“When I interrogated Jedynak, he admitted to his crime, but I could not persuade him to tell me where the original manuscripts were.”

Harris smiled wryly. Vukasin knew only violence, and not the more subtle and sophisticated methods that were needed when interrogating true believers.

“He did tell me that Middleton was in possession of something he doesn’t know he has, but would discover it soon enough.”

“You squandered a valuable resource.”

“I hardly need you to tell me what I have or haven’t done.”

But it was so. Jedynak had taken knowledge to the grave, and now his niece was gone too—stolen from under the noses of his men in Rome. What she knows remained a mystery.

Vukasin said, “I believe the key is somehow in a Chopin manuscript Jedynak gave to Middleton.”

“Real or fake?” Harris asked.

Vukasin looked at her and raised an eyebrow. There was no reason to believe Jedynak could’ve known the real manuscript needed to be moved now. Vukasin had waited three years to seek its return.

Harris saw Vukasin bristle. “It was you who got to Rugova and his wife, wasn’t it?” she asked, her voice rich with flattery.

Vukasin nodded. He was glad to tell her about how he’d accomplished the seemingly impossible.

“Colonel Rugova was desperate,” he said. “Guards were bribed ahead of my visit, and I went in disguised as a lawyer from the Tribunal needing Rugova’s signature on some documents. My fountain pen leaked, and the poisoned ink on the colonel’s fingers did its job in seven or eight hours.”

Vukasin smiled. “You know, the colonel was glad to see me. He was amused by my disguise, and very pleased when I told him we had a plan to get him to safety. He was unaware, of course, his wife had surrendered his journals—we had everything he was going to use for leverage. He even named the men who paid him for the treasures—his benefactors. In the end, the great Colonel Rugova was a simple coward without loyalty or honor.”

“I wish I could have been there.”

Vukasin lit a small cigar and watched as a car pulled up. His two men exited and entered the hotel side by side.

“Now we’ll see if Middleton is inside,” he said.

“And if he’s not . . . ?”

“His daughter,” he replied. “Charlotte. Pregnant, by the way.”

“Once I have Charlotte in the same room with him . . . ” She smiled at the thought and rubbed her long delicate hands together vigorously. “Does he love anybody else?”

“A woman he worked with named Tesla. Leonora Tesla.”

“If we had the Tesla woman, that might almost be as effective—if he still cares about her. But a pregnant daughter is preferable.”

7 - DAVID CORBETT

7

DAVID CORBETT