Floodlights illuminated the ruins at the Terme di Caracalla in Rome although the wintery afternoon sunshine had not fully abated. Reds and mauves outlined the impressive Roman structure with its marble tiles that glowed in the oblique waning light. Three tiers of stadium seats had been erected around the stage where work was still continuing. In another three hours the headliners, the Three Tenors, would climb up on the stage. A large trailer had been set up on the grounds amid the ruins. The Silver Bullet, as it was called, was a 2020 Keystone Premiere 34RI Trailer, measuring 25th feet in length, 8 feet in width, 11th feet in height with two propane tanks. It was fitted with a U-shaped dinette, a mid-size refrigerator and with fifteen television monitors which constantly changed to display the various angles on the Terme di Caracalla ruins. It was the nerve center for the concert.
Kostmayer pulled himself into the Silver Bullet where he found Ji-Yeon directing the feeds to the various cameras. He had six assistants crowded around the monitors with him all employed by the rock concert. Kostmayer noted that Ji-Yeon’s assistants all wore black with the insignia of the Terme di Caracalla ruins on their shirts. They had small microphones they were speaking into, taking their direction from Ji-Yeon. Kostmayer had never met Ji-Yeon before, although he thought he knew him intimately after Granny’s description. He could see for himself that the North Korean terrorist had had a major facelift, although the telltale signs were subtle. The high cheekbones were prominent, but the shape of the eyes were rounder and the scar tissue from the procedure was heightened. If Kostmayer had been forced to pick him out of a line-up, he would have been at a loss. The North Korean could have been an entirely different person. But it was the man’s eyes that ultimately betrayed him.
Cold and calculating and utterly without mercy.
Benedetto Lombardi climbed onboard the Silver Bullet trailer behind Kostmayer. He introduced Kostmayer to Ji-Yeon who was concentrated on the video feeds and made no effort to acknowledge Benedetto Lombardi or his guest. “This is one of my concert personnel,” Lombardi said, “Mickey Kostmayer who is on loan to us from the US Government. This is Ji-Yeon, our Head of Security.”
“Good to meet you,” Kostmayer said.
Ji-Yeon gave Kostmayer a curt nod, his full attention still on the various monitors and the images being displayed around the Terme di Caracalla ruins. Benedetto Lombardi quickly propelled Kostmayer out of the trailer. They descended the steel steps to the ground.
“Ji-Yeon is not much of a conversationalist,” Benedetto apologized with a self-deprecating grin. “But the man’s a true professional. His security arrangements have been first rate. This concert is in good hands.”
“Then why does his manner make my skin crawl?” Kostmayer said.
Benedetto shrugged expansively. “Ji-Yeon isn’t here to impress you. He is here to do a job and keep these concertgoers safe. If he does not speak more than six words to me during the concert that works just fine for me. I will toast him with an aperol aperitif as soon as I know that the Three Tenors have taken center-stage.”
Kostmayer took a flier from his jacket pocket and handed a handful of them to Benedetto. “We’re also looking for anyone wearing one of these silver demon-claw skulls on their right hands.”
Benedetto took the sheaf of fliers and examined them. “What is the significance of a silver skull?”
“Some members of a radical mercenary unit are wearing them.”
“I will distribute them to my security force,” Benedetto said. “Now I had better get back and see if there is anything Ji-Yeon needs for the performance. Take a walk over to the tents. They are going to start allowing the concertgoers through any minute. Ciao.”
Benedetto was already handing out some fliers to other members of his staff, all of them wearing the black outfits with their discreet emblems on the collars. Then he returned to the nerve center of the Silver Bullet trailer. Kostmayer took out a walkie-talkie, also labeled for the concert, and spoke quietly into it.
“Where are you, Granny?”
But there was no response.
In Athens at the Rockwave Festival at Terra Vibe Park in Malakesa, the stadium was bursting at the seams. It looked to Gunner that every seat had been taken. Security Staff, all wearing black with the insignia of the Rock Concert logo, roamed up and down the aisles with their telltale hearing aids discreetly placed in their ears. Gunner was standing at one side of the raised wooden stage. One of the entrepreneurs of the rock concert, who looked like a carbon-copy of the Animals’ singer Eric Burdon, but whose name was Clarence Bishop, was whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Spiros Alexandros moved to Gunner’s side, sweating under the bright lights that illuminated the stage area. Gunner noted how nervous the big Greek really was as his gaze was constantly raking across the seats and up the aisles.
“We’re about ready to go,” Spiros said. “There’s been no trouble from your perspective, Colonel?”
Gunner had been watching the Nexus group in the wings. He said: “Nexus are comprised of three guitarists, a bass guitarist, a drummer and a lead female singer. That is right, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I only count two guitarists.”
Spiros followed Gunner’s his gaze, frowning. “You’re right.”
A third guitarist moved into the wings in a rush, strapping on his guitar. He was dressed as the same as the rest of the group, in torn jeans, black boots but he wore a waistcoat like an old-fashioned western hero complete with a black string bowtie and gold watchchain glimmering in his waistcoat pocket. He was in urgent conversation with Amanda Stevenson, the lead singer and Gonzo Lindsey who appeared to be the spoken person for the group.
“I’ll see what going on,” Gunner said. “Check in with your staff. Make sure that what they’re seeing is everything that you’re seeing.”
Spiros strode downstage to the stairs that led into the first rows of seats. The entrepreneur at the microphone was rapidly winding up his spiel. Gunner moved down into the wings stage-right where Nexus was waiting. As usual, Amanda did all the talking.
“Hi, there! Gonzo came down with food poisoning this morning and he has been sick as a dog. He could not even get out of bed at the hotel. This is Jack Roslin, a last-minute replacement. I don’t know your last name, Colonel.”
“It’s Mike Ralston,” he told her. “But call me ‘Gunner’.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Spiros mentioned that. Cool nickname. Jack here is a hot bass guitarist.”
“Hey, man, good to meet you,” Roslin said. “I was just sitting in my seat when the goon squad came over and dragged me onstage.” He flashed a smile at Amanda. “Happy to jam with you.”
“Have you played with Nexus before?” Gunner asked him.
“Yeah, he played a gig with us in Florida back in January,” Buster Cruz said. “Bitchin’ bass guitarist. We’re lucky to have him or we would be out of luck.”
At the microphone, Clarence Bishop had wound up his spiel. He turned to where Nexus were waiting in the wings. “Put your hands together to welcome onto our stage one of the greatest bands of all time!”
“Okay, boys,” Amanda said. “Time to put away your dicks and get this show on the road!”
Gunner heard one word over thunderous roar of the crowd.
“Nexus!”
The band ran onto the stage and picked up their instruments and guitars. Amanda stepped up to the microphone. The group, including their last-minute replacement, Jack Roslin, rocked into their first song. Particularly Amanda Stevenson, who reminded Gunner of the leader singer of the rock band Blondie, whom he had seen in Washington D.C. last year. He was watching Jack Roslin, whom he had to admit played a mean bass guitar.
But Gunner knew a ringer when he saw one.
The Royal Albert Hall was a magnificent red brick structure in South Kensington in London. Queen Victoria had laid the foundation stone for the building in 1867 in memory of her husband Prince Albert. Around the outside of the building was an 800-foot-long Terracotta mosaic frieze depicting “The Triumph of Arts and Sciences” including 12-inch-high Terracotta letters with the phrase: “Thine O Lord is the greatness and the power and the glory and the victory and the majesty. For all that is in the heaven and in the earth is thine.” A glass and wrought-iron dome roof had been erected at the top of the structure. The RAH, as is affectionally called, dated back to 1871. There have been 150,000 performances at the venue, including the celebrated BBC Proms, which debuted in 1941 during the World War II, with icons such as Winston Churchill and Albert Einstein, to concerts from Wagner to Frank Sinatra, Cirque Du Soleil, Adele, and the farewell concert of Cream and The Who performing their Tommy Rock Opera.
When McCall arrived at the Royal Albert Hall there was a long line that went around the block. The concert promotors had already starting people moving inside the venue. McCall showed his laminated pass which hung around his neck to one of the Security people who, like in the concerts in Greece and Rome, was dressed in black outfits with the logo of the rock concert on their lapels. The Security Officer immediately led McCall through one of the entrances into the massive structure.
The building towered three stories to the mezzanine with an ornate ceiling which supported large acoustic discs that resembled flying saucers. McCall was stunned by the sheer grandeur of the concert hall. It towered three tiers to the mezzanine seats below a magnificent circular roof. Plush red seats had been built in the stalls and circle. More of the Security Officers in black patrolled the aisles with their names badges prominently displayed or hanging around their necks. More of the uniformed staff were ushering people to their seats. A song from The Beatles went around in McCall’s head: Read the news, oh boy, four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire and though the holes were rather small, now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall. Some of the more obscure lyrics that Lennon and McCartney wrote were open to interpretation, but the image of those 4000 holes waiting in the Lancashire landscape to be stepped in somehow had a sinister purpose for McCall. He was more attuned to the lyricism of Lennon and McCartney’s Across the Universe and Eleanor Rigby. Mickey Kostmayer had referred to McCall, somewhat wryly, as the Nowhere Man, and McCall had thought had described him accurately.
McCall moved down one of the aisles. The stage area had already been rigged with lights and the stagehands were making final adjustments. McCall found the Head of Security for the Royal Albert Hall standing in one of the aisles, directing people to their seats, coordinating with other front-of-house staff who were doing the same. The laminated name badge that hung around his neck said: Nigel McGarry. He was in his thirties with a certain condescending manner. He turned when McCall approached him. McCall showed him his ID and a personal note from Control which was signed: James Thurgood Cameron. Nigel glanced perfunctorily at his name badge. He briefly shook hands.
“Good to meet you, Mr. McCall. Nigel McGarry. Quite a place, our RAH, isn’t she?”
“I would say specular.”
“The venue was opened by Queen Victoria as an homage to her husband Prince Albert,” McGarry said. “It receives no grant funding for its philanthropic efforts. Donations only and financial support from the Trustees. The Proms concerts are vital to our survival. None of the Trustees, including the President, is remunerated for their services to the Hall. We just bade farewell to Cirque du Soleil after several months of sold-out shows.”
“How many seat holders can the Hall accommodate?” McCall asked him.
“There are 329 Seat holders, but the Hall can accommodate another 5900 if needs be. There have been 150,000 performances during that time.”
“I saw a performance here at the Royal Albert Hall of Les Miserables.”
McGarry nodded. “Twenty-fifth anniversary. A marvellous night at the theatre. Great actors have played the RAH. Judy Dench, Vanessa Redgrave, Harold Pinter, Lawrence Olivier, Dame Perry Ashcroft, the list goes on, including Muhammad Ali and the Beatles. My personal favorite was the farewell concert of The Cream and The Who performing their Tommy Rock Opera for the Twenty-fifth anniversary. A fabulous evening.”
McCall needed to get the conversation back on track. “And now the grand old lady has to deal with terrorists and a bomb threat.”
Nigel looked at McCall as if he bad been slapped in the face. “I would say that threat has been highly exaggerated.”
“You don’t believe there’ll be a strike here by militants?”
“A lot of balls. There has never been a terrorist attack at the RAH in its history. We are taking precautions because your subversive spy organization of doom merchants have taken into their heads there is an imminent threat and we have acted accordingly. I spent the last two days at the Foreign Office at Mi6 accessing the likelihood of a terrorist attack on these shores and I found it is not a credible scenario. But here we all are, racing around like blue-ass flies searching for any sign of covert activity.”
“And what did you find?”
“Sweet fuck all. Your Control, whoever he is, has got his knickers in a twist.” Nigel spoke softy into the walkie-talkie he was holding in his right hand. “Make a sweep of the aisles, starting at the Circle and working your way down. Punters are coming in.”
McCall took out a small, wallet-sized photograph of Samantha Gregson from his wallet and showed it to him. McGarry shrugged, his manner somewhat churlish. “Yeah, yeah, I distributed photographs of her last night to all of the staff here at the RAH. Who is she anyway?”
“She had been a protégé for a spymaster who had worked for the Company before her boss was killed,” McCall said.
“Right, and I gather from my Mi5 briefing that you killed him?”
McCall’s voice had an edge to it now. “I was left with no choice.”
“Quite so. I must say she does not look much like a terrorist to me. More like a dolly bird out for a good time with the lads.”
“Don’t be fooled. She uses her sexuality to maximum effect. She is dangerous and lethal. Several high-profile mercenaries are working for her.”
That intel resonated with the Mi5 agent. “Are these mercs here in London?”
“I don’t know. They wear silver-death-skulls on the right hands.”
“What does that signify?”
“Remember that you must die.”
“A charming sentiment.” Nigel handed back the photograph. “Haven’t seen your mystery woman and we’ve been here at the RAH since last night. The audience is starting to pour in. We will be on the lookout for anything suspicious, but you are going to be bowled for six, old fruit. There is nothing to these threats. Smoke and mirrors, mate.”
McCall said: “Where can I find the headliner for the concert?”
“Down in her dressing room below the stage area,” Nigel said. “But I would not disturb her if I were you. She is notorious for wanting peace and quiet before a performance. But you go right ahead. You’re a spymaster and I’m sure she would like to meet you.”
Nigel McGarry moved up to the first row of the Circle where he was met by more of his staff. The doors to the Royal Albert Hall been opened and now there was a flow of people surging down the aisles. No matter what McCall thought of Nigel McGarry, he thought the time had come for him to meet the star of the concert.
Which happened to be Lady Gaga.