Chapter 10
DEADLY PERFORMANCE
The gun battle in the Russian Orthodox Church lasted only minutes, but the aftermath took hours to sort through. Viktor had been captured alive but wounded, while Volkov's second associate had been killed in the exchange of gunfire. Most importantly, Volkov himself had vanished. Again.
"He knows this church better than we do," Robert said grimly as we stood in the parish hall at dawn, surrounded by evidence markers and the debris of the night's confrontation. "There must be passages or hiding places we haven't found."
But our most devastating discovery was that Anya wasn't there. Despite the cry I'd heard, despite Volkov's claims, we found no trace of her anywhere in the building.
"He was lying," I said, exhaustion and frustration making my voice sharp. "She was never here. That sound I heard—it could have been anything."
"Or she was here and he moved her before the confrontation," Sergeant Mills suggested. "Viktor isn't talking, but we found evidence that someone had been held in the basement recently—rope marks on the pipes, signs of a struggle."
The basement search had revealed a makeshift prison: a small room with a barred window, recently used bedding, and most chillingly, strands of dark hair that matched Anya's color. But whoever had been held there was long gone.
Thursday and Friday passed in a blur of frantic investigation.
Robert's men searched every known Russian gathering place in London.
We interviewed dozens of émigrés, checked shipping manifests, and followed up on every possible lead.
The newspapers had picked up the story by Thursday afternoon—"BALLET STAR MISSING AS OPENING NIGHT APPROACHES.” But even the publicity failed to produce useful information.
The pressure was mounting on all sides. The King’s Theatre was facing the prospect of canceling their most important production of the season. Vivienne Marsh had been rehearsing frantically to take over the lead role, but everyone knew it wouldn't be the same without their star.
"We're running out of time," I told Robert on Friday evening as we sat in his office, surrounded by case files and cold cups of tea. "If Volkov has taken her out of London . . .”
"He hasn't," Robert said with quiet certainty. "Think about it, Catherine. Everything he's done has been about public demonstration of power. He wants the Russian community to see what happens to those who betray him. Killing Anya quietly, somewhere far away, doesn't serve his purpose."
He was right, but that didn't make me feel any better about our prospects of finding Anya alive.
Friday night came and went without incident.
The theatre held a final dress rehearsal with Vivienne in the lead role, though Monsieur LeClair looked as though he might collapse from the strain.
By Saturday morning, the official word was that the opening would proceed as scheduled, with "regrets that Miss Petrova's sudden illness" prevented her from performing.
I was at home, trying to decide whether to attend the performance out of some misguided sense of duty to the case, when my maid knocked on my bedroom door.
“A messenger delivered an envelope for you, Miss Worthington.”
My blood chilled even before I saw the familiar handwriting. Inside was a brief note:
Miss Worthington,
I trust you have enjoyed these past few days wondering about my dear niece's welfare.
Tonight, all questions will be answered.
If you wish to witness our family reunion, attend the opening performance of "The Firebird" at the King’s Theatre.
Perhaps you will finally understand the importance of family loyalty.
The performance begins at eight o'clock. Do not be late. —D.V.
I immediately telephoned Robert. An hour later, we were racing through London's Saturday evening traffic toward the theatre district.
"He's been planning this all along," Robert said as his vehicle navigated the crowded streets. "The church confrontation was just to keep us busy while he prepared his real trap."
"But what's the point of taking her to the theatre? If he wants to kill her, why not do it quietly?"
"Because this isn't just about killing Anya," Robert replied grimly. "It's about making a public statement. He wants every Russian émigré in London to see what happens when someone defies him."
When we arrived at the King’s Theatre, Monsieur LeClair met us at the stage door, his face filled with exhaustion and worry.
"Inspector, Miss Worthington. Thank God you’re here. The most extraordinary thing has happened. Anya has returned!"
My heart leaped. "She's here? She's safe?"
"She arrived an hour ago. She claims she was visiting a sick relative and lost track of time, but . . .” He lowered his voice. "She seems different. Frightened. And she has a man with her. Her uncle, who insists on staying close to her."
Volkov. He'd brought her here just as his note had promised.
"Where are they now?" Robert asked.
"In her dressing room, preparing for the performance." LeClair paused. “There’s one thing, Inspector. We’re having . . . problems with the stage equipment today. Ropes fraying, counterweights shifting. Most unusual, especially for opening night."
"Cooper," I said to Robert. "He's been here, preparing the sabotage."
Monsieur LeClair's face paled. "Sabotage? Mon Dieu! You mean someone has deliberately tampered with our rigging?" His voice rose in panic. "But Anya—if she performs tonight and the equipment fails—"
"That's exactly what we're here to prevent," Robert said firmly, placing a steadying hand on the ballet master's shoulder. "Monsieur LeClair, I need you to remain calm. Can you show us exactly which systems have been compromised?"
LeClair took a shuddering breath, visibly struggling to compose himself. "Yes, yes, of course. The flying sequences—the cables for the aerial work seem most affected. But Inspector, if there's danger to our performers, shouldn't we cancel the performance?"
"I'm afraid that's not an option," I said gently. "Canceling now could put Anya in even greater danger."
"Have you seen Mr. Cooper today?" Robert asked LeClair.
"No, and that's another odd thing. He should be here managing everything, but no one has seen him since Wednesday morning."
Robert turned to the constables he'd brought with him.
"I want this building secured. Every exit, every entrance monitored.
No one gets out without our knowledge, and anyone trying to enter gets checked thoroughly.
" He turned back to LeClair. "The performance can proceed, but we need extra security throughout the building.
Can you arrange for our men to be positioned as ushers and stagehands? "
"Of course, Inspector. Whatever you need," LeClair said, still shaken but cooperative.
"Good. We need to speak with Miss Petrova immediately."
"I'm afraid her uncle was quite insistent that she not be disturbed before the performance. Said she needed to focus on her preparation."
"I don't care what her uncle said," Robert replied grimly. "This is police business."
We made our way through the backstage corridors toward Anya's dressing room. The usual pre-performance bustle continued around us, but I noticed several stagehands who looked distinctly non-theatrical—too well-dressed, too alert, watching everyone who passed with professional interest.
"More of Volkov's men," I whispered to Robert. "He's brought backup."
“So have we," he replied.
We reached Anya's dressing room to find the door closed and a man standing guard outside—not Cooper, but another well-dressed foreign gentleman who watched our approach with cold calculation.
"I'm Inspector Crawford Sinclair, Scotland Yard," Robert announced. "I need to speak with Miss Petrova immediately."
The man didn't move. "Miss Volkov is preparing for performance. No visitors."
"This isn't a request," Robert said, stepping closer. "Stand aside."
The tension was electric as the two men faced each other. Then the dressing room door opened and Volkov himself appeared, dressed in evening clothes as if he were simply a proud relative attending the theatre.
"Inspector Crawford Sinclair," he said with that terrible politeness. "How good to see you again. I understand you've been looking for my niece. As you can see, she's quite safe and preparing for her triumphant performance."
"I need to speak with her alone," Robert said.
"I'm afraid that's not possible. Anya is very nervous about tonight's performance, and I've promised to stay close to provide familial support." His smile was predatory. "Surely you wouldn't want to upset an artist before such an important performance?"
Through the partially open door, I caught a glimpse of Anya at her dressing table. She was in full costume and makeup for The Firebird, her face painted in the dramatic style of Russian ballet, but even through the theatrical makeup, I could see the terror in her eyes.
She looked directly at me for just a moment, and I saw her lips move almost imperceptibly: "Help."
"Miss Petrova," I called out, pushing past Volkov's guard. "Are you all right?"
"Miss Worthington!" Volkov's voice turned sharp. "I must insist you not disturb my niece. She has a performance to give, and the show, as they say, must go on."
But as he spoke, I noticed his hand move inside his evening jacket. When it emerged, I caught the glint of metal—a small pistol, hidden but ready.
"You see," Volkov continued conversationally, "tonight Anya will dance The Firebird for the first and final time. It will be a performance to remember—her farewell to the stage, you might say."
The threat was unmistakable. This wasn't just about killing Anya—this was about doing it publicly, dramatically, in a way that would terrorize the entire Russian émigré community and demonstrate the reach of his power.
"Inspector," Volkov added, "I do hope you and your men will enjoy the performance. I've arranged for several special effects that should make tonight's show truly . . . unforgettable."
From the orchestra pit came the sound of instruments tuning. In an hour, the curtain would rise on The Firebird.
And unless we could stop him, it would fall on Anya's corpse.