The Mozart Conspiracy

Chapter Fifty-Eight

The crypt was filled with flickering golden candlelight and the scent of hot wax. The wavering light lined the edges of the ancient symbols carved into the stone walls and the three massive columns that dominated the space. Around the stone walls hung intricate tapestries depicting the esoteric emblems of the Order of Ra. Up above, the golden ram’s head glinted and its spiral horns threw eerie shadows across the vaulted stone ceiling.

A line of men filtered through an arched entrance. They walked silently, solemnly, in single file, their heads slightly bowed as though out of reverence for a church service or a funeral. Each man knew his mark, and they quickly assembled in a semicircular formation in the centre of the floor between the columns. Like a line of elderly soldiers they stood and faced the strange platform. The sacrificial altar was ready for them, as always. Chains hung from the high wooden post erected in the middle.

Kroll and Glass entered the crypt last. They stood at the end of the line, slightly to one side. Nobody spoke. Kroll threw a last quick glance at his watch. It was about to begin.

Deep in the shadows, the heavy iron door swung open. Three men stepped into the flickering light. Everyone recognized the face of the man in the middle. Philippe Aragon’s shirt was stained and crumpled, and there was a cut across his left eyebrow. His arms were held tight by the two hooded men flanking him. There was a leather gag tied across his mouth. His eyes were wild and staring, darting up and down the row of black-suited men who had come to see him die.

They walked him slowly to the wooden post. He struggled as they cuffed his arms behind it and wrapped three lengths of the heavy chain around his waist. He sagged weakly at the knees. Once the chains were secure, the hooded men turned and walked solemnly back into the shadows behind the altar, one either side, half-hidden in the darkness.

The only sound in the crypt was the echoing clinking of the chains as Aragon struggled feebly to get free. All eyes were on him.

Glass smiled to himself. He always enjoyed this moment. He didn’t give a damn one way or the other about Aragon or what he might represent, any more than he’d cared about the others. He just liked the idea of what they were going to do to him. Maybe one day, he thought, they’d get to do a woman this way. That would be good. Maybe the old man would let him do it himself.

The iron door creaked again, and the executioner walked out across the platform. His black hooded robe hung down to his feet. In his hands was a long object wrapped in a piece of scarlet satin. He drew the cloth away and firelight danced down the blade of the ceremonial knife. He stepped up to the prisoner.

Kroll spoke out, and his voice echoed in the crypt. ‘Philippe Aragon, have you anything to say before your sentence is carried out?’ He gestured to the executioner. The hooded man reached out and tore away the gag from Aragon’s lips. Aragon hung from the post, breathing heavily. He fixed Kroll with red-rimmed eyes and spat in his direction.

Kroll turned to the executioner. ‘Cut his heart out,’ he said quietly.

The executioner didn’t hesitate. The razor-sharp blade glittered as he raised it above his head.

The twelve men in the line watched as if hypnotized. Glass grinned in anticipation. Kroll’s lips stretched into a thin smile.

The knife came down in a blur. Aragon let out a cry as the sharp blade buried itself deep.

Into the wooden post by his head. The executioner let go of the knife handle and it stuck there, juddering.

Kroll took a step forwards, his brow creasing, mouth opening. Something was wrong.

The executioner moved away from the prisoner. His hand darted inside his robe and came out with a suppressed 9mm pistol. The fat cylindrical muzzle swung towards the assembled spectators.

Glass reacted instantly by reaching for his own gun. A rattle of silenced gunfire raked the black-and-white flagstones at Glass’s feet and he dropped his weapon.

The hooded guards emerged back into the light. Candle-flame glimmered on their stubby black automatic weapons. O’Neill and Lambert. Two more figures appeared from behind the stone columns on either side. Delmas and Cook. Lambert stepped up to the wooden post and undid Aragon’s chains.

Ben ripped back his hood and shrugged the executioner’s robe off his shoulders. It slipped down to his feet, and he kicked it away.

Kroll’s associates were panicking, wide-eyed, looking to their leader for an explanation. Kroll’s jaw had dropped in amazement. Ben met his eye with a cold smile. Figure that one out, he thought.

The improvised plan had worked well. It hadn’t been difficult to disable the guards and take control of the crypt beneath the church, minutes before Kroll and his people had come in. The real executioner was now lying dead in a backroom with the rest.

Jack Glass stared up at Ben with burning hate in his eyes. Even disarmed, he was still the most dangerous man in the room. Ben kept the sights of the Heckler & Koch square on him, watching him down the pistol’s barrel. The hammer was back, the safety was off. His finger was inside the trigger guard. He only had to squeeze lightly and the hammer would punch down on the round in the chamber, igniting the fulminate in the primer and sending the 9mm hollowpoint spinning down the short barrel. It would reach Glass’s body in less than a hundredth of a second. The bullet would mushroom inside him, exploding into a million razor splinters of lead alloy and copper that would blast out a wide tunnel of lifeless jelly.

His finger caressed the smooth, curved face of the trigger. His eyes were fixed on Glass’s. He let the sights blur out.

A bullet in answer for Oliver. Another for Leigh. And he had fifteen more in the magazine. He wouldn’t stop until the last spent case was tinkling across the floor and the hot gun was locked back in his hands and Glass and Kroll were lying broken and twisted and sprawled in a lake of their mixed blood. His heart quickened at the thought. He felt his eyes burn. He saw Leigh’s smile in his mind. His throat ached.

‘Ben,’ said a voice to his left. He darted a glance sideways, still aiming the gun at Glass.

Aragon was looking hard at him. ‘Don’t do it,’ he said.

Ben shook his head. His fingertip ran down the trigger blade. One pull.

‘This wasn’t what we agreed,’ Aragon said softly. ‘We’re not murderers.’

One pull. The gun began to shake in Ben’s hand.

‘They’ll be arrested and spend the rest of their lives in jail,’ Aragon said. ‘That’s what you promised me. A bullet in the head is not the same thing as justice.’

Ben let out a long sigh. He took his finger out of the trigger guard and flipped on the safety. He let the pistol down.

Glass smiled. Kroll was still staring at Ben in disbelief, his wrinkled mouth half open as if the words were stuck.

Kroll’s associates stood frozen as the four team members moved forwards out of the shadows, weapons shouldered. The old men’s faces were drawn and pale, eyes wide, foreheads thick with sweat.

Emil Ziegler suddenly staggered. His face was twisted in agony as he clapped a hand to his left shoulder. He collapsed, convulsing. Heart attack.

Cook was a trained medic. Slinging his MP-5 behind him, he ran to the stricken man’s side and dropped down to his knees.

Ziegler’s arm lashed out. Cook fell back, the last expression on his face one of complete surprise. Then the blood started spurting from his slashed throat. Ziegler’s chubby fist was still clutching the stiletto knife.

Suddenly the air was filled with yelling and panic. O’Neill and Lambert looked ready to empty their MP-5s into Ziegler. Aragon was commanding them to hold fire, hold your fire.

In the corner of Ben’s vision, the edge of a tapestry fluttered in the shadows. He looked away from Cook’s body.

Glass and Kroll weren’t there any more.