After the trip to the apartment, Faust had dropped her back at the hotel, and without another word, locked the door behind him and left. The man he called Nacho had been told to watch her. When he finally dozed off in the chair by the door, gun in hand, Kaminski had thought of running.

But where would she go? Faust had taken her passport, the one with the Joanna Phelps name on it, and her money. She knew no one in this country.

No, that wasn’t true. She knew of one person: Harold Middleton, who taught at the American University in Washington, D.C., and whose name was on the package containing the Mozart manuscript Uncle Henryk had sent to Signor Abe days before he was murdered.

Kaminski shut her eyes, Abe Nowakowski’s offer of help echoing in her head. She had tried to call him again in Rome, but the operator told her there was a block on her phone. No calls in or out. And so she was Faust’s prisoner, and she didn’t know why.

Nacho stirred, but went back to his snoring.

Kaminski paced slowly across the living room.

Her eyes found the piano in the corner and she went to it.

She ran a hand over the sleek black surface then slowly lifted the keyboard’s lid. The keys glowed in the soft light.

Suddenly, the image of her father was in her head. She could almost see his long fingers moving over the keys of the old piano in their home. Her little hands had tried so hard at her lessons to please him.

He had been so disappointed when she chose the violin, her mother’s instrument. Almost as if she had chosen her mother over him. But it had never been like that. She had loved her father so much, missed him so much.

And when he died, Uncle Henryk had been there for her to take his place.

Now the tears came. Kaminski did not stop them.

She sat down at the piano.

She played one chord. Then a quick section from a half-forgotten song. The Yamaha had an overly bright sound and a too-light action. But it didn’t matter. Just hearing the notes was soothing.

She played a Satie Gymnopedie then started Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, a piece Uncle Henryk had so loved.

She stopped suddenly.

Mozart.

She wiped a hand over her face. The Mozart manuscript Signor Abe had given her: Was this the reason Faust had brought her here?

She glanced over at Nacho, who watched her with tired eyes.

She went quickly to Faust’s bedroom. He had said the manuscript was “safe,” locked in a closet. She threw open its louvered doors. The closet was empty. She turned and spotted his slender black briefcase sitting on the bed near the duffle.