Faust shook his head. “I was thinking he was more like you. Condemned to walk the earth as a marked man. Walking down the avenue of life stalked by demons. Using his will to bend his torment into art.”

Middleton drank down his wine then slammed his fist onto the table. “You’re a criminal! A fiend! I still dream about the slaughtered children of Kosovo and Racak.”

Faust laughed into his fist, adding fire to Middleton’s anger. Then he held up his hand. “Easy, my friend. Why it is that you Americans always assume that everything is black and white?”

“In this case, it is.”

“So if it has a pink ribbon tied around it it’s a birthday present?”

“Maybe you didn’t pull the trigger yourself, but you backed the man who did.”

“Rugova was a pig. May he rest in—”

“I hope he’s rotting in hell.”

“He was useful.”

Middleton stabbed a finger toward his rival’s chin. “You stink of guilt.”

“I like you, Colonel. I need you. That’s why I must stop you from continuing to demean your own intelligence.”

Before Middleton could reply, Faust snapped his fingers at the waiter, who skittered across the dining room. “My guest here will have the lacquered octopus to start; for me, the pear and caramelized walnut salad. We’d both like the whole Bronzini. No salt.”

Faust lifted his glass. “Here’s to the beginning of our partnership. Success!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Tens of thousands; maybe hundreds of thousands of people are counting on us, but don’t know it.”

“Music lovers?” he asked darkly.

“I know a great deal about you, Colonel. I’ve studied you carefully. You’re a man who is relentless in pursuit of what you consider a worthy goal. I hope you’ll excuse me if I say that your goals so far have been wrong-headed.”

The salad and octopus arrived and were soon treated to showers of fresh black pepper.

“I bet you the price of this meal that we’ll be working together by the evening’s end,” Faust offered.

Middleton nodded his acceptance.

In a small bookkeeper’s office in a corner of the lemon-and-brine-scented kitchen of Kali’s Court, M. T. Connolly sat listening with desperate attention to the two men at the table not 50 yards from her, their voices traveling through an earbud.

Kalmbach. At his disposal were hundreds of Bureau agents and yet, in a display of typically unnecessary bravado, he drove to Martha Jefferson Hospital by himself, unaware Connolly was behind him. Now, hours later, Kalmbach, with Dick Chambers in tow, had led her to Middleton. And Faust, who was beginning the next phase of his dissertation with an anecdote about his father.

Connolly listened hard. The bug was under Faust’s bread plate.

“ . . . Invitations to dance made with simple nods,” Faust said. “The intense courtship . . . ”