Scott Mariani - The Mozart Conspiracy

One man held a gun to his head while two others opened up the back doors of the van. Glass peered inside.

Aragon was covered with a blanket. His wrists and ankles were bound with plastic cable-ties and there was a length of duct tape over his mouth. He was unconscious.

One of the men pulled a photo from his pocket. He studied the prisoner’s face long and hard, then nodded to Glass. ‘It’s him.’

A fourth man reached inside one of the cars and brought out a leather case. He carried it to the van, unzipped it and took out a stethoscope. He listened to Aragon’s heartbeat and looked satisfied. ‘No problems.’

‘Good work,’ Glass said.

‘The girl,’ Ben said again, keeping his eyes on the side of the van.

Glass grinned. ‘You’ll get her when we decide.’

‘That wasn’t the arrangement,’ Ben said.

‘Fuck the arrangement. You don’t make the rules, you cocky bastard.’

‘So what next?’

Glass reached inside his coat and his fist came out clutching a 9mm. He stepped up to Ben and stuck the muzzle of the gun roughly under his chin. ‘If it was up to me,’ he said.

‘Except it’s not,’ Ben replied. ‘Is it?’

Glass flushed. ‘You’ll be contacted. There’ll be more jobs for you.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ben said.

‘No? You’re working for us now.’ Glass pointed at the frozen lake. ‘Or maybe you’d rather take a swim?’ He chuckled. ‘You’ll do as you’re told. Lie low and wait for our call. Any funny business and the girl dies. Don’t forget.’

Ben looked him in the eye. ‘I never forget anything,’ he said.

Glass’s grin wavered. He holstered his pistol with a grunt and motioned to his men. They slammed the van doors. One of them climbed in the driver’s seat and started the engine. The rest of them walked back to the cars. The two Mercedes threw up mud and slush as they accelerated away. The van followed, taking Philippe Aragon with them.

Ben stood and watched their taillights disappear into the mist. Silence fell over the lake again. He started walking, then took out a phone. He dialled a number. A voice answered.

‘We’re on,’ Ben said.

He turned off the phone and walked faster.

No going back now. But what if he was wrong?

The von Adler mansion

That night

Light poured from the windows of the mansion and floodlights illuminated its façade and the snowy grounds for a hundred yards. A steady stream of guests were arriving. The cars were opulent, the curves of Ferraris and the coachwork of stately Bentleys glittering under the floods. Doormen in uniforms greeted the guests and ushered them inside, while the chauffeurs parked their vehicles along the side of the enormous house.

Inside the mansion, the huge marble-floored entrance hall was milling with people. Waiters in white tuxedos circulated carrying silver trays of champagne glasses or poured cocktails and dry martinis at the bar. Long tables were covered with selections of canapés and gourmet finger-food.

The guests were dressed for the occasion, the men in sober evening wear while the expensively decked women on their arms took the opportunity to show off their jewels. Diamond necklaces glittered like wet ice. The sounds of popping corks, laughter and music rang up to the high ornate ceiling. Through the tall double doors to the magnificent ballroom, the string quartet for the evening was into its first set of waltzes and a few couples were out on the dance floor.

Far from the house, the guards at the gate were strolling up and down in the snow, kicking their heels and clapping their gloved hands to keep warm. One laid down his radio handset as the lights of another car lit up the icy road. The black Jaguar stopped at the gate. The guard stepped forward as the driver’s window whirred down. He bent and looked inside the car. There were four men inside, all looking appropriately dressed under their overcoats. They were a little younger than most of the male guests, all in their late thirties or early forties.

‘Guten Abend, meine Herren,’ the guard said, waiting for them to produce their invitations.

Hands reached inside pockets. The guard collected the four invites and moved away from the car, closer to the light from the gatehouse so he could inspect them. He shook his head. There was a problem. These were wrong.

He turned back towards the Jaguar.

That was the last thing he knew.

Ben caught his limp body before it could leave any marks in the snow. There was a muffled shout from the side of the gatehouse. The second guard was reaching for his radio when the Jaguar’s rear door opened. The passenger stepped out and fired two double-taps from the suppressed H &K pistol. The second guard crumpled without a sound and fell back inside the open doorway of the gatehouse.

The rear passenger’s name was Randall. He was an ex-regiment man, quick-witted and built like a fox. Ben had trained him years before, and trusted him completely. His accentless German had come from his mother’s side and made him the perfect choice to take over the gatehouse and wave through any straggling guests. Bryant, the lean dark ex-para from Lancashire, had been chosen to back him up.

Working fast, they laid the guards out on the floor of the hut. Ben nodded. Randall and Bryant quickly removed their overcoats and tuxedo jackets and started pulling on the guards’ clothes.

Ben walked briskly back to the Jaguar and slipped in behind the wheel. In the passenger seat was Jean Gardier, one of Louis Moreau’s former GIGN guys, the youngest of the team they’d hastily but carefully assembled in Aragon’s office. Gardier was smooth and handsome, with a head of thick black curly hair and a broad white smile that he flashed freely. He’d mix well with the party crowd. From what Aragon’s head of security had told him, Ben knew enough to know Gardier would be excellent at his job.

The tall gates glided open with a dull mechanical whirr and the car purred on through and down the driveway towards the incandescent mansion in the distance.

The house towered into the night sky as they drew up outside. Every leaf of ivy on its massive façade was lit up like daylight. Ben opened up a slim case and took out a pair of oval wire-framed glasses with plain lenses. He slipped them on.

He did a last check of his subvocal earpiece before he stepped out and handed the keys to a valet. Gardier followed him towards the house. The doormen greeted them at the entrance. Ben let one of them take his long black coat. They walked inside and instantly split up without a glance at each other, mingling with the crowd.

It was warm inside the reception hall, and the air was filled with music and bright chatter. A waiter came wafting by, carrying a tray of glasses. Ben snatched one without stopping and brought it to his lips, sipping the ice-chilled champagne. He stood in the corner of the huge entrance hall, catching a glimpse of himself in one of the tall gilt-framed mirrors that lined the walls. The black tuxedo fitted him well, and he barely recognized himself with the spectacles and this darker brown hair tint. Subtle changes were enough to alter a man’s appearance very effectively and naturally. Kroll and Glass would know him if they got close, but if he was careful he’d go unnoticed. For the moment, at least. He still had to get deep inside the place.

He chewed on a canapé from a side-table and wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin. ‘Check,’ he said quietly behind the napkin. Gardier’s voice responded instantly in his ear.

He looked casual as he scanned his surroundings. The hallway alone was large enough to accommodate a small jet aircraft. From its centre the broad red-carpeted marble staircase swept up to a landing with a high domed ceiling, satin drapes and a huge dramatic painting that he thought he recognized as a Delacroix.