Middleton laughed. She grew serious then and added, “It’s an honor a musician only dreams of.” She hugged him. “And I will dedicate my performance to the memory of my uncle.”

Nora Tesla, Lespasse and Charlotte would attend, as would much of Washington’s cultural and political elite.

Several days before the concert, Charley Middleton found her father in the lake house study, late at night.

“Hey, Dad. What’re you up to?”

Dad? Been years since she’d used that word. It sounded odd.

“Just looking over the Chopin. How are you doing, honey?”

“Getting better. Step by step.”

She sat down beside him. He kissed her head. She took a sip of his wine. “Tasty.” What he used to say to her after sampling her milk at the breakfast table, long, long ago, to get her to drink the beverage.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she asked, looking over the manuscript.

“To think that Frederic Chopin actually held these sheets. And look there, that scribble. Was he testing the pen? Was he distracted by something? Was it the start of a note to himself?”

Her eyes were gazing out the window at the black sheet that was the still lake. She was crying softly. She whispered, “Does it ever get better.”

“Sure, it does. Your life’ll get back on track again.”

And Harold Middleton thought, Yes, it gets better. Always does. But the sorrow and horror never go away completely.

Green shirt . . . Green shirt . . .

And a sudden thought came to Harry Middleton. He wondered if he’d used Brocco’s murder of the Darfur warlord as an excuse—to back away from the fight that he used to believe he was born for. He couldn’t save everybody, so he’d stopped trying to save anyone, and retreated into the world of music.

“I’m going to bed. Love you, Dad.”

“Night, baby.”

When she was gone, Middleton sipped his wine and examined the Chopin again, thinking of a curious irony. Here was a work of art written at a time when music was created largely for the glory of God and yet this piece he was looking at was part of a horrific plot to murder thousands, solely out of vengeful religious fervor.

Sometimes the world was simply mad, Harry Middleton concluded.

17 - JEFFERY DEAVER

17

JEFFERY DEAVER

The men finished the work at midnight. “I’m exhausted. Are we through?” The language was Serbo-Croatian.

The second man was tired too but he said nothing and looked uneasily at the third, his face dark, his black hair long and swept back.

The man who’d been supervising their handiwork—Faust—told them in a soft voice that, yes, it was all right to leave. He spoke in English.