He said hello to some of the music professors from Georgetown and George Mason, and a few of the Defense Department and DOJ folks from his past life. Emmett Kalmbach came by and shook his hand. “Where’s Dick?” he asked.

Middleton gave a laugh and pointed across the hall to the head of Homeland Security. “Gave his ticket to his boss.”

The FBI man said, “At least I appreciate culture.”

“You ever heard Chopin before, Emmett?”

“Sure.”

“What’d he write?”

“That thing.”

“Thing?”

“You know, the famous one.”

Middleton smiled as Kalmbach changed the subject.

The lobby lights dimmed and they entered the auditorium, found their seats.

“Harry, relax” Middleton heard his daughter say. “You look like you’re the one performing.”

He smiled, noting how she referred to him. The lack of endearment didn’t upset him one bit; it was a sign she was recovering.

But as for relaxing: Well, that wasn’t going to happen. This was going to be a momentous evening. He was bursting with excitement.

The conductor walked out on stage to wild applause. He then lifted his arm to the right and nineteen-year-old Felicia Kaminski, in a fluid black dress, strode out on stage, looking confident as a pro. She smiled, bowed and stole a glance at Harold Middleton. He believed she winked. She sat down at the keyboard.

The conductor took his place at the stand. He lifted his baton.

“Dick, something interesting here.”

Chambers was in his office at the Department of Homeland Security, working late. He was thinking about the concert and wondering if his boss was appreciative he’d been given the ticket. He looked up.

“Might want to talk to this guy,” his straight-arrow aide said.

The caller was a restaurant worker near the James Madison recital hall. As he was leaving work early that morning, he explained, he’d seen a man leave through the hall’s side door. He’d gotten into a car near the site. Thinking it seemed suspicious—the hall had been closed all day—he took a picture of the car and the license plate with his cell phone. He meant to call the police earlier but had forgotten about it. He’d just now called D.C. police and was referred to Homeland Security, since the concert would be attended by some high-ranking government officials.

“Nowadays,” the restaurant worker said, “you never know—terrorists and everything.”

Chambers said, “We better follow up on this. Where are you?”

He’d just gotten off work, the man explained. He gave the address of the restaurant. It was now closed so Chambers told him to wait in a park near the place. He’d have agents there soon.

“And thank you, sir. It’s citizens like you that make this country what it is.”