Bolding left his office in high spirits, in spite of his conversation that afternoon with Mills. Earlier, he’d received an email from Froome confirming that Phillips and Kent had agreed to represent them in their claims against the US Government. He’d set up another meeting with Walters at Berkeley’s Trust and Walters had agreed to reconsider the bank’s decision about keeping the ships under seizure. At last the dark clouds hanging over his head for the past six months seemed to be dissipating. Somewhat.
“Will that be all, sir?” Higgins deposited the tray containing the glass of scotch on the table next to the brown leather sofa.
“Yes. Good night, Higgins.”
“Good night, sir.” Higgins withdrew, closing the door to the music room behind him.
Bolding got up and walked over to the medieval armoire across the room. He unlocked its heavy oak doors. Inside, from his vast collection of CD’s, he pulled out one of his favorites, Isaac Stern’s rendition of Brahms’s Violin Concerto, and inserted the disc in the CD player.
Instantly, the big Bowers and Wilkins speakers came to life and the soft, warm melody of the first movement filled the ancestral room. He often wondered what life would have been like if he’d listened to his mother and become a violinist. As a student, he’d shown a significant amount of talent, even if his willingness to practice left something to be desired. There was always a soccer game to play, a sailboat to be sailed, or a sports car to be driven. Besides, he knew even then he didn’t have that special dose of magic necessary for a concert violinist. Still, with enough dedication and hard work, a position as concertmaster in a world-class orchestra had been within the realm of the achievable.
In the end, his father’s admonitions had won the day. “A man’s duty comes first,” Bolding Senior had said. “Not everyone has the opportunities you were born into. You’d be a bloody fool not to take advantage and make the best of them. When I’m dead, you must run this company, as I did, as your grandfather did. Later, you can fiddle all you want.” Torn between his love of music and his father’s orders, Bolding reluctantly took the corporate plunge. Upon the untimely death of his father at age 70, Bolding had inherited the full weight of the family legacy.
He returned to the sofa and sat down, engulfing himself in the tempo of the music, occasionally letting his right hand sway in an enthusiastic imitation of the orchestra conductor.
Immersed in the music as he was, he could never have heard, nor did he in fact hear, the slight rustle of the silk drapes hung over the French windows across the room, behind him.
Nor did he detect the slow, deliberate movement of the man pushing aside the drapes, pulling out a hypodermic needle from its small case, and walking swiftly towards the seated Bolding.
Bolding turned slightly, suddenly aware of a human presence behind him. Too late. He felt a sharp sting in his neck just as he started to get up. He looked at the hooded man in surprise, then fear. Bolding tried to rise, but the man pressed heavily with his left hand on Bolding’s right shoulder. He tried to yell, but the sound remained stuck in his throat. After a moment, the black-hooded man released his hand from Bolding’s shoulder, pulled out the needle, and put it carefully back in its case. Even through the hood, Bolding could see the man smiling, seemingly satisfied.
Bolding tried to scream for help, but could only manage a gurgling sound. He tried to get up but couldn’t. His limbs were numb, powerless. He felt a tingling sensation overcome the rest of his body. He was paralyzed.
He sat and watched helplessly as the hooded man, wearing white latex gloves, went to the entrance of the music room and locked the door. He turned back and walked over to Bolding’s walnut desk, reached for a pass key in his right pocket and opened the desk drawer. He took out Bolding’s Smith & Wesson .38.
My God, how did he know it was there? Bolding struggled to fight back panic. His instincts kicked in. If only he could fall onto the table and knock over the glass, maybe it would smash and Higgins would hear it.
As if he’d read Bolding’s thoughts, the assassin went to the armoire. He found the volume control and turned it higher. The orchestra’s violins and violas became strident, then the bass and cello section burst into a deafening crescendo.
The man walked over and grabbed a small mauve pillow from the divan opposite them. Bolding watched in horror as the man approached, pillow in one hand, the .38 Smith & Wesson in the other. The man stood beside Bolding and cocked the revolver.
He grabbed Bolding’s limp right hand and wrapped it around the gun. With the other hand, the assassin held the pillow to Bolding’s right temple, then slowly brought up Bolding’s gun-bearing hand.
Bolding never heard the shot.