Last Act (29 page)

“I know,” she said. “They attacked me … And what they did to Michael … Where
is
Michael.” She pulled herself further up in bed, her legs still frighteningly inert.

“Out trying to get in touch with Winkler. Not easy, the way things are. Frensham's men have confined Winkler and his twelve men to police headquarters, ‘for their own safety'. As if anyone would hurt them.”

“But why? I don't understand.”

“There was rioting after the explosion. In the valley. Started by
agents provocateurs,
I'm sure.
The Red Flag
… shouts of ‘People's power,' all that kind of thing. My God, I'm glad you and Michael got safe through there. Otherwise you would be really dead, not just officially!”

“Officially dead? But, why?”

“To keep you alive. Luckily, the explosion was so total up at the level where you were supposed to be shut up, that there is no way anyone can tell whether you were there or not. Of course, it's difficult for them. They can hardly say they know you're dead because they left you there to die, but they've put out rather a clever story. Someone played a nasty trick on you after the opera. You got trapped, somehow, by the safety curtain coming down. Michael realised what had happened, and went to look for you, and got trapped too. You were both caught by the explosion, and that was that. One of these days, when we've time on our hands, you must tell me how you did happen to get trapped behind there. A bright girl like you. How did they manage it?”

“Really, just like that. A nasty trick. But—Dr Hirsch, who is ‘they'?”

“Basically, James Frensham. He's in the process of taking over the country. He's got Alix and Princess Gloria and the children sewn up tight in the castle. ‘For their safety.' And, of course, his private army disposed of the ‘rioters' with no trouble at all. Not surprising when you consider that the whole thing was a put-up job together.”

“But why?”

“To give him his excuse to put the country under martial law. ‘To protect the delegates at the peace conference.' He's doing a whole lot of protecting, is young Frensham. Not a native soul in Lissenberg lifted a finger during the riot, so far as I know, but we're under tight curfew. Armed patrols—the lot. You haven't asked where you are.”

“So long as you're here, it hardly matters. I suppose I thought it was your house.” But, looking round the sparsely furnished, windowless room with its naked electric light bulbs, she realised how unlikely this was.

“One of the first places they'd look, if they should suspect you had survived,” he told her. “No, you're in the cellar of a disused warehouse down by the river. Michael used to play here when he was a boy. I suppose you could call it his pad now. There are about five ways into it, all of them inconspicuous. And the river handy for a quick getaway down to the Rhine if necessary.”

“I don't understand.” She was getting tired. Her head ached, and the numb non-existence of her legs was increasingly frightening.

“No wonder, child. You need sleep. But first let me explain. We've known for a long time that young Frensham had plans for Lissenberg. That's why Winkler asked Michael to come home and help keep a quiet eye on things. Because we had no idea what form they were going to take. Now we know. Half his blasting has been done for him by that explosion. All he needs is to drain off the river and he can start mining for szilenite. Once he has the authority.”

“Authority?”

“As elected Prince of Lissenberg. He announced his engagement to Princess Alix this morning. Poor girl, I thought she would have held out longer, but since he's got her mother and the children it's understandable enough. So, tomorrow, when the Diet meets to decide on Prince Rudolf's successor, Frensham can expect to have it all his own way. No ban on women here in Lissenberg. As the eldest child, Alix should succeed, if ratified by the Diet.”

“Will they?”

“Ah, that's asking. But he's got a lot going for him, has James Frensham. Prince Rudolf left a desperate load of local debt. Well, you know …”

“I do indeed.” She remembered those crimson and white rose petals with their concealed final demands.

“And the one thing Frensham has, is money. That's what got him where he is. That, and his ruthlessness.”

She shivered. “Yes, that's the word.” And then, “Dr Hirsch, I heard him. On the walkway, coming down from the castle. Talking to the man who was going to plant the bomb. If I told the Diet?”

“Good girl. You do remember. Michael told me you'd heard something. But I didn't want to lead you.
Now
do you see why we are keeping you hidden? You're to be our surprise witness when the Diet meets tomorrow. It's public, you see. The twelve members up on the platform, debating. Then, when they have come to their decision—which is usually at once—there's a moment like the one in the marriage service. The leader of the Diet rises and comes forward to the edge of the platform and makes a short speech in Liss. ‘Speak now, or forever after hold your peace,' is the gist of it. That's when you'll get up and make your accusation.”

“Get up?” She looked down at the lifeless lump of bedclothes where her legs were.

“Don't worry, child. The worst thing you can do. Now, relax. I'm going to give you an injection to help you sleep. You'll be fine in the morning.”

“Michael?” she asked.

“I doubt if he'll be back before it's time to get you to the Rathaus. He's got a lot to do.” She hardly felt him give the injection, but sleep came warmly rolling over her.

She was waked, what felt like several centuries later, by Dr Hirsch, frantically shaking her shoulder. “Anne, get up! Quick. They've caught Michael. There's not a moment to lose if we're to save him.”

“Michael!” She pushed away the duvet and swung her legs out of bed. “Oh!” she swayed, but she was standing.

“Just so,” said Dr Hirch with satisfaction. He helped her to a
chair and wrapped the duvet snugly round her. “That's earned you your breakfast.”

“But—Michael?”

“Nothing wrong with him that I know of. I just thought that would blast you to your feet. I'm a wicked old man.” He sounded thoroughly pleased with himself. “How do you feel?”

“Shaky … but better. My head's stopped aching.” She stretched out first one foot, then the other, from under the duvet. “Look!”

“That's good. That's wonderful. I'll send Lisel in with your breakfast. Then you'd best get yourself dressed. Lord knows what time Michael will want you to start for the Rathaus.”

“But what about Frensham's men?”

“That's what Michael's working on. Security's tighter than ever in town this morning. ‘Police' at every corner, checking identification, and a special guard round the Rathaus.”

“It sounds hopeless.”

“It isn't. Remember the weakness of Frensham's position. He's got a whole conference of international diplomats sitting up in the valley watching everything that goes on down here.
And
the international press buzzing round harder than ever after that explosion. Naturally, they have asked to watch the quaint old-fashioned custom of electing the Hereditary Prince, and naturally, he has had to agree. We're hoping the delegates will take time off and come too. So, it's all got to
seem
open and above board and democratically sound. James Frensham protecting the good citizens of Lissenberg from the Red Terror—that kind of thing. He's on the side of sweetness and light, and got to act the part. He'll have to have Alix there, too, and my bet is she may surprise him. Now eat your breakfast, and save your strength. You'll need it all before the day is over.”

Coffee and croissants and two boiled eggs. “Lord, I feel better,” she told Lisel and then tried again, haltingly, in the Liss she had begun to pick up.

Lisel beamed her approval and produced Anne's bra and pants, good as new, a shabby pair of well-patched jeans and a teeshirt with a message:
I love Lissenberg. “Und hier
—” With a smile of pure mischief she handed over a polythene bag containing
the shaggiest wig Anne had ever seen. “
Studenten,
” she explained.

Anne had worn her own hair, cut short and straight, as Marcus. The transformation wrought by the outfit and wig was quite extraordinary. “I don't recognise myself,” she told Dr Hirsch when he appeared.

“I don't believe even Michael would know you. You'll have to choose your moment to take off the wig and be known. Not too soon, for God's sake.”

“No. But, Dr Hirsch, I'll have to speak English.”

“No problem. There will be enough people who understand. It's the first language in our schools.” He laughed. “James Frensham speaks bad German and no Liss. It's one of his disadvantages.”

“Will you teach me a couple of Liss phrases? You know, something like, ‘It's God's truth, believe me.'”

“Of course I will. You're not stupid, Anne.”

“I may not be stupid, but I'm frightened to death.” She slashed the scarlet lipstick Lisel had brought onto pale lips and marvelled all over again at the transformation.

“Wow,” said Michael, at the door. Or at least it was Michael's voice.

“Oh, Michael!” She did not know whether to laugh or cry. “Your poor hair! And what's happened to your face?”

“Purely temporary, I promise you.” He ran a hand over the bristling crew-cut. “It'll grow again. And as for my face, that's Dr Hirsch's work, and he promises I can undo it as fast as he put it together.” He pushed a finger into one of the soft, plump cheeks that effectively took away all character from his face. “We've not much time, I'm afraid.” A quick look at his watch. “It's all taken a bit of organising. You know what to say, Anne? When I give you your cue, just tell it exactly as you heard it. Right?”

“Right.” If it went wrong, this might be their last meeting.

As so often, he read her thoughts. “We're going to win this one,” he said. “Word of a Liss. Then there'll be time to talk. And you'll forgive me.” It was more statement than question. “Ah. There they are.” They could all hear a curious, familiar grinding
sound from above.

“What on earth?” asked Anne.

“Garbage day.” He produced a peaked cap from the back pocket of his jeans and put it on at a jaunty angle. “We're meeting the others in the Rathaus square,” he explained. “The problem was getting you there. I never did get to see Uncle Winkler,” he told Dr Hirsch. “So—no papers. But we picked the cleanest garbage can for you. Come in.” He opened the door and two brawny garbagemen walked in, dressed, like him, in jeans and the official-looking cap, and carrying a huge, battered garbage can.

“We did the best we could,” said one of them, in Liss, his look of apology as he removed the lid explaining the words to Anne.

“Phew!” said Anne.

“Sorry, love.” Michael grinned at her, the familiar smile strange in the fat face. “It won't be long, I promise. We'll have to do a couple of other pickups for the benefit of the men on duty in this street. Then straight to the Rathaus square, and you're out of it.”

“I've got to
ride
in it?”

“I'm afraid so. They hang on the back, see? You did strengthen the handle?” To the men.

“Yes, sir. It'll hold all right.”

Sir? thought Anne. But Michael was speaking. “In you go. Lucky you're such a little thing.”

“Thanks!” She held her nose ostentatiously and climbed in.

The ride was a nightmare. The crouching position that had seemed reasonable enough when she first got in was soon slow torture, the smell, once the lid was on, appalling, and the swaying movement of the trash can, hung from its one hook, combined with it to bring on wave after wave of nausea. The garbage truck stopped twice. She heard the other cans crash off their hooks, felt the whole truck shake as they were emptied in. Not long now. A couple of other pickups, Michael had said. But they were stopping again; shouts, orders, and then a great roar of laughter as the truck moved slowly forward. They must be in the Rathaus square now, and it was obviously full of people. She could hear the buzz of many voices, cheerful, expectant…
Lissenberg seemed to be taking martial law in its stride. But the slower swaying as the truck weaved its way through the crowd was worse than anything. I will not be sick. I WILL NOT BE SICK.

They had stopped. Her trash can was lifted off its hook, carried a little way, set down. Michael lifted the lid. “Oh, my poor Anne!” She was so stiff he had to help her out.

They were in a little courtyard opening off the square, invisible from it. The other two men were unconcernedly filling their trash cans with plastic sacks of rubbish. “Quick,” said Michael. “The others are just outside. Keep close, and don't say a word until I tell you. That voice of yours is too well known.” He took her hand and led her through the archway into the square, casually, as if they had just paused to peer in. “You're American,” he explained. “No languages.”

The square was packed with people, apparently waiting for the Rathaus to open. A cordon of Frensham's police guarded the steps that led up to its big doors. Anne saw this momentarily from the higher level of the archway, then Michael led her forward to be swallowed by a crowd of young, jeans-clad figures like themselves. Friendly voices greeted them. “Thought they were going to stop you,” said one.

Michael laughed. “So did they.”

“What did you say to them? That made everyone laugh? We couldn't hear over here.”

“Threatened to go on strike, of course. The hand that rocks the trashcan, rules the world. Ah, here we go.” As the crowd began to move slowly forward, Anne marvelled at the split-second precision of his timing. And she was amazed, as she had often been before, at the civilised behaviour of the Lissenbergers. There was no pushing or shoving in this crowd. What nice people they are, she thought. Intolerable to think of James Frensham taking them over, turning them into industrial plebs. Well, if she could do anything to help stop him, she would.