The Memorist

Chapter 81

Musikverein Concert Hall

Thursday, May 1^st-2:00 p.m.

The sound of the alarm startled everyone except for Bill Vine, who took the earsplitting, shrill ringing in stride as he opened his cell before it rang, anticipating the call reporting on the reason for the alarm. “Fill me in fast,” he said, and held the phone slightly away from his ear so Tom Paxton could listen in.

“Appears we’ve got a security break at the back entrance and we’re in lockdown,” Alana Green reported. “The mantrap’s operational. We’re secure.”

“Is this a fire drill or the real thing?” Vine asked.

“I’m trying to find out,” Green answered. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.”

“Fuck,” Paxton muttered once Green disconnected. One real security break and he could-and would-call off the concert, but if he acted too soon and it turned out to be a false alarm it would be bad for business. Standing over Vine’s shoulder, Tom watched as his second-in-command typed instructions into his laptop, bringing up pictures of each entrance, inspecting them and calling out information as he did. Everyone else in the room had frozen, listening to the vitals. “Front main doors, secure.” Pause. “Ticket holders’ side entrance secure.” He listed them all, not finding anything amiss until the stage entrance cameras. “Got it,” he called out.

Paxton leaned down and inspected the scene displayed on Vine’s computer more closely. Or tried to. There was a flurry of activity, making it hard to see anything but a mass of men converging on a locked-down mantrap.

“There’s someone in there,” Vine said. They all crowded around and watched as a dozen guards, all armed with assault rifles, escorted a young man out of the locked-down door system.

“What’s Green doing? Get her back on the phone. I want to know what’s going on,” Paxton barked, and reached for his seventh or eighth cup of coffee. “We are less than three hours away from two thousand, eight hundred people descending on us, waving their tickets in their hands.”

Vine’s cell phone rang just as he was about to dial. “Tell me.” Again he held it slightly away from his ear.

“No breach. It was a musician,” Green explained. “Sebastian Otto. Principal oboe. Originally he weighed in without his instruments but today walked through with them. The monitor kicked in when the numbers didn’t match the stats on the biometric card. Stupid mistake. His cases should have gone through security on their own.”

“No one thought to stop the guy from walking in with his instruments? That is a basic error, Vine. Who’s down there? Change whoever is in charge. Right now.” Paxton wasn’t screaming, but it might be better if he was. The low, angry words were more alarming to the people who worked for him. “How do we know that those instrument cases aren’t a part of some plot? We’re still missing a Semtex buy. Get them inspected.”

“All the instrument cases are being inspected. And Otto is being checked out as we speak. I’m watching it on the screen. No problem. Intact and clean.”

There was a collective sigh of relief in the war room.

But Paxton’s concern level remained as intense as it had been minutes ago. “This orchestra’s given us problems from the beginning.”

“But every one of them has checked out,” Vine responded. “This wasn’t serious, just stupid.”

“At this point I don’t care which it was. Let’s go, I want to have a conversation with the illustrious conductor.” About to exit the makeshift office, Paxton stopped and looked back at Kerri. “Are you coming with us?”

“Not yet, too much to do here. Twenty-two VIPs were added to the guest list in the last hour plus the Vice President confirmed and I have an entire team working on getting them all cards.”

“Can you find someone else to do that?” It wasn’t really a question.

Kerri asked her assistant to take over for a few minutes and followed her boss out of the room and down the hall.

The concert hall spread out before them, the deep crimson seats filling the auditorium. Dozens of musicians milled around while others sat in their seats playing for the conductor, who sat on a stool, listening with his eyes shut. For several minutes the rich sound continued, multiple instruments melding into one concordance. Then the group held back as the Principal oboist hurried onto the stage and launched into his evocative solo, not stopping even as Paxton’s group approached. Sebastian Otto’s playing didn’t falter for a second and in no way did he acknowledge the new audience. But the conductor did. Leopold Twitchel pushed his thick, black-framed glasses up on his bald head and spun around with a deep scowl on his face. “This is not an open rehearsal, Mr. Paxton.”

“I don’t care if it is or isn’t an open rehearsal. We can’t secure the building if we don’t have your cooperation. And clearly, we still don’t have it. Walking in with instrument cases…refusing to follow instructions…this isn’t working.”

“I’ve explained to you already. These men and women are artists. There are no strangers in our midst. You don’t need to treat us as if there are.”

“Not strangers to you, perhaps, but as far as security risks go, you’re all strangers to me. Whenever you get a body of diplomats of this magnitude together there are security measures that have to be observed, and to do that effectively we must have your help. Get your team to follow the rules. All the rules.”

“You’re interrupting a rehearsal.” Slipping his glasses back down onto the bridge of his nose, the conductor returned his attention to his oboist. “We can start at the beginning of your solo if that’s all right with you, Herr Otto.”

Suddenly, Paxton’s words exploded out of him, eclipsing the sound of Otto’s instrument. “If you won’t comply, we won’t fucking have a concert! That’s a call I can make, and one I’ll make if I have to.”

The oboe’s flourish added an unexpected and coincidental punctuation to the outburst as Paxton strode out of the hall.