They were warmongers, fervent capitalists, an agency founded to aid elitist governments in suppressing the people.’
‘A kind of rogue splinter group, then,’ Ben said.
‘Exactly,’ Arno replied. ‘And an extremely powerful one, with lofty connections. The Order of Ra meddled in many political intrigues, not least of which was to put pressure on the Emperor of Austria to ban the rest of Freemasonry outright, even on pain of execution.’
‘Let me get this right,’ Leigh said. ‘You’re suggesting that the Order of Ra killed Mozart because he was popularizing Freemasonry through his opera The Magic Flute?’
The professor’s eyes glittered. ‘That is what I believe. And I believe the letter proves it. Mozart was a potential threat to them. If he could restore public support for Freemasonry, he could be dangerous. He was a rising star, a meteoric talent just beginning to shine. The massive success of The Magic Flute had given him great prestige. He had only just been appointed to a prominent post at the Court, and had the Emperor’s ear.
‘But his enemies were rising up too. By 1791 the members of the Order of Ra were fast becoming a major executive branch of the secret services. Their agents were brutal, violent and ruthless, and their Grand Master was none other than the Head of the Austrian secret police. He was a callous murderer, sworn to destroy the Masons.’
Ben was about to ask the man’s name, but Arno carried on.
‘By 1794, just three years after Mozart’s death, Masonry in Austria had effectively been obliterated. Many murders were committed-some openly, some less openly. Poisoning was one of their most common means, and would have been the most suited to disposing of someone of Mozart’s increasing celebrity status. They had to be careful. Other, more obscure, Masons met with a far more violent end. Gustav Lutze, for instance.’
‘Who was he?’ Leigh asked.
‘He was the man Mozart wrote the letter to,’ Arno said. ‘A member of the same Viennese Masonic Lodge, Beneficence. Mozart was writing to warn him of the growing danger. The letter is dated the sixteenth of November 1791, and is perhaps the last one he ever wrote. Of course, the so-called experts believe that his last surviving letter was the one he wrote to his wife on the fourteenth of October, while she was away taking the waters in Baden. Idiots. In any case, the letter never reached its destination; it was too late.’
‘What happened to Lutze?’ Ben asked.
‘He was found dead on the twentieth of November 1791. Just two weeks before Mozart’s death. Lutze had been tied to a post and tortured to death. Disembowelled, his tongue hacked out. The secret police blamed a Freemason for the crime.’
Ben stood up, reaching in his pocket. ‘Professor, I want you to take a look at something.’ He took out the CD-ROM in its plastic case. ‘May I?’ He walked around the desk and loaded the disc into the computer.
‘What is this?’ Arno asked as the machine whirred into life.
‘Something Oliver saw the night he died,’ Ben said. ‘Just watch.’
Arno blinked bemusedly at the screen. Leigh stayed in her chair, not wanting to see the video-clip again.
The images began to play. Ben watched the professor’s face as the clip went on. The victim was brought out. The macabre spectacle unfolded.
The old man’s eyes widened and his cheeks drained of colour. He pointed a trembling finger at the screen.
Ben reached across and paused the clip just before the victim’s tongue was cut out. In the frozen image the man’s face was contorted in terror. The blade was held high in the air, where it caught the candlelight.
Arno slumped in his chair. ‘Dio mio,’ he breathed, and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. ‘So it is true.’
‘What’s true, Professor?’ Leigh asked.
Arno was about to reply when the window behind him exploded into the room and blood spattered across the computer screen.
Wedged in the crook of a tree eighty yards away, the sniper watched through his high-magnification scope as Arno’s body dropped out of view. With his gloved thumb he quickly flipped the select fire toggle from single shot to fully automatic and fired a long burst through the study windows. Glass shards and chunks of stonework flew as the bullets struck. He smiled.
Ben had hurled himself over Arno’s desk, grabbed Leigh’s wrist and dragged her to the floor. He ripped the disk out of the computer. The screen was smoking from a bullet-hole.
Another burst of gunfire shattered the rest of the window. It chewed a line of ragged holes in the top of the desk, blew the computer apart, and strafed the book cabinet at the far end of the study. The silver candle-holder toppled over as the decanter of grappa shattered. The strong drink burst into flame, liquid fire pouring onto the carpet where it quickly caught a hold.
Ben and Leigh pressed their bodies tightly against the thick wall beneath the window, a storm of splinters and glass around them. Ben drew the .45 from his belt and fired blindly through the broken panes.
He could smell burning. He twisted round to see where it was coming from. Black smoke was filling the far end of the room. Fire was crackling up the length of the door-frame.
Arno lay slumped under the desk, blood spreading across the rug. Leigh crawled over to him. His eyes were glazing over. She wanted to do something, stop the bleeding, move him away from the window. There were so many more things she wanted to know from him. ‘Professor, the letter,’ she said frantically. ‘Where’s the letter?’
The old man’s eyes focused on her for a second. His lips moved almost inaudibly, trickling bloody froth.
The shooting outside had stopped. Ben peered out of the shattered window. He couldn’t see anyone, but there were voices and running footsteps down below in the courtyard. The crackle of a radio.
Half the room was on fire now. The bullet-torn books in the bookcases burst alight. The smoke was thickening fast.
Arno coughed, and bright blood appeared on his lips. He tried to speak. Then a long sigh whistled from his lips and his head slumped to the side.
Ben glanced at him. ‘He’s dead, Leigh.’
Leigh was shaking the old man. ‘He was trying to say something.’
‘There’s nothing you can do for him. Let’s move.’ Through the ringing in his ears and the crackle of the fire he could hear the sound of movement downstairs. They were coming. He checked the gun. Three rounds left.
Fire blocked the doorway. They were going to have to run through the flames. He grabbed the dead man’s jacket from the stand. He pulled Leigh to her feet and draped the heavy tweed over her head and shoulders. Keeping hold of her arm he took two fast steps into the choking smoke and kicked hard. Flame licked his ankle. The study door juddered open. He shielded his eyes and ran through the fire, pulling her through behind him.
The
