“Please.” The man offered his violin to the musician with a slight bow. “Could you do this wonderful instrument the honor.” He made a circle with his index finger as he smiled and said, “Your admiring trio here would also be most honored.”
The old man could sense the butterflies that fluttered through his stomach were shared by the violinist. She handed him the violin she had been playing and accepted the mysterious instrument. She tilted the violin so she could peer into its f-hole.
Becker saw the sparkle in her eyes, and imagined her reading the maker’s inscription. He knew exactly what it said: “Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1732.” He noticed her hands begin to tremble and her breathing quicken.
She cleared her throat. “It’s beautiful.”
The owner offered a broad smile. “Together you are a match made in heaven,” he said.
Eden blushed, still unable to fully grasp the moment, the instrument, the stranger.
“Please, please. Get familiar with it. Become one with its song,” the man insisted.
His enthusiasm managed to snap her out of the trance, and she began to play. First in short, quiet bursts, and then her fingers began to attack the instrument with confidence.
“It once belonged to Eugène Ysaÿe,” the man said with an approving nod. “He no doubt performed, perhaps even composed, the ballade you just played on that very instrument.”
She looked up in amazement, and he continued, “Herkules is his name, and it deserves to be played with the depth of expression and unbridled passion you command.”
Victoria played scales up and down instrument for a minute. She then took a deep breath and began. The instrument sang the opening vocal-like passage that began the movement.
Becker, his wife, and the owner of the instrument were left hanging on every note. She swayed and shifted, sometimes violently, expressing the longing half steps and executing the composition’s incredible leaps in pitch. She moved on to flawlessly play the rapid triplets and double-stops that climbed as she reached its conclusion.
There was absolute silence when she finished. She was exhausted from the emotion of it all, but after brief reflection, she came to life.
“That was better than sex,” she proclaimed with a laugh. Her expression changed to embarrassment just as abruptly. She bit her bottom lip and winced.
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.
“Yes it was,” the man said with appreciative laughter and applause.
Becker remained speechless and slightly uncomfortable.
The stranger picked up the conversation to overcome the awkwardness. “And to what do we owe the privilege of your visit to the society?” he asked. Then, realizing they hadn’t been formally introduced, he said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Victoria. Victoria Eden. I have an audition with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.” She looked down at her watch. “In a couple of hours. A friend sent me here to get a loaner, since my violin was damaged on the plane.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Please do use this for your audition, if it’s your pleasure,” he said and smiled. “I will have them come here so you won’t have to be bothered with the transport.”
She was still in shock after what had just happened. “Thank you,” Eden said. “That would be incredible, and that way I won’t be in such a rush across town.”
“There is one more thing.” He looked to Becker and his wife with a raised eyebrow. “It would be a most delightful surprise, no?”
The couple looked at each other and smiled back at him.
“You mean?” Becker said, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Yes, I do.” He motioned to Victoria. “This young lady’s talent must be heard.”
“It would be unprecedented, unexpected, and unbelievably well received,” Becker admitted.
“Good. Victoria, have you any plans for this evening, say around six?” He reached into his coat pocket and handed her an envelope that held two tickets.
She looked down at the gift and then back up with surprise. “Tonight’s performance? I couldn’t. It’s too much, but thank you for the generous offer.” She smiled in appreciation. “You’ve already been far too kind.”
“Victoria,” the man said, understanding the need for clarification. “Those tickets are for your friends. Every performer, especially for an evening this special, deserves to have their friends present in the audience for support.” He bowed his head respectfully. “You wouldn’t mind doing us the honor, would you?” He could see she was stunned, so he added in a matter-of-fact tone, “It would certainly help fill the seats when you join the orchestra, and I have a friend who will be happy to set you up with the proper attire for such an occasion.”
She shook her head as though she was unsure whether she would wake up from this fairytale. “Of course,” she said nervously. “And you are?”
The silver-haired gentleman gave her a warm smile that spread to his eyes. The heavy lines on his face looked to have been chiseled from a hard life, but that looked to be behind him now.
“Forgive me. My name is Pavel,” he said as he made his way out the door. “An absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. I will see you in a few hours.”
Chapter 83
Trent Turner was sitting outside underneath a green umbrella. The Artist’s Café was a trendy spot that spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of the Romanesque building it called home. The Shop had made a last-minute discovery of Pavel Kozlov’s Sunday routine, and the team collectively held its breath with the hope that the information was accurate.
The Fine Arts Building was only a ten-minute walk from the hotel where Turner and Etzy Millar were staying. Earlier this morning, Turner had quickly packed what he needed into his bag and headed to the park across the street from the building. Most Chicagoans had been engrossed in their morning run, so there was nobody paying him any attention when he assembled the PMD.
He initiated the quiet whirring sound from the touchscreen of his XHD3 and plugged a small attachment into the device to increase the range of its remote-control function. He selected its destination from a satellite map and sent the vehicle off ahead of him. The wind was a concern, but he didn’t have a choice. There was no telling when they would have another opportunity to track their target.
By the time he reached the café, the PMD was already perched on top of the building. He had put the flying machine into what they called edge mode, so it would automatically select the optimal surveillance location to land. The PMD had been programmed to use image recognition to determine an approach that would minimize the risk of compromising its position.
He took a seat against the back wall next to the fence that separated him from one of the building’s two main entrances. A few minutes had ticked away before Pavel Kozlov’s limousine pulled up to the curb. It was surrounded by a pair of black Range Rovers.
The Russian traveled with a significant amount of firepower. His men operated with the precision of a presidential detail. Turner watched the mafia boss enter the building on his XHD3, courtesy of the video feed being taken from above. It was the safest way to preserve his cover. None of the men had spoken on the way inside, but he was able to mark each of them by touching their image on the screen. Modern technology would take care of the rest. The PMD had the capability to record every conversation, capture images and profile individuals, and catalog the signals from communication devices so they could be tracked.
The operative had had better luck when Kozlov was on his way out. Turner had just ordered another cup of coffee and was ready to go over the information he had collected. He was fluent in Russian, so he put in an earpiece and began the playback of Kozlov’s conversation. A fire engine had passed by at the time, so some of what was said was unclear.