The Memorist (28 page)

Thursday, May 1
^st
—11:39 a.m.

H
er mind took in what the locked door meant. Sebastian had been helping her since her first morning in Vienna. At what point had that changed? When had he started to exploit her? Using her father, he’d distracted her and led her right into this trap without her questioning his motives. But why would she have? There’d been no indication he was anything other than what he seemed. Incredulous that she had been so wrong about him, she searched Sebastian’s face, looking for an answer. They had been too in sync for too many days for their connection to suddenly disappear now. And in this one thing, he didn’t disappoint her. He replied to her unasked question.

“If you had only played me the song this morning…none of this would have happened. Please, play it now,” he said, holding out the flute to her. “That’s all I want.”

This moment was what she’d been running away from all of her life. Not the music. Not the rain. Not the dreads. But the inevitability of her own failure. She’d misjudged Archer Wells long ago and had misjudged Sebastian now.

“You figured out the song?” Jeremy asked his daughter.

“Last night,” she answered without taking her eyes off Sebastian.

“Is it the same music you’ve always heard?” Jeremy seemed amazed and focused on her discovery, despite the danger they were in.

“Yes. That and more. All the ideas you tried to talk to me about—the Tree of Life, the overtone series, binaural beats…they’re all connected to the music and its vibrations. You were right about everything.”

His eyes lit up with pride. “That’s all I ever wanted. To help you. To teach you something that would help you live your life.”

This is what she needed to remember about Sebastian, that he was a parent who would do anything to help his child, including threaten that same relationship between Meer and her father. But first she needed to know how wrong she had been about him.

“How far back does this go? Did you steal the Beethoven letter? Take the gaming box from the auction house?”

“No, of course not. I’d never hurt anyone or steal anything.”

“Until now?”

“I don’t want to now. I don’t want to steal the flute, I just want to play it for Nicolas.”

“How are you going to do that? You’re not even allowed in his room anymore.”

“I can work that out.”

Meer had an idea. “If you let me, I’ll go to Steinhof and I’ll play him the music. If we leave now we could be there in less than an hour. We can free him from the past, Sebastian. We’ll just drop my father off at the hospital and go see Nicolas.”

“Rebecca won’t let you see him.”

“I can convince her. I know I can. I know what’s wrong with him. I can explain it to her.”

He shook his head. “She won’t talk to you. She won’t even take my calls anymore.” His voice was strained with emotion.

“Then how are you going to play it for him—”

“I’ve made an arrangement,” he interrupted.

“You’re taking too great a chance here, Sebastian. What will happen to Nicolas if you wind up in prison? Believe me, you don’t want to be separated from your son. Nothing’s worth that.”

“Nicolas deserves this chance, and I’ll do whatever I have to to give it to him. To save him.” Sebastian moved closer to Meer so that he could reach through the bars and touch her, so that she could feel his breath on her face. “And you’ll tell me the notes to the song because you’ll do whatever you have to to save your father, won’t you?”

“How dare you! How dare you use my daughter like this?” Jeremy’s neck muscles were attenuated and Meer could see his pulse beating under his pale skin.

“Meer, please, tell me the notes. I promise if you do you’ll both walk out of here untouched.” Sebastian held the flute out toward her and in the muted light because of the slight tremble of his hand, it looked as if it were a living thing.

Her heart lurched at the sight of the ancient instrument originally created to bring comfort and sustenance now being used to cause pain, confusion and chaos.

“Meer, don’t do what he’s asking,” her father pleaded. “Even for my sake you can’t betray a promise you made that goes back hundreds of years.”

How did her father know about the promise Margaux had made to Beethoven to help him hide the flute? The
question would have to wait till later; Sebastian had turned away from them, crossed the narrow passage in two strides and leaned down over an old heating unit nestled into an alcove that still cosseted a few Roman bones. It took a few tries but finally he managed to twist the black circular handle to the “on” position.

Beside her, Meer was aware of her father’s too-labored breathing. “What is he doing?” she whispered.

“Turn off the gas, Sebastian,” Jeremy called out. “They’ll find out you did this and you’ll wind up in jail, and that won’t help you or Nicolas.”

“Not if I come back and open the door later and let you out.” Sebastian twisted the black wheel open farther, the strong hiss of the escaping gas its own warning.

“That’s not necessary. Sebastian, turn off the gas. Meer, give him what he wants.” Jeremy’s voice was rife with defeat.

“I’ll shut off the gas
after
I have the notes to the song. There’s more than enough time. Meer? The song?”

Sebastian took a pen and paper from his pocket and waited. He was close enough to the door again so that she could reach out and take the pen from his hand. Or the key to the cell from his pocket where she’d seen him put it just a few minutes ago.

“I figured out the key to the song late last night,” she said to her father, hoping he’d understand her clue.

“You can tell him all about it later,” Sebastian said.

“The key,” she continued talking to her father, “was right in front of me the whole time and—”

“Meer!” Sebastian interrupted.

She had no choice, could only hope that Jeremy had understood the message she tried to communicate. Glancing down at the flute, even though she knew Pythagoras’s Circle
of Fifths by heart, she slowly read off the twelve notes secreted away inside the concentric circles. She was trying to buy her father some time to make his move.

Beside her, she heard him gasp, recognizing the sequence.

“And then another C,” she said to Sebastian, “as it starts again.”

Sebastian looked up from the piece of paper in his hand. “How do I know that these are the right notes?”

“They are, I wouldn’t lie to you. Not with my father’s life at stake. Will you let us go now so I can take him back to the hospital?”

“Once I’m certain.” Sebastian quickly reached back through the bars and plucked the flute out of her hands, put it up to his lips and started to play the memory song. C, G, D…

Meer began to shiver.

Sebastian played an A and then an E.

Her teeth were chattering.

The sound emanating from the bone flute was the musical accompaniment of her life. Pervasive and absorbing, tantalizing and hypnotic. It hadn’t caused an actual memory lurch last night… Maybe the person who played it couldn’t be moved by it—the way she was being moved now—as the music swelled deep inside of her. Familiar and terrible and very beautiful.

It was working. She was remembering.

The thunder clapped so loudly it sounded as if the sky were breaking apart. Margaux’s horse reared up but she held on. Through the sheets of rain she could just make out the other horse coming closer. Digging her heels into her horse’s flank, she urged him on, while at the same time she reached into her coat pocket and wrapped her
fingers around the gun’s cold metal handle. As long as she had her pistol, she’d be safe.

“No,” Meer said, putting her hands up to her ears. “No, please.”

The rider came up on her right side, his pistol already drawn. “You little fool,” Archer Wells said, just as another clap of thunder filled her ears. “We have an arrangement and I’m holding you to it.”

Fumbling, Margaux pulled the pistol out of her pocket, trying to stop her hand from trembling, and aimed it at him.

“No, please, stop!” Pain coursed through Meer like liquid fire. She didn’t want to remember like this. Not here and not now. But she couldn’t halt the onslaught of images.

Jeremy couldn’t know exactly what was causing his daughter to suffer but it was obvious it had to do with the music, music he’d desperately wanted her to hear her whole life. But she was in too much pain. He couldn’t stand it. He grabbed for the flute through the bars instead of the key, frantic to stop him for Meer’s sake.

Sebastian shoved him hard enough for Jeremy to trip backward and fall, smacking his head on the stone wall.

Stuck halfway between the past and the present, Meer couldn’t move fast enough to get to Sebastian and grab the key from his pocket. By the time she reached out, he had already backed far away from the door. Behind her, she heard her father moan. She spun around.

“Daddy…”

He didn’t answer. She tried again but he still didn’t respond.

Sebastian’s footsteps echoed as he ran down the hallway away from them.

“Daddy?”

No response. She put her head on his chest and listened.

“Daddy?”

Sebastian’s footsteps were as faint as her father’s heartbeat.

“Daddy?”

This time his eyes flickered open and he gave her the smile that still promised protection and comfort. “I’m okay…just thinking things through.” He paused and coughed. “We have to get ourselves out of here. I think he left the gas on, Meer. He never shut it off, did he? Go look…you’ll be able to tell by how much of the shaft is exposed.”

“You’re right. Oh, God, you’re right.”

“We can’t stay here.”

And then Meer remembered she had a phone. How could she have forgotten and wasted the last few precious minutes? Getting up, she searched the small area for her bag and found it discarded in a corner. Her relief was palpable. The solution was so simple. Reaching inside she pulled out the small silver phone, opened it and waited for the signal to catch. The clock showed that it was almost one o’clock in the afternoon.

One bar. Two bars. Everything would be fine now. So simple. Then the bars disappeared and the
no service
message popped up.

“No!” She shut it off and restarted it. Watched the phone try to connect and then fail again.

“We’re too far down,” Jeremy whispered hoarsely.

Musikverein Concert Hall
Thursday, May 1
^st
—2:00 p.m.

T
he 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.