The Mozart Conspiracy by Scott Mariani

together. We’ve got to leave.’ He ejected the disc from the laptop, clipped it in its case and put it in his pocket. He quickly packed the computer in its carry-bag, threw the Mozart file into his haversack and used a bathroom towel to wipe down anything they’d touched in the room.
    ‘What’s wrong? Why do we have to leave so suddenly?’
    ‘Give me your phone.’
    She handed it to him. He turned it off and pocketed it. ‘I’m going to have to dispose of this,’ he said.
    ‘I need that phone,’ she protested. ‘All my numbers are on it.’
    ‘You can’t keep it,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain later.’ He led her briskly downstairs and settled the bill in cash, using his false name.
    ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?’ she asked as he guided her out to the car.
    Ben started the green TVR. The throaty exhausts rasped and the wide tyres crunched on the gravel. The big car park had two entrances flanked by neat conifers. About to pull out, he glanced in the mirror.
    There were two black Range Rovers behind them. They were identical. Private plates, tinted glass, headlights blazing. They turned into the other entrance in a hurry and pulled up right outside the hotel, one behind the other. All four doors opened simultaneously. Ben framed them in the mirror. He counted six men getting out. All six were serious-looking, professional in their movements.
    Time to go. He tried to pull away discreetly, but that was hard to do in an ostentatious sports car like the TVR. The rasp of the engine reached their ears. Heads turned. One of the men pointed. They exchanged signals, then headed back to the Range Rovers.
    ‘Is this car registered to you?’ he asked quickly.
    ‘Yes, of course it is. You still haven’t told me what—’
    Ben dumped the clutch and the TVR spun its wheels, pressing them back in their seats. He accelerated hard away.
    That was twice now. No coincidence. He spoke loudly over the rising pitch of the engine. ‘They’re using your phone to track us, Leigh. They can triangulate the signal to within a few feet.’
    She looked horrified. ‘But who? The police?’
    ‘Maybe the police. Or someone on the outside, someone connected. Someone with access to that kind of information.’
    ‘Who could that be?’ she asked, turning pale.
    Ben said nothing. He pressed the accelerator down a little harder.
    The Range Rovers were a hundred yards behind them as Ben turned off the quiet country road and joined the lumbering, dense traffic heading towards the city of Oxford. He managed to put a few vehicles between them, but the steady stream coming the other way made overtaking difficult. He saw a gap and nipped past an Oxford Tube coach, but when he looked in the mirror the first Range Rover had got past it as well. Horns honked in the distance.
    Leigh was gripping the edge of her seat. ‘Where are we going?’ she gasped.
    ‘If we can get into the city we might be able to lose them,’ he said. ‘I know Oxford pretty well.’
    By the time they reached Headington Hill on the outskirts of east Oxford the Range Rovers were together again, just a dozen or so cars back. At the bottom of the hill they hit the traffic lights coming into St Clements.
    ‘There are police cars down there,’ she said, pointing.
    Ben had seen them. ‘It’s not for us.’ Part of the road had been cordoned off and there was an ambulance. Traffic was moving at a crawl. The Range Rovers threaded through the tailback as more horns blared.
    A policeman stepped into the road four cars ahead of the TVR and signalled to let cars come the other way. Ben twisted in his seat. The Range Rovers were pulling up behind.
    ‘They’re coming,’ Leigh said. Her eyes were wide.
    Ben was thinking fast as he watched the passenger doors of the Range Rovers swing open and three men climb out. Their faces were set as they walked towards the stationary TVR. They were just twenty yards away.
    He pulled the car into the side, ripped out the