Scott Mariani - The Mozart Conspiracy

He took another step. As he came closer Glass’s mouth twisted into what used to be a smile. ‘Here we are again,’ he said. His voice was lumpy and fleshy.

‘Let her go, Jack. It’s no use.’

Glass smiled. He pressed the point harder into Leigh’s stomach. She struggled in his arms.

Ben winced. He took a step back. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘You took my life away, Hope,’ Glass said. ‘Now I’m going to take something away from you.’

‘You want a ransom,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll pay you whatever you want. I’ll give you the money to get your face fixed up. Whatever it takes. Let her go.’

‘You don’t get it,’ Glass shouted. ‘I don’t want money !’

Ben felt ice in his heart. This wasn’t a kidnap. ‘Kroll’s dead,’ he said. ‘It’s over. Let her go and leave now. I won’t come after you.’

Glass just smiled.

‘Please,’ Ben said. He took a step forward again. ‘Let her go.’

Glass just smiled.

‘I promise you’ll be left alone,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll help you. I’ll help you get whatever it is you want. But you’ve got to do the right thing. You’ve got to let her go.’

Glass grinned.

‘Take me,’ Ben said. ‘I don’t care. Take me instead. Let her go.’

Across the misty piazza he could see people walking. A young couple. Behind them, a family. Someone pointed. There was a yell. Then another.

That was what scared him most. That Glass just didn’t care any more.

‘Let her go!’ he shouted. Desperation was starting to rise.

Glass was still grinning. Leigh struggled.

Their eyes met. Ben looked into hers and he made her a promise he prayed he could keep.

‘This is for you, Hope!’ Glass screamed.

Ben saw the intent flash through the man’s mutilated face and he knew what was coming. He saw the black gloved fingers tighten on the leather handle of the Ka-Bar. He saw the muscles of the right arm and shoulder tense under the heavy coat.

‘No, no, no-’

The arm pushed. The knife drove in. Glass’s knuckles pressed against Leigh’s belly. She went rigid and drew in a sharp breath, the gasping sound of surprise people made when a cold blade pierced deep into their body. Ben had heard it before.

Glass let her fall. She dropped like a puppet with the strings cut. Her knees folded under her. She hit the hard ground with the knife embedded in her stomach. It was in up to the hilt.

A woman’s scream echoed across the piazza.

Glass gave Ben a last look and ran. His footsteps echoed away down one of the backstreets.

Ben rushed to Leigh and sank to his knees beside her. She was lying on her back, sprawled across the stone quay, coughing gouts of blood. It was leaking out all over her costume. He held her. His hands and face were sticky with it. There was so little he could do. The passers-by were running over. Someone screamed again. A young woman held her hand over her mouth.

‘Call a doctor! Ambulance!’ Ben yelled at them. Ashen faces peered down at him. Someone pulled out a phone.

She was trying to speak to him. He pressed his face against hers. She convulsed. Her eyes were rolling in fear. He held her tight. He didn’t want to let her go.

But she was going.

‘I love you,’ he said.

She mouthed something in reply.

He held her as her pulse became weaker and slower. Then weaker still. Then nothing.

He shook her. There was blood everywhere. He was kneeling in a spreading pool of it.

‘The ambulance is coming,’ someone said in a hollow voice.

Nothing. No pulse. Her eyes were open. There was no breath coming from her lips.

He shook her again. ‘Fight!’ he screamed at her. ‘Fight it!’ The tears were mixing with the blood on his cheeks. They streamed down and dripped on her face.

‘She’s gone,’ said a voice overhead.

He buried his face against her shoulder. She was soft and warm. His shoulders heaved as he clasped her tightly. He rocked her.

‘She’s gone,’ the voice said again. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up. A young blonde woman was gazing down at him. Her face was contorted. She was crying too. She knelt down beside him and took his hand. ‘I’m a nurse,’ she said in English. ‘I’m sorry. She’s gone. There’s nothing more to be done.’

Ben knelt there with his head hanging. The nurse reached out and closed Leigh’s eyes. Someone laid a coat over her. People were crying. An elderly woman blessed herself and muttered a prayer.

People were coming out of the opera house. A crowd gathered quickly. There were cries of horror. A couple of voices said her name. Claudio ran out of the building. His hands were clutched to his face. There were sirens in the distance, growing louder.

Everything faded. Ben’s mind became still. He couldn’t hear the noise. He could see only one thing. He opened his eyes. They were white against the streaks of blood. He stood up and looked down at Leigh’s shape under the coat.

The crowd moved aside for him. Eyes followed him. Hands touched him, lips moved.

He walked away. He looked up and saw someone at a window, waving to get his attention. It was an old woman. Her face was wild. She was gesticulating. Pointing down the shadowy backstreet. He understood what she was telling him.

He began to walk, and then his walk quickened to a run, and then his footsteps were hammering under him and clapping off the walls of the twisty, murky alleyway.

Glass couldn’t run that fast. His injuries from Vienna were still too fresh to have healed and the pain in his shoulder was grinding.

The backstreets of Venice were dark and deserted. The fog was coming down, settling heavily over the city. That was good. The fog would help him to slip away. He’d wait a while, hole up somewhere and try to heal, become strong again. He wanted Ben Hope to hurt during that time. Then he was going to come back and finish him. Do it right, slowly and properly. The way he would have, if that stupid old bastard Kroll hadn’t stopped him.

The water slopped against the side of the canal. He limped on. Through the drifting mist he saw the arched bridge across the water. There were some steps leading down. He hobbled down them. They were slippery. Down near the waterline, the old pitted stone walls were slimy with green-black mossy scum.

The little boat was moored down there, rocking gently in the shadow. He climbed into it and fired up the outboard motor. The boat burbled into life. Glass gripped the tiller and cast off. He turned the boat around, leaving a churning white wake in the darkness. A few hundred yards up the narrow canal he would pass Piazza San Marco and then he’d be heading for the open water of the Grand Canal.

After that, he could disappear. Five minutes-and he would be gone.

The dying echo of the outboard reached Ben’s ears. He got to the arched bridge. His heart was pounding and his sides were aching. He saw the ghost of the wake in the water, already breaking up, the foam dissipating against the scummy, streaked edges of the canal.

He ran on. He could only see one thing. He was sharp and focused. It would be different later, when the pain and the grief would hit him. There’d be a lot of pain. But there was no room in his mind for that now.

Glass had to be in the boat. There was nowhere else to run. If he got out of the narrow canals and into the broad waters, he could vanish all over again.

A light cut through the fog. The purr of a powerful twin-prop motor. A fibreglass hull bumped gently on rubber buffers against the canal wall. Ben walked that way.

The guy was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was well-dressed, well-groomed. He looked like someone who drove a fast boat, took a pride in it, took good care of it. He stiffened when he saw Ben approach out of the fog. ‘I need your boat,’ Ben said in Italian. ‘I’ll bring it back when I’m done.’