[2]

Cinnamon's eyes took in the wonder of the experience. Limoise had left her to talk with a few of his business partners so she now stood alone, during the intermission, with a glass of champagne in her hand. Her IMF teammates were everywhere, of course, but - as was often the case - they were separate identities. She did not know then and they did not know her. Even Rollin, who hadn't made eye contact with her since arriving, was simply another body filling the upstairs lobby.

With a gentle swirl of her green taffeta gown, Cinnamon slowly walked up and down the hall area. Her intelligent eyes were looking for signs of trouble, just in case the mission decided not to go off as planned. And, she had to admit to herself, they were also on the lookout for her mask friend. She consciously found herself gazing up at the grilled vents for signs of movement.

It was ridiculous, she thought. Just because a crazy man arrived at her hotel room in the middle of the night and whispered "Golden Angel" into her ear didn't mean he was The Phantom of the Opera, for Heaven's sake. Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps the two sightings had been of two totally different men.

Cinnamon attempted to push him from her mind. It was simply the pressure of so many decisions to make all at once. She was merely suffering from something akin to delusions. Perhaps Rollin was right. They both needed out of this business so they could live a normal life. Lives filled with love, marriage and children. Cinnamon put a hand to her stomach. She did want a baby ...

"Golden Angel," came a whisper.

Stunned, Cinnamon stood still. She nearly dropped her glass. Slowly, she turned about but saw no one who could have called to her. The guests of the opera house were all filing back into the theater, eagerly anticipating the second act.

"Come my golden one..."

For a brief moment, Cinnamon felt drawn to the voice. It was as if every fiber of her being was compelled to do something good sense told her was wrong. She had a job to do. She couldn't just run off and leave.

"Claudia, darling." A different French accent, more earthbound than the other, sounded. "Dear, it's time to go back in."

Cinnamon looked at Limoise, a touch confused. "Yes, of course," she recovered. "It's a beautiful opera, isn't it?" she said, as she put down the champagne glass and they returned to their seats.

"Very passionate." Limoise agreed, then vulgarly whispered: "The best money can steal." He chuckled at his wit, "And to think my name is on it. I'm so proud." Again, he laughed.

Cinnamon knew better than to get emotionally involved with an assignment but, at this moment, even though her expression did not show it, she hated the man she was now sitting beside Someone, nearly one hundred years ago, toiled long and hard on Don Juan Triumphant. It wasn't at all fair that this sad excuse for a writer was going to get credit for its creation, even after the IMF sent him away to prison.

None of this had anything to do with the fact that Cinnamon's life was at risk; that Limoise was going to try and murder her (as was in the IMF plan). To many, her concerns might even seem asinine. After all, fraud was far less an abomination than homicide. Yet, she still felt unsatisfied that this man was only going to prison for his many killings and not on another charge that she considered nearly as heinous: Forgery!

The lights hadn't yet dimmed so Cinnamon looked about the theater. It was truly grand. Someone had gone to great lengths to make it as impressive as it must have been in the late eighteen hundreds. She glanced from row to row and from box to box. It was a full house. And yet, there was one box straight across from them, in the balcony, which was empty. She asked Limoise about it.

"Superstition." he said, "History has it that Box Five is haunted and, if on the opening night of any performance it is not left empty for the ghost to watch, a catastrophe will occur."

"It's the story of The Phantom, isn't it?"

"Yes. All nonsense, of course, but it is a tradition that the opera house and shareholders prefer to uphold. Sentiment, I suppose."

Cinnamon nodded as the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. Soothing music cascaded over the audience, lulling them into a false sense of calm. Inwardly, Miss Carter sighed. Her eyes moved from the stage to, once again, look over at Box Five.

He was there.

If it had been any other woman, she would have jumped with a start, but Cinnamon, given her many years as an IMF agent, was able to merely stare at the masked face. He was looking directly at her. She watched his hands raise. He was beckoning her to come to him. Cinnamon wasn't in a trance but she was intrigued. She tore her eyes from him to search for her colleagues. She could find no one. When she looked back, he was gone.

There was no time to waste.

Cinnamon had to know who this masked man was. "Excuse me," she spoke to Limoise.

"What is it, Cheri'?"

"Nothing. I'll be right back." she answered, standing from her aisle seat.

In the hall, Cinnamon raced to where seating would normally start for Box Five, but she never quite made it. It was as if a black veil had been placed over her face. She lost her footing and fell... but her body never hit the carpet. A few moments later she knew nothing.

[]

She awoke, laying on a bed with sheets of the finest fabrics made in Paris. She could hear music in the distance and there was a dampness in the air that reminded her of a cave she once explored when a child. Cinnamon had a difficult time remembering what happened. She was walking to Box Five, then there was blackness. Had she fainted? Did Limoise put something in her champagne when she wasn't looking? Why hadn't he just killed her?

Where was she now?

Cinnamon, still conscious of the music being played on an organ, looked over at the exit to the strange room. It was curtained, much like the gaudy theater exists. Carefully, she stood up. She was still a bit woozy. The effect from an efficient drug, she assumed. If Limoise went to all the trouble to bring her here... there must be more than mere murder on his mind.

Slowly, Cinnamon walked to the opening. She stopped and cautiously peered out into the other room.

Persian carpets lay on a concrete floor. A chandelier hung from a stone ceiling. Priceless pieces of art were attached to craggy walls, which had never seen the light of day. And there was a long table made of oak and shined to perfection. On it lay foods which would make the most discerning gourmet squeal with ecstasy, but all of this was nothing when compared to the huge pipe organ which dominated the room. It was wooden, as most of these instruments are, but it had been molded for a master. The pipes were plated with the finest gold leaf and intricate carvings

overwhelmed the eye.

Seated at the organ was The Phantom of the Opera.

There was no doubt in Cinnamon's mind who he was. She wanted to fight it. Common sense told her, or anyone, that the man died over a century ago, if he had ever lived at all! No, it wasn't him, but yes, it was. Good God, how could this be?

"Come in, My Dear."

Automatically, Cinnamon's self control took over the minute she heard his voice. The countenance of wonder and fear was replaced with one of expectancy and cool refinement. She walked and stood beside her host as he played the organ, trying to read what was hidden behind the mask of stark white. "How long have I been here?" she asked, without eagerness.

"An hour. Don Juan Triumphant has nearly finished up above." He never skipped a note.

The French accent was cultured, Cinnamon decided. If he was a madman, as one might suspect, then he was one who had been well educated. His English, as far as she could tell, was nearly flawless. "Why am I here?"

The Phantom played on for a moment longer. Then: "To have supper with me."

"I don't remember being extended an invitation," she countered, annoyed by his glibness.

"You were. Last night. I interpreted the actions of you and your friends as a 'yes'." His hands swept the keyboard, "I have been preparing our meal since early this morning."

"You shouldn't have." Cinnamon was tiring of his nonchalantness, "Tell me who you really are."

Unexpected, his hands slammed down on the organ keys, startling Cinnamon and causing her to step back a bit. "Did I fail to introduce myself?" He turned to her, angry - "Forgive me, My Lady, but I didn't have time last night. I was interrupted right in the middle of preamble. Do you remember?"

Cinnamon was somewhat awed as he stood to his full height. He was a tall man, taller even than Rollin's six foot three inches. "What were you doing in my room last night?" She didn't back down. "Did I unknowingly extend to you another type of invitation?" She felt a little badly about her outburst, even if she didn't know why. She had every right to be furious with this man or specter, or whatever he wanted to be known as. She thought a moment, "I don't know quite how to explain this to you, but I was in the middle of something very important when you took me away from the opera house..."

"Yes, I know..." he started in a sinister voice, "but we can discuss it over supper. Come, Angel." The Phantom lifted a hand and was pleased when she put hers atop it. At least this woman wouldn't go whining and screaming to her doom, Erik thought. Christine had been precious to him, but there were times when her innocence got in the way of common sense. She often wailed where there was no reason to do so. "Make yourself comfortable." he said to Cinnamon, as a gentleman should. He pulled a chair out for her at his right. He nodded when she sat with little complaint. He sat himself and began to serve.

"This is all very kind of you ..." Cinnamon spoke, suddenly feeling some urgency in her situation, "...but I must get back to the theater. People are waiting for me there. You don't understand what is going on."

The Phantom placed a bit of beef and vegetables on her plate, "I understand that you and your gentlemen friends were going to do something unsavory to M. Limoise." he said, "I understand there is a great deal of money involved. I also know that a piece of music, the opera which was performed this evening, is mine. I wrote it nearly one hundred years ago."

Cinnamon sat, stunned. He was either a madman or was teasing her for some ungodly reason. "You wrote Don Juan Triumphant? Louis told me he found it in an old locked desk. He knew it had never been produced so he made it his own. I arranged for it myself..." Her host said nothing. He merely ate. "I've heard stories about The Phantom." She decided to change the subject when he refused to be responsive to their original topic, "Are we really beneath the opera house?" she asked.

"Yes," He paused before speaking further, "When I was young,

I went to India and learned from men who were both wonderful architects and masterful illusionist. I found I could bring these two together. This is one reason no one has ever come down here and found me. After all these years, a simple illusion keeps fools away. That and my sense of humor. I do like to scare the children who come to call during the late night hours. They often come here on dares and I make sounds to frighten them. The teenagers are sometimes harder to frighten than the little ones, but when I stand before them and unmask myself, even the bravest run screaming from my presence." He chuckled and took a bite of potato.

Macabre but effective, Cinnamon thought of his indulgence. She looked about the room, as she had at the curtained door. "And you live here all alone? Do you ever go to the surface other than to look at people through the ventilators or follow them to their hotels?" She hadn't meant for the comment to sound as callous as it did.

The Phantom put down his fork with a clunk and looked at her with barely suppressed indignation, "I will forgive you for your disrespect this time, Mademoiselle, but do not do it again." He expected her to look away or feel some form of embarrassment but she only sat, looking directly at her dinner companion, without expression. Erik didn't know if she was just too frighten to speak or was hoping for this reaction out of him. "To answer your question, I very seldom go to the surface. I occasionally go up for food and to purchase a newspaper, if a headline catches my attention, but I am usually here — alone in my misery."

Abruptly, Cinnamon asked: "Why did you go to my room last night?"

It was a fair enough question so The Phantom leaned back in his chair, taking the napkin from his lap and placing it on the table. "I sensed you were in danger when I saw you and M. Limoise together yesterday in the theater lobby. You didn't look as if you needed help, but I felt you did."

"Does that happen often?"

"Never." He shrugged, yielding a bit: "Once, when I was a boy, I sensed a house servant was going to fall from a ladder she was standing

on while cleaning. I was very fond of Esmeralda and, in spite of my outward appearance, she of me. She got down when I asked her to but later, a servant who didn't know better, tried to finish what I put a stop to and he fell, hitting his head, and he died. The ladder was poorly constructed and something had given away. I was twelve years old... How could I know?"

Now, Cinnamon did look down at her hands. She felt no shame or coyness but she did begin to understand how this creature thought. "And why am I here now?" she asked, hoping for a satisfactory answer. She could easily manipulate him if it was romance on his mind. She had used this method before and wasn't beyond using her talents if it got her out of a hazardous situation. Cinnamon had been trained well.

"I brought you here to kill you." The Phantom said, without indecision.

This time her expression did register shock, "Why?" she exclaimed, suddenly too nervous to hear the answer.

"It is your type of woman which emasculates men. You use your charms to betray and deceive. I have been the victim of such women. First my mother, Madeline, then..." He deliberated a moment, "As long as women like you are permitted to live, men will never be able to roam the world, free of fear. The fear of showing our faces... because some female will find it unattractive... or monster-like. A man is a man. It doesn't matter how he looks. He still has the same emotions..."

"I might say the same for women!" she suddenly shouted. This was a ludicrous conversation, but Cinnamon felt the need to defend her sex. "If I wasn't nice to look at would you be dining with me right now? No. If I were homely, you wouldn't be attracted to me and we wouldn't be having this conversation." Cinnamon could have gone on for volumes, defending women and why they did much of what they did, but it just didn't seem worth it. He was going to believe what he wanted. If The Phantom thought the opposite sex were here on Earth simply designed to snare men in their webs of deceit, then nothing she said, after all of these years, was going to make him believe otherwise.

Oddly, she and Rollin had had conversations much like this... How she wished he was here right now.

"You have a hearty tongue on you. Angel." The Phantom said calmly. "Perhaps you don't really believe I am going to do what I say." With a quick motion, he lifted a sharp knife, which was sitting beside her dinner plate, and placed it forcefully under Cinnamon's chin, "Be glib now, My Pet. I would like the excuse."

Cinnamon said nothing but her expression spoke for itself.

Satisfied, he tossed the utensil aside, "Not as sure as you would have me believe," he chuckled without humor.

"Not for myself..." she murmured, under her breath.

"What?" The Phantom looked at Cinnamon, puzzled for a moment. "Is it the men you are worried about? If so, you needn't..."

"No, ...they can take care of themselves."

"Then what?" It suddenly dawned on him. The "sense" he had about her had kicked in once again. She didn't have to admit it. He knew. "You are going to have a baby!" Now he understood the tension he felt in her while she was with Limoise in the theater lobby. She was not worried about herself but for the life inside her womb. "Is that dolt, Limoise, the father?"

"God, no," she stated clearly, "Louis Limoise is a psychotic killer." Cinnamon had gone this far. She feared she wouldn't get out of The Phantom's lair alive if she didn't tell him the rest. "I work for an American organization known as The Impossible Mission Force. We are dispatched when there is an assignment so difficult that only a few specialists can handle its complexities. Limoise is a supposed opera writer and... serial murderer, but he is so careful and is liked by so many people that it has been hard to pin anything on him. He is wealthy and has friends in very high places. The moment he is arrested on suspicion, he is cleared and there is nothing more the French police can do." Cinnamon watched The Phantom as he listened. She wondered if he believed her. "He recently murdered the wife of a Canadian ambassador … It is our job to make certain that he is arrested again and there is unimpeachable evidence placed in the authorities' hands and, if this can't be done, we have been told to arrange his death."

The Phantom wasn't naive. He had always suspected such leagues existed. "But why would Americans care about a Frenchman who kills? I'm sure you have your own..."

Cinnamon interrupted, not unkindly. "Until I took her place, we knew who his next victim was going to be: Claudia Bernard. The daughter of Martin Bernard, a very important man in the U.S. government. Claudia being schooled in Paris and is staying here to work as an executive in a music publishing company." Cinnamon sighed, "Even we don't understand all of the details. We are just trying to save lives."

"Then, you weren't intending to blackmail Limoise?"

"No. The opera and opera house were just part of an intricate plan to make Claudia Bernard even more desirable to Limoise. Supposedly, it is she - or me - who arranges for Limoise to gain access to many operas written by talented but unknown artists. The IMF set this up with Miss Bernard's consent. Now that opera has made a resurgence, Limoise is in demand. There is only one person who can blow the whistle on him and have it actually mean anything. His accomplice: Claudia Bernard. She knows a lot about Limoise. Isn't it only natural that he wants her done away with?"

There was a long pause as The Phantom digested this information, "Who is the father of your child?" he asked, gently changing the subject again.

It was Cinnamon's turn to hesitate, "Another agent," she spoke quietly, "We've been discussing marriage," she added, somewhat unnecessarily. "He doesn't know I'm pregnant."

"You must tell him." Erik said in barely a whisper.

Cinnamon didn't reply.

The Phantom stood eloquently to his feet, "I will take you back to the theater." He reached for his cape which hung on a hook between marble statues of Apollo and Venus. Erik didn't know everything and wasn't certain he wanted to, but he had no reason to keep this woman here. He deemed her truthful. The blood lust The Phantom had felt earlier in the day vanished. He should have known better. He felt her as he hadn't for (Christine...) a lifetime.

Without reservation, he lifted his hands to her and waited while the woman responded, allowing their fingers to touch. She had soft skin ... and she didn't pull away. "Forgive me, Golden Angel," he said, "I feel a fool."

"You're lonely," The woman said, genuinely feeling touched by The Phantom's plight, "and you think everyone is against you. Things are different now. People don't look at others such as yourself with disdain, as you might think. There is surgery now that can change your face... It can..."

"No. I am what I am, Angel." How could he explain to this mortal that Lucifer had bought his soul and no amount of surgery would ever make a difference? He took one of her hands and laid it on his arm. He walked Cinnamon to a small boat and mimed her to sit, "I will take you to your friends, to your lover, and you will forget all about me." Erik boarded the boat and took hold of the oars.

Cinnamon began to feel emotions long dormant, "But I want to know about you. What's your name? How have you lived so long? Tell me about Christine Daae' and why you..."

"No." He rowed.

"Please, let me come see you again."

"No." There vas threat in his voice now, "You will never come here again or I will kill you. Is that clear?"

Yes, she understood. It was not fair but she understood. He didn't want to be reminded of what he could never have: A woman he could cherish and take care of. A female to spend intimate nights with, the two of them enjoying the pleasures of his music.

The poor creature … The poor unfulfilled man.

[]

Conclusion coming soon …