Scott Mariani - The Mozart Conspiracy

‘Who’s Eve?’ asked the voice.

‘What?’ he said, confused. He put a hand over his other ear, shutting out the noise of the bar and the music and the flight announcement that was drowning out her words.

‘It’s Leigh,’ she shouted down the phone. ‘It’s Leigh .’

The mountains of Slovenia

A few hours later

It was a long drive from Ljubljana airport to Bled in the north-western corner of Slovenia. Ben pushed the rental Audi hard and fast. He was anxious to see her again. The awful image of what he’d taken to be her dead face was still lodged in his mind.

The little town was nestled deep in the pine forests. The road took him around the Lake Bled shoreline under a heavy grey sky. Across the water was a tiny wooded island with a baroque church steeple poking through the trees. The snowy mountains towered in the background. The road was virtually empty and rain had washed it clear of ice.

As he reached the outskirts he checked his map. The directions she’d given him on the phone led him to an elegant chalet-style villa at the end of a quiet street. Rain pattered on the windscreen as he drew up outside the house. A polished brass plaque on the wall was inscribed with the name Anja Kovak in heavy black lettering. Beside the name was a title he didn’t understand, but it looked like the kind of plaque a doctor or lawyer would have. A professional person. He checked the address again. It was definitely the one Leigh had given him, but it didn’t seem right. What was she doing here?

He sat in the car for a minute to clear his mind. He’d been doing a lot of thinking since her call. He watched the raindrops run down the outside of the screen. Then he reached for the handle, opened the car door and swung a leg out.

That was when the door of the house opened and he saw her standing there at the top of the steps. She was wearing clothes a size too big for her, a heavy black woollen pullover and a pair of black baggy trousers. They looked borrowed. Whoever had lent them to her liked black.

He climbed out of the car and walked slowly through the gate. It began to rain harder. Leigh came towards him. They started moving more quickly as they got nearer to one another. She hugged him tight as they came together.

He held her. He didn’t want to let go. The pain in his ribs didn’t matter. He suddenly wanted to kiss her again-but he didn’t know if it was the right thing.

They held each other for a long time, and then she pulled away from him, clasping his hands tightly. Her hair was wet with the rain. She was crying and laughing at the same time. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she said.

‘I thought you were dead,’ was all he could say. ‘The last few days have been a torture.’

She looked up at him. ‘You said it was over. Is it, really?’

He nodded. ‘It’s over. You’re safe. You can get on with your life again.’

‘You found them?’

He nodded again.

‘What did you do?’

‘Don’t ask me that.’

‘Where’s Clara?’

‘At home with her father. She’s fine. They’re both fine.’

Leigh glanced up at the sky, hugged herself and shivered. ‘It’s raining,’ she said. ‘Let’s go inside.’

She led him into the house. There were terracotta tiles on the floor, and the walls were painted white. It looked clinical and clean. He heard a cough and looked to his left. There was a sign on the wall that he couldn’t read. Through the open doorway next to it he could see some people sitting on chairs. A couple of them were reading magazines. Someone coughed again. The air smelled of chlorine disinfectant. It was a doctor’s waiting room.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Leigh as she led him past the door and up the corridor towards another one.

‘Anja’s consulting,’ she said. ‘We can talk in here.’

She pushed open the door and he followed her into a kitchen. It was small and practical. There was a percolator bubbling on a gas cooker, and the smell of real coffee.

She poured coffee into two cups and handed him one. ‘You look different. What happened to your hair? It’s darker.’

‘You look different too. You look alive.’

‘I’m definitely not dead,’ she assured him, smiling.

‘I know what happened at the convent,’ he said. ‘I should have been there for you.’

‘I’ve been trying to call you for days. Your phone was never on. I was really worried about you.’

‘I didn’t have my phone,’ he said. He didn’t tell her why. ‘What happened to you? What are you doing here?’

‘It’s a simple story,’ she said. ‘The helicopters went away. They took Clara. There was nothing I could do.’ She paused a while, remembering. ‘I waited until the men were gone. I could see the smoke. I guessed what was happening. I was scared they might come back. I wanted to get away, as far and as fast as I could. I was covered in blood.’

‘Whose blood?’

‘Not mine,’ she answered.

‘The old hammer-gun?’

She nodded. ‘I had to use it.’ She shuddered, closed her eyes for a moment, sipped coffee. ‘I couldn’t bear the feel of his blood on me. I found a stream where I scrubbed it all off. I wandered for a long time in the snow. I just walked. I didn’t know where to go. Everything was wilderness, and trees and hills. I don’t remember too well, but they said I was staggering and near to collapsing when they found me.’

‘Who found you?’

‘Anja.’

‘The doctor?’

She nodded. ‘I was lucky. Anja doesn’t get too many days off. She was skiing with some friends. They found me and took me to a ski cabin in a valley. At first Anja said she wanted to take me to the hospital. She was the only one in the group who spoke English. I pleaded with her not to take me there. She agreed to bring me back here to her surgery, and I’ve been here all week. I’m fine now.’

‘I’m thankful to Anja,’ he said. He stroked her arm. It felt warm and soft. ‘There’s something I have to tell you, Leigh. Your father’s letter. It was destroyed. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not sorry,’ she said. ‘I wish he’d never found it. I would have destroyed it myself.’

‘Something else,’ Ben said. ‘I think your father was right. So was Arno. I don’t think it was a fake.’

‘We’ll never know, will we?’

He shook his head. ‘No. But I’m glad it’s gone too.’

‘And so this is definitely over?’

‘It’s definitely over.’

‘I feel I should know more.’

‘I don’t think you should. People died.’

She was quiet.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said.

‘I’ve got no papers. I lost everything.’

‘You won’t need them. We’re going back by private jet.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Whose?’

‘It belongs to Philippe Aragon.’

‘Aragon?’ She shook her head, puzzled. ‘The politician?’

‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘Will you be ready to leave here in the morning?’

‘I’m ready now.’

‘Dinner first,’ he said.

‘You’re taking me out? I’ve nothing to wear.’

‘You look great,’ he replied, and smiled.

Dinner was in the restaurant of the Grand Hotel Toplice on the shores of Lake Bled. They sat at a small table for two in the corner. He’d ordered the best bottle in the house. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He had to keep reminding himself that she was really here, really alive.

‘You’re still looking at me like I’m some kind of apparition,’ she laughed.

‘You didn’t see the photo of you. You scared the hell out of me. I still stop breathing every time I think of it.’

‘That’s what comes with years of playing tragic heroines onstage,’ she said. ‘I’ve died a thousand times. Opera’s full of gruesome deaths. Carmen gets stabbed. Tosca jumps off the battlements. Lucia di Lammermoor stabs her husband, gets covered in blood, goes mad and then dies herself. You soon learn to look very dead. And they sometimes film the performances, so there are cameras zoomed right on your face. I can hold my breath like a pearl diver, and I can keep my eyes open forever without blinking.’