Sometimes the world was simply mad, Harry Middleton concluded.
17
The men finished the work at midnight. “I’m exhausted. Are we through?” The language was Serbo-Croatian.
The second man was tired too but he said nothing and looked uneasily at the third, his face dark, his black hair long and swept back.
The man who’d been supervising their handiwork-Faust-told them in a soft voice that, yes, it was all right to leave. He spoke in English.
Once they were gone, he walked through the basement, using a flashlight to inspect what they’d spent the last four hours doing: Running two-inch hose-it was astonishingly heavy, who’d have thought?-through access tunnels from three buildings away. Painstakingly, using silent hand pumps, they’d filled rubber bladders with gasoline, a total of close to 900 gallons of the liquid. Next they placed propane tanks and detonators between the bladders and, most difficult of all, rigged the electronics.
Alone now in the basement of the James Madison recital hall, Faust ran final diagnostic checks on the system. Everything was in order. He allowed himself a fantasy of what would happen later this evening. During the adagio movement at the world premier of the newly discovered Chopin sonata, a unique combination of notes would slip from the microphone above the soloist’s piano and be electronically translated into numerical values. These would be recognized by the computer controller as a command to small motors that would open the propane tanks. Then a few minutes later, when the score moved into the vivace movement, another combination of notes would trigger the detonators. The propane would flare, melt the bladders and turn the recital hall instantly into a crematorium.
This elaborate system was necessary because radio, microwave and cell phone jammers were in use in security-minded public venues in D.C. Remote control devices were useless. And timing devices could be picked up in sweeps by supersensitive microphones.
Ironically, Felicia Kaminski herself would be the detonator.
Now Faust hid the bladders, tanks and wires behind boxes. He was satisfied with the plan. Middleton and the government had taken the bait Nowakowski offered them, the manuscript. And it was clear they believed the entire charade, all false information Faust had fed to Jack Perez and Felicia Kaminski-the code in the first manuscript pages, the nerve-gas attack, the binoculars at the Harbor court focused on a warehouse, the mysterious talk about deliveries and chemical formulas, the torture of the tattooed man in the closet…
His enemy’s defenses were down. He thought of an apt metaphor: They believed the concert was over; they never suspected he’d arranged a spectacular, unexpected crescendo.
Faust now slipped out of the basement, troubled as he pictured Felicia Kaminski dying in the conflagration. He wasn’t concerned about the young women herself, of course. He was troubled that, if she used the original score to perform from, the manuscript would be destroyed.
After all, it was easily worth millions of dollars.
The crowds began assembling outside early, the queue stretching well past a construction site next door to the James Madison hall. Many were people without tickets, hoping for scalpers. But this was a world-premiere of Chopin, not pre-season Redskins, so there were no tickets to be had.
Harold Middleton made a brief backstage visit to Kaminski, wished her well and then joined his guests in the lobby: Leonora Tesla, JM Lespasse and his daughter Charley.
He said hello to some of the music professors from Georgetown and George Mason, and a few of the Defense Department and DOJ folks from his past life. Emmett Kalmbach came by and shook his hand. “Where’s Dick?” he asked.
Middleton gave a laugh and pointed across the hall to the head of Homeland Security. “Gave his ticket to his boss.”
The FBI man said, “At least I appreciate culture.”
“You ever heard Chopin before, Emmett?”
“Sure.”
“What’d he write?”
“That thing.”
“Thing?”
“You know, the famous one.”
Middleton smiled as Kalmbach changed the subject.
The lobby lights dimmed and they entered the auditorium, found their seats.
“Harry, relax” Middleton heard his daughter say. “You look like you’re the one performing.”
He smiled, noting how she referred to him. The lack of endearment didn’t upset him one bit; it was a sign she was recovering.
But as for relaxing: Well, that wasn’t going to happen. This was going to be a momentous evening. He was bursting with excitement.
The conductor walked out on stage to wild applause. He then lifted his arm to the right and nineteen-year-old Felicia Kaminski, in a fluid black dress, strode out on stage, looking confident as a pro. She smiled, bowed and stole a glance at Harold Middleton. He believed she winked. She sat down at the keyboard.
The conductor took his place at the stand. He lifted his baton.
“Dick, something interesting here.”
Chambers was in his office at the Department of Homeland Security, working late. He was thinking about the concert and wondering if his boss was appreciative he’d been given the ticket. He looked up.
“Might want to talk to this guy,” his straight-arrow aide said.
The caller was a restaurant worker near the James Madison recital hall. As he was leaving work early that morning, he explained, he’d seen a man leave through the hall’s side door. He’d gotten into a car near the site. Thinking it seemed suspicious-the hall had been closed all day-he took a picture of the car and the license plate with his cell phone. He meant to call the police earlier but had forgotten about it. He’d just now called D.C. police and was referred to Homeland Security, since the concert would be attended by some high-ranking government officials.
“Nowadays,” the restaurant worker said, “you never know-terrorists and everything.”
Chambers said, “We better follow up on this. Where are you?”
He’d just gotten off work, the man explained. He gave the address of the restaurant. It was now closed so Chambers told him to wait in a park near the place. He’d have agents there soon.
“And thank you, sir. It’s citizens like you that make this country what it is.”
On stage at the recital hall, Felicia Kaminski was playing as she’d never played in her life. She was motivated not by the fact that this was her first appearance as a soloist at a world premiere, but because of the music itself. It was intoxicating.
Musicians grow familiar with the pieces in their repertoire, the same way husbands and wives grow comfortably close over the years. But there’s something about meeting, then performing, a new work that’s like the beginning of a love affair.
Passionate, exhilarating, utterly captivating. The rest of the world ceases to exist.
She was now lost in the music completely, unaware of the thousand people in the audience, the lights, the distinguished guests, the other members of the chamber orchestra around her.
Only one thing intruded slightly.
The faint smell of smoke.
But then she came to a tricky passage in the Chopin and, concentrating hard, she lost any awareness of the scent.
A dark sedan pulled up fast, near a small park in northwest D.C., where a middle-aged man in food-stained overalls sat on a park bench, looking around like a nervous bird.
He flinched when the car stopped and only after spotting the plate Official Government Use and the letters on the side, DHS, did he rise. He walked to the man who got out of the car.