Free Death and the Chaste Apprentice by Robert Barnard

From the expression of extreme frustration on his face it was clear that the fatal fascination that Mother Russia had always had for him had never induced him to learn her language.
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    In the street near the Alhambra Theater the big man with the Midlands accent was approached by a girl.
    â€œExcuse me, but you’re Gunter Gottlieb’s bodyguard, aren’t you?”
    He looked at her appraisingly. “Something like that.”
    â€œIt’s just that . . . he’s always in such a hurry after rehearsals . . . and I wondered if you could . . . get his autograph for me.”
    She proffered a book. It looked very new. The big man did not take it.
    â€œMaybe I could . . . And maybe I could go even better.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œMaybe I could arrange a . . . meeting.”
    She smiled up at him, looking all of fifteen. “I wondered if you could.”
    â€œAt a price, of course.”
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    The operatic offerings of the Ketterick Festival were never premiered until the second or third night. Nothing was allowed to draw attention from that year’s play. Maybe in future years Gunter Gottlieb would change all that, but he had not done so yet. By tradition the musical event on the first night was something undemanding: a Viennese night, a Gilbert and Sullivan evening, a nice bit of Tchaikovsky. This year it was a popular operatic concert. Gunter Gottlieb, needless to say, would have nothing to do with it.
    Thus, the final rehearsal with the Midlands Orchestra in the Town Hall was under the command of a pleasant young man who had done well in a recent conductors’ competition. They’d put together a very nice program, with an overture by Rossini, some ballet music by Verdi, and lots of standard arias. Natalya was singing “ Vissi d’Arte ” and the letter scene from Eugene Onegin, the Mexican baritone was spitting out Iago’s “Credo,” and Krister Kroll was singing an aria from Faust that the program, through slovenly proofreading, referred to as “ Slut! Demure, chaste et pure .” Singh’s arias had presented more of a problem, since the countertenor repertoirehardly counted as popular opera, but Brad had hit on two surefire Handel arias, and these he was to sing in the first half. Brad had insisted he was to conclude the first part of the concert, knowing that the scope for excitement and applause would be the greater if there was nothing coming immediately after.
    Natalya was finishing the letter aria in a glorious flood of sound when Peter arrived at the Town Hall. He listened approvingly. He was no expert on music, but he knew a good sound when he heard one. It was a very informal rehearsal, and the Town Hall was dotted with people. Peter was pleased to note approving glances going from person to person. Natalya came off the platform and into the body of the hall, looking around for him. He put up his hand, and she came over to him.
    â€œI got through,” said Peter.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThey’d just arrived.”
    Natalya did not allow herself any obvious expression of relief, but Peter could see her tension relax.
    â€œAll of them?”
    â€œYes, all of them. I spoke to him.”
    â€œOh—marvelous.”
    â€œHe sent his love.”
    â€œOnly three more days now.”
    Onstage Singh had launched into Caesar’s aria with horn obbligato from Giulio Cesare: “Va tacito e nascosto .” His rich, agile voice was filling the Town Hall effortlessly and was weaving brilliant patterns with the horn. Brad Mallory, sitting in the middle of the hall, looked to be purring.
    â€œWhat an extraordinary voice,” said Natalya.
    â€œQuite amazing.”
    â€œWhat else did he say?”
    Peter looked around, instinctively cautious.
    â€œIt’s all right,” said Natalya. “I’m sure that dreadful man