‘I’d be very
cautious with what you say.’ Mr Ambrose’s voice was low, cool and controlled, but no tiger’s roar could have been more threatening. ‘Remember where you are, Dalgliesh, and in whose company.’
‘The king can’t—’
‘I wasn’t talking about the king.’
Dalgliesh shut his mouth. He was seething, but he was silent. He had no idea whether Mr Ambrose had come alone or brought a battalion of men with him. No one knew. Not even I. Just as Mr Ambrose wanted it.
‘Relax. Be patient. You’ll soon find out what I have planned for tonight.’
Never in my life would I have thought I’d hear Mr Rikkard Ambrose tell someone to be patient. And never in my life would I have thought I’d enjoy the experience so much. The look on Dalgliesh’s face was priceless.
‘Your Majesty.’ He leaned forward abruptly. ‘I just recollected some urgent business I have to take care of. Would you excuse me, please, to—’
‘Psht! Not now, Dalgliesh. The performance is starting.’
Gritting his teeth, the mighty Lord Dalgliesh sank back into his chair, in his box, in his opera house, unable to move an inch from the spot. God, this was good! Who knew opera could be this much fun?
Down on the stage, things seemed to be getting started. A bunch of people in oriental costumes were singing in a choir and brandishing cardboard sabres. My grin widened. Oh, if only Karim were here to see this. Or better yet, if only he were here to be seen. I had a feeling that after taking one good look at him, the actors would work to make their performance feel a whole lot more authentic.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a movement. Glancing up, I saw that, to the left, all the way across the room, the heretofore closed curtains of another box had shifted. A figure was moving behind them. Touching Mr Ambrose’s arm, I got his attention, and he followed my gaze to where I was looking – just in time to see a hand reach out between the curtains, giving us a thumbs up.
‘What was that?’ Lord Dalgliesh demanded, craning his head to see past us.
‘What?’ I enquired, innocently.
‘That over there! I saw a movement.’
‘I didn’t see anything,’ Mr Ambrose lied with a more convincing poker face than a marble bust.
‘Psht!’ The king raised a finger to his lips. ‘It’s getting interesting!’
And it was—though not on the stage, where an unhappy man was just singing about how some villainous sultan had kidnapped and enslaved his beloved, while the bodyguards of the aforementioned villainous sultan danced happily in the background. I was far more interested in the subtle movements across the room. The thumbs up had been the signal. Our friend had found the necessary equipment. Tonight’s opera wouldn’t be in three acts. The climax would come a whole lot sooner than anyone suspected.
‘Your Majesty…’ The minister leaned forward, squinting. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had noticed something was going on. ‘I think—’
‘No interruptions, Guizot! This part is brilliant.’
‘But Your Majesty, I think we should call some soldiers in here right now. There, on the other side of the room is—’
Bam!
The explosion tore straight through the music. Everything went silent. The orchestra. The audience. The singers. Everything. It took people one or two seconds of shock to realize that the shot hadn’t come from the stage, from the cannon of some fictional sultan. This was very real. Slowly, they raised their eyes to where, far to our left, from behind the curtains of a certain box, the smoke of gunpowder rose towards the ceiling.
‘Down!’ Guizot yelled, throwing himself against the king’s chair. With a surprised yelp, the king toppled to the floor and said hello to the carpet in typical French fashion.
‘Grgs! Blg!’
Bam! Bam!
Chaos erupted below us. People jumped up from their seats, rushing towards the exits, climbing over the backs of chairs and each other to be faster, to get out, to get as far away from this place as they possibly could.
‘Where are they coming from?’ the minister yelled over the racket. ‘The shots?’
‘Box!’ I called back. ‘Other side of the room.’
‘We have to—’