“Because, Colonel, some of the manuscripts that you found hidden in St. Sophia, in the Czartoryski Collection, were not about music. This is what your friend Henryk Jedynak was on the verge of telling you. That’s why he was killed.”

“Why?”

“Because encrypted in the musical notes are formulas for a number of V-agents—highly stable nerve agents that were developed at Hockwerk, many times more lethal that Sarin or Tabun. The most potent of these is known as VX. Scientists call it the most toxic synthesized compound known to man.”

“If this is true—”

“It’s undoubtedly true! I’ll provide the supporting documents,” Faust said. “I assume you’ll thoroughly check out the story yourself.”

“Of course.”

“The clock is ticking, Colonel. We don’t have much time.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think I need to tell you which formula is encrypted into the Chopin manuscript.”

“VX.”

“Correct.”

Middleton’s mind worked feverishly, tracking back over all that had happened since he first saw the manuscripts in Pristina.

Faust tore into a piece of bread. “Vukasin must be stopped!”

“The Wolf is behind all this? He thought of Sylvia, his ex; and Charley, who was still at risk.

“Absolutely. His plan is horrifying. Unimaginably cruel.”

“But Rugova . . . Where did he fit in?”

“Sometimes one doesn’t have the luxury to choose the most favorable allies. When I learned about the existence of the manuscripts, I hired Rugova to help me. He wasn’t particularly reliable or sympathetic. I was, I regret to say, desperate. I’m even more desperate now.”

Vukasin knew he was alone now—alone amid perhaps five police cruisers, nine uniformed cops and maybe twice as many in plainclothes who had come to the Martha Jefferson Hospital. Someone had been smart: They had told local law enforcement that Middleton, the man they believed had killed two policemen at Dulles, had been spotted at the hospital and would soon return. So right now Charlotte Middleton-Perez was as protected as anyone inside the Beltway. She could not be Vukasin’s next victim. Too bad, he thought. He would have to draw out Middleton in some other way.

And he would have to do it. Andrzej, his last reliable agent in the States, had failed to contact him after trailing the Volunteer Tesla from the house at Lake Anna to who knows where; Vukasin imagined the killer and his shaved head, with its ridiculous jack of spades tattoo, had been served to pigs in the countryside. Soberski had failed too—getting her head blown off in the middle of the street a short walk from the White House. Briefly, he wondered what the sadist’s last utterance had been.

Well, Vukasin thought, as he retreated in the forest behind the hospital. With all the work comes all the honor. Tens of thousands of dead Americans, and the credit will belong only to me.

But one last chore.