ‘I work for a big company, as a personal assistant.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘No, I despise it,’ she said emphatically. ‘I wish I could leave.’

‘Sounds pretty bad. What do they make you do?’

‘You have no idea,’ she replied. Her smile was gone.

‘Maybe you should think about changing jobs.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ she said. Their eyes met for a second. She liked him. She could barely remember when she’d last spent time with a man she actually liked. She looked away.

‘I’m sorry you have problems,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Everyone has problems.’ She paused. ‘Here, why don’t we have another Schnapps?’

‘Why not?’ he replied.

She smiled at him, slipped off her stool and went to fetch the bottle from the other room. She came back a moment later with a glass for each of them.

‘One for the road, then,’ he said, taking his glass from her.

She watched the glass travel to his lips. He sipped a couple of sips. Bitch’s Brew , she thought to herself.

Ben looked at his watch. He had things to do and his headache had eased. ‘I should be getting on,’ he said. ‘It was good to meet you, Ingrid. Take care, won’t you?’

‘Good to meet you too, Ben.’ She hated herself. She felt like screaming.

‘Leave that job if it makes you so unhappy,’ he advised. ‘Find something you love.’

‘I wish I could.’

‘Don’t worry so much, Ingrid. You’re one of the good guys, remember.’ He touched her arm affectionately.

She pulled it away, avoiding his eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, seeing her look.

‘It’s not the way you think.’

‘What do you mean?’

Why hadn’t she listened to her better judgement and let him go? He wasn’t like the others. She wanted to take back the last few seconds and tell him to run, run like hell.

But it had gone too far for that. He’d had six drops of the drug, and in a few more seconds it was going to kick in. It was tasteless and odourless and he had no idea what was happening. He smiled, but his eyes were beginning to glaze.

She knew what they were going to do to him. She’d signed his death warrant.

He slipped down from his stool. The strange feeling was spreading fast through him, and he barely had time to register it or fight it. His knee wobbled under his weight. His leg seemed to shoot out in front of him and he felt himself going down as if in slow motion. He hit the floor and watched numbly as his glass shattered beside him.

His vision began to cloud. He looked up at her standing over him. She was talking on the phone. When she spoke into it her voice sounded deep and booming and far away.

‘You can come and get him now,’ Eve said, looking down at him. He was losing consciousness. His head slumped on the floor.

She knelt down beside him and stroked his hair. ‘I’m so very sorry, Liebchen.’

Four minutes later, the men came for him. They burst into Eve’s flat, picked him up off the floor and carried him out to the waiting van.

Consciousness returned to Ben in staggered layers. First he was dimly aware of the vibration pulsing through his skull where his head was resting against the hard metal of the wheel arch. His vision was blurry and he felt sick. Suddenly he was aware of being terribly, terribly cold. His body was racked with shivering and his teeth were chattering.

He was sprawled across the floor of a rattling truck. The tin walls around him resonated loudly with the engine and transmission whine. He groaned and shifted, trying to get to his feet. His head was still spinning.

Memories came back to him in fragments. He remembered Ingrid’s flat. Being hit by the car. Before that, the running chase through the streets. Kinski injured.

He remembered now. He’d been drugged.

He grabbed hold of one of the reinforcing braces inside the metal shell and dragged himself upright. The truck was lurching and bouncing and it was hard to stand. There were no windows. He looked at his watch. It was nearly six o’clock. He must have been on the road for over an hour and a half. Where were they taking him?

The rattling, juddering journey lasted another quarter of an hour, the truck slowing as the road got rougher. He staggered across from one wall to the other as it swerved violently into a turning, then stopped. He heard the sound of doors slamming, and at least three different men’s voices, all speaking in rapid, harsh German. He felt the vehicle reverse, and its engine sound was suddenly echoey and reverberating as though the truck was inside a big metal space.

The doors opened and he was dazzled by the lights. Powerful hands gripped him by the arms and hauled him out of the van. He dropped to his hands and knees on cold concrete and looked around him, blinking. Around him were seven, eight, nine men, all armed with either pistols or Heckler & Koch machine carbines. They all had the look of ex-military, serious faces, eyes cold and calm.

The prefabricated building looked like an old air-base hangar, stretching out on all sides like a vast aluminium cathedral. The concrete floor was painted green. The only furnishings were a tubular chair and a metal table. A fire blazed in a glass-fronted stove with a long steel flue that rose to the ceiling.

Standing in the middle of the huge open space, warming his hands over the stove, was a tall man in black. Sandy hair, cropped short.

Ben narrowed his eyes against the bright lights. He knew this man. Who the hell was he?

One of the men with guns got too close and Ben saw a crazy chance. He lashed out with the rigid edge of his hand, fingers curled. The man let out a choking squawk as his throat was crushed, and fell squirming to the floor clutching his neck. The stubby black H &K was spinning in mid-air when Ben snatched it. It was cocked. He flipped off the safety. He was faster than these men, and he could bring them all down before they got him.