He’d invited them to the lake house for a few days. He wasn’t sure that they’d show up, but they had. His daughter seemed to have forgiven Tesla for what she’d thought was the breakup of her mother and father—though she also had clearly come to understand that the divorce was inevitable long before Nora Tesla entered the picture.

But the other issues loomed and at first the conversations among them had been superficial. The subject of the past finally arose, as it often does, and they broached the subject of the Darfur warlord killed by Brocco and the breaking up of the Volunteers because of the incident.

There was no concession by anybody and no apologies but neither was there any defense, and through the miracles of the passage of time—and friendship arising from common purpose—the incident was at last put to rest.

Tesla and Middleton spent some time together, talking much about things of little significance. They took a long walk and ended up on a promontory overlooking a neighboring lake. A family of deer sprung from the underbrush and galloped away. Startled, she grabbed his hand—and this time didn’t remove it.

Not long after the nerve gas was found Middleton got a phone call. Abe Nowakowski—presently under arrest in Rome—had cut a deal with U.S., Polish and Italian prosecutors. In exchange for a reduced sentence he would give up something.

Something extraordinary, as it turned out.

Overnight, a package arrived at Middleton’s lake house. He opened it and spent the next two days in his study.

“Holy shit,” was his official pronouncement and the first person he told wasn’t his daughter, Nora Tesla or JM Lespasse, but Felicia Kaminski, who came to his house in person in reaction to the news.

He displayed what sat on the Steinway in his study.

“And it’s not fake?”

“No,” Middleton whispered. “This is real. There’s no doubt.”

In payment for his services to Faust, Nowakowski had been the recipient of what Middleton had now authenticated: a true Chopin manuscript, previously unheard of, apparently part of the trove unearthed by Rugova at St. Sophia church.

It was an untitled sonata for piano and chamber orchestra.

An astonishing find for lovers of music everywhere.

Also, Middleton was amused to learn that. Homeland Security officials had leapt on the news and, further brushing up the feds’ image after their nerve gas victory, had pushed for a gala world premiere of the piece at the James Madison Recital Hall in Washington, D.C. Middleton called Dick Chambers personally and insisted that Felicia Kaminski be the principal soloist. He agreed without hesitation, saying, “I owe you, Harry.” Violin was her main instrument, of course, but as she joked in her lightly accented English, “I know my way around the ivories too.”