The Mozart Conspiracy

Chapter Fifty

The von Adler mansion

Next morning

Clara raised her face from the pillow. Her head was still spinning and she had a horrible taste in her mouth. How long had she been sleeping? She remembered now. It hadn’t been a nightmare. She’d been screaming and banging at the door. After a few minutes, when her hands were sore, the door had opened.

It had been the old man, the one who looked like a hawk. He was smiling, but not in a friendly way. His eyes were cold, like black pebbles. The one she’d called Franz had been there too. He wasn’t really called Franz, she knew that now. She hated him. She hoped his ear wasn’t scarred at all, but that it was the start of some awful disease that was going to spread all across his face until he had to hide himself away in a hole for the rest of his life. She remembered how he’d held her down on the bed, pinning her arms down. She’d kicked and fought but he was too strong.

Then another man had come in. He was a doctor. Or maybe he just wore a doctor’s white coat. He had a smile on his face she didn’t like. In his hand was a little leather bag. He’d opened it and taken out a syringe. She’d wriggled and squirmed but they held her tight and she couldn’t move. Then, pain as the needle went in, and after that she couldn’t remember anything.

Clara felt her arm. It was sore where they’d injected her. She wiped her eyes and looked around her small, bare room. There was a mess of food on the floor from where she’d upended the tray they’d brought her earlier. They’d brought her a toy, some stupid little rag doll, as though that would keep her happy. She’d flung it in the face of one of the men who’d brought her here and shut her in the room. It was still lying there near the door, untouched.

How long had she been in here? It seemed like forever. She wanted to see her daddy. Where was he?

She cocked her little head and listened. Was that a voice outside her door, speaking low? She knew there was always someone out there, keeping watch over her. Maybe it was Franz. Or it might be the blonde lady who checked on her from time to time. She seemed gentler than the others. She had a look about her, like she was sad or upset. Clara didn’t trust her, though, and wouldn’t speak to her.

Sitting up straighter in the bed, she looked up at the window. It was little more than a skylight, high up in the ceiling above her. All she could see out of it were dark clouds scudding across the grey sky. This place was quiet. There was no traffic noise from outside. Still, there might be people walking past down below. If she got their attention, maybe someone would help her.

She dragged herself off the bed. Her legs felt heavy. She only realized then that they’d changed her clothes, and that she was wearing a pair of blue pyjamas a size too large for her. Her own clothes were folded neatly on a chair. She walked slowly across the room and dragged the chair over beneath the window. She dropped the folded clothing on the floor, grasped the wooden backrest with one hand and put one foot on the chair, then the other. She wobbled as she straightened up. She reached up with one arm, as high as she could. Her straining fingers brushed the window-catch, but couldn’t get a purchase. She strained harder.

Four hundred yards away, Ben rested his weight on the thick branch and adjusted the knurled focusing ring on the 20 × 50 Zeiss binoculars. The cold wind rocked the tree in a lazy arc. He was a long way up and hoped the groaning branch would hold.

The palatial mansion hadn’t been very hard to find. That had been the one detail Kroll was missing-he didn’t know that Ben knew where he lived, and where they were keeping Clara. From the moment he’d been let out of the cell and provided with the things he needed for his mission, Ben had had only one plan in mind. Forget about going after Philippe Aragon. He was going to find Clara and get her out of there. Nobody had better get in his way. And once she was safe he was coming back for Kroll, Glass, the lot of them.

But now, seeing the place for the first time, he knew that plan was impossible.

It was a fortress. The high stone wall encircling the estate must have been several kilometres long, with towers every few hundred yards along its length and a single enormous arched gateway. On each massive gatepost was a bronze eagle. The tall iron gates were gilded and spiked. Through them he could see security guards pacing up and down by a gatehouse. A broad private road led to a huge sprawl of tiered steps and fountains and gardens and sweeping stone balustrades. The house perched majestically above it all, glittering white stone against the pinewoods and the mountains beyond. Ben scanned the towering baroque façade, picking out dozens of little skylights and garret windows. There had to be a hundred rooms in the place at least, and the girl could be in any one of them.

Clara stood on the backrest of the chair. Wobbling precariously, she reached up as high as she could, and her little fingers closed around the catch of the window. She shoved it. It gave an inch or two with a grating of a rusty hinge. If she could open it further, maybe she could stick her head out and shout for help. She pushed again.

The window opened a little wider. She shoved a hand through it and felt the cold wind on her fingers. Then the sudden roaring thud of helicopter blades filled her ears.

Ben saw the Bell 407 chopper come in to land, sleek, black, unmarked. It disappeared behind the ornate façade, coming to rest on top of the house. The undulating roofs blocked his view of the helipad and of whoever might be getting out or getting in.

He swept the binoculars downwards and watched the rows of vehicles at the front of the house. There were more guards down there, at least fifteen men. He knew they would be armed. There was no telling how many more would be inside. He scanned the grounds. Trees and bushes provided good cover inboard of the wall, but closer to the house the terrain was open, a cleared zone that would be hard to cross unseen. By night the lawns, flower-beds and concreted areas would all be illuminated and almost certainly watched by security cameras as well as regularly patrolled.

Ben took the Zeiss glasses away from his eyes, and the house was suddenly tiny and white in the distance. Letting the binoculars hang from his neck, he lay prone on his branch for a few minutes, thinking hard.

He thought back to all the places he’d raided alone. He was good at what he did, and he knew it. But to go up against something this size was a suicide mission, not just for him but for the kid. It couldn’t be done. There was no use. He had no choice but to go after Philippe Aragon and give him to Kroll.

He backed along the branch and started climbing downwards, agile and silent. He reached the ground, wiped his hands and made his way towards the road, lighting a cigarette as he walked to the nondescript grey van, shoulders hunched against the biting wind. He sighed as he opened the van door and slid into the driver’s seat. He laid the Zeiss glasses on the seat next to him, leaned back behind the wheel and finished his cigarette. Then he crushed the stub into the ashtray and twisted the ignition. The diesel rasped into life.

It was a long drive to Brussels. He’d better get moving. But before that, he had one other stop to make.