“And are you going to do this alone,” asked the Polish cop, with a clever gleam in his eye, “or with the help of some friends?”

Middleton couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, we’ve talked about reuniting, the Volunteers.”

Padlo fished in his pocket for a pack of Sobieski cigarettes. He pulled one out. Then frowned. “Oh, in America, is okay?”

Middleton laughed. “Outside in a park? That’s still legal.”

Padlo lit up, sheltering the match from the mist. Inhaled deeply. “Where do you think the stolen art is, Harry?”

“Faust and Chambers probably have a half-dozen safe houses throughout the world. We’ll find them.”

“And what do you think you will find there?”

“If the Chopin is any clue, it’ll be breathtaking. I can’t even imagine.”

Middleton glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. Still, this was northwest D.C., a yuppie oasis in the city that often sleeps. “Will you join me for a drink? I know a bar that’s got some good Polish vodka.”

The inspector smiled, sadly. “I think not. I’m tired. My job is done here. I leave tomorrow. And I must get up early to say farewell to someone. Maybe you know where this is?”

He showed Middleton a piece of paper with the address of a cemetery in Alexandria, Virginia.

“Sure, I can give you directions. But tell you what . . . How about if we go together? I’ll drive.”

“You would not mind?”

“Jozef, my friend, it would be an honor.”

PART II - The Copper Bracelet

PART II

The Copper Bracelet

1 - JEFFERY DEAVER

1

JEFFERY DEAVER

Finally the families were alone.

Since the start of their vacation two days ago, they’d been in public constantly, taking in the sights in this touristy area along the beaches near Nice, France. They’d seen the museums in Antibes Juan-les-Pins, the fragrant perfume-making town of Grasse, the violet fields of medieval Tourettes sur Loup and nearby Cannes—a dull provincial village when emptied of film-makers, paparazzi and actors.

And wherever they went: too many people around for him to move in for the kill.

Now, at last, the Americans were alone, picnicking on a deserted stretch of white sand and red rocks near le Plages de Ondes at Cap d’Antibes—a postcard of the South of France. Sullen autumn was on the land now and everyone had returned from holiday. Today the weather was overcast and windy, but that hadn’t fazed the two families—a husband and wife in early middle age and a slightly younger couple with their baby. Apparently they’d decided to take the day off from sightseeing and strolling past the tabacs, cafés and souvenir shops, and spend the day alone.

Thank you, thought Kavi Balan. He needed to get the job done and leave. There was much to do.