Scott Mariani - The Mozart Conspiracy

Beyond the landing, the staircase split into two, climbing in a majestic double curve to the first floor. The landing was cordoned off with a length of silky gold rope. There were two guards hanging around at the foot of the stairs, very discreet with their weapons and radios well out of sight.

He circulated, strolling calmly through into the ballroom and pausing to hear the string quartet. He’d lost sight of Gardier.

He looked around him at the guests. Most of them were high society, wealthy businessmen and their wives just here for the party. They had no idea of the real reason for the gathering, the bloodthirsty ritual murder due to take place right under their noses as they sipped their champagne and nibbled their canapés.

A waiter came by with a loaded tray and he turned to pick up another glass of champagne. Just then he saw Kroll walking quickly his way. For an instant he thought he could feel the old man’s dark eyes on him. Ben turned slowly away, controlling the surge of adrenaline, sipping his drink and feeling completely naked as Kroll came close. As he pretended to be admiring the artwork on the wall he felt Kroll pass within a foot of him. Ben breathed again as the old man’s narrow back disappeared among the crowd.

As he watched Kroll go, Ben had another sudden uncomfortable sensation that he was being watched. He turned. A woman was standing by herself across the dance floor, drink in hand. Their eyes met for an instant through the throng of waltzing couples. She seemed to frown, as though scrutinizing him uncertainly.

Her long blonde hair was piled up with a diamond clasp and a shimmering backless ball-gown clung to her figure. But there was no doubt who she was under the makeup and the wig.

Eve turned away and he lost sight of her. He wondered if that had been a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Whether he could trust her. Whether he could do anything about it either way.

He glanced back through the double doors into the hallway. The guards had moved away from the foot of the stairs. He checked his watch. It was 8.51. He coughed lightly into his palm as he headed from the ballroom. ‘Diversion,’ he said softly into his cupped hand.

Two seconds later there was a loud crash from the back of the ballroom. A waiter had tripped and a whole tray of glasses lay broken and spilled on the floor. One of the guests, a young man with thick dark curly hair, was apologizing for his clumsiness as two more waiters came running with a broom and wads of kitchen roll. There was a buzz of conversation around the scene. The waiters got to work cleaning up the mess, and then it was over. But it had given Ben the time he needed. He smiled at Gardier’s act as he headed quickly for the stairs and trotted up to the first landing. He glanced over his shoulder. Slipped under the rope cordon. Nobody saw him. He took off the spectacles and slid them into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

He hoped that O’Neill, Cook, Lambert and Delmas would be in their assigned positions outside. How many guards would they have to neutralize? Everything seemed to be going all right-for the moment.

‘How are we doing with the church?’ he muttered into the subvocal as he reached the first floor.

Silence. A tiny crackle in his ear. Then: ‘No way in from the outside.’ He recognized the throaty voice of Delmas, another of Moreau’s ex-GIGN men. He’d been expecting that.

He explored the corridors, looking for the landmarks he’d memorized from Oliver’s video-clip. This was familiar, he thought, as he paused at an alcove in the wall, domed at the top, just a little taller than him. It housed an Egyptian artifact on a marble pedestal, the black and gold Pharaoh’s mask Oliver had accidentally caught on camera. He was moving in the right direction.

But the place was a maze. To his left, a doorway opened up into another long corridor that was flanked with delicate antiques and more paintings in gold frames. He checked his watch again. Time was passing fast.

The chilling thought entered his mind again. What if he was wrong?

He tried a door. It was locked. He moved down the corridor to the next one and found it open. He turned the gilded handle. The door creaked as he stepped inside. He left it slightly ajar. Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness he walked through the room. Something heavy and hard caught his hip and he put his hand out to feel it.

It was a billiard table. He made his way around its edge to the moonlit French window and unlatched it. He stepped out onto the stone balcony, feeling the sudden bite of the freezing cold air. He scanned the snowy grounds. There was no sign of his team-but then, there wasn’t meant to be. These men were trained to be invisible.

He took the Mini Maglite from his inside pocket and flashed twice.

At the signal, four dark shapes broke cover and crept across the lawn to the side of the house. They gathered under the window. There were no guards to surprise them. Ben knew it was the guards who must have had the surprise.

The rubber-sleeved claw of the grappling hook flew over the edge of the balcony and gained a hold. Ben secured the rope and gave it a tug. He felt it go taut as the first man tested his weight on it.

Light flooded into the room behind him. A man’s figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. ‘Was machen Sie da? ’ said a harsh voice.

Ben walked away from the window. The guard’s arms were folded across his chest and there was a severe look on his face. His bald crown gleamed in the light from the corridor, a fuzz of dark stubble over his ears. Another man came up behind him, smaller than his companion, scowling as he saw Ben.

‘Pardon me,’ Ben said in German. ‘I was looking for the bathroom.’

‘This is a private room,’ the bald guard said. ‘What are you doing in here?’ He peered past Ben’s shoulder, looking at the open window. ‘Did you open that window?’ he demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

The rope scraped on the balcony handrail. The guard took a step closer to the window. He had one hand on his radio.

‘I needed some air,’ Ben said, grinning. ‘Too much wine.’

‘There are bathrooms downstairs,’ the smaller guard snapped.

‘Guess I got lost,’ Ben said. ‘Big place.’

The wiry guard didn’t look convinced. The bald one kept moving towards the window.

Ben glanced at the balcony. The black claws of the grappling hook were plain against the white stone. The bald guard saw it and tore out his radio. The wiry one dived a hand inside his jacket.

Ben was two feet away from the edge of the billiard table. In the shadows his fingers closed on something smooth, tapered and hard.

The bald one was about to signal the alert when Ben smashed the cue across his head. The guy dropped the radio and crumpled to the floor.

The wiry guard went for his pistol. Even if he missed, the sound of a shot was going to alert the whole house. He moved fast, but Ben was faster. The billiard cue was a broken spike in his hand. He rammed the jagged point hard and deep into the guard’s eye, penetrating the brain and killing him instantly.

The first one was by then back up on his feet, teeth bared in the shadows. He lunged. Ben sidestepped and felt the wind from a swinging punch that just missed his head. He moved inside the arc of the blow and crushed the bald man’s trachea with the web of his hand. The guard went down. Ben stamped on his neck and snapped it.

There was a movement at the window. Ben turned to see the black shape of a man hauling himself up and swinging his legs over onto the balcony. It was O’Neill, the Irish SAS sergeant who’d been Ben’s first choice for the team.