But Chambers’s presence here could be explained by a simpler reason: The DHS, the organization that brought us the color-coded threat levels and was charged with protecting our borders, had screwed up big time and, focused on people who’s last names began with al-, had missed Vukasin, a known war criminal, and an unknown number of his goons sneaking into the country on phony papers.
Which wasn’t necessarily bad news for Middleton. It meant that Chambers needed to protect his image and could bring resources to bear in a big way. Middleton was confident that all the pieces were in place for checkmate.
Spotting thick black eyebrows protruding over the top of the Racing Form, Middleton stopped and lowered his chin. “Good evening, Faust,” he said deeply, placing the edge of his briefcase on the table. His heart was beating fast, palms moist. The man he’d been tracking for years was now in front of him. He seemed diminished, much smaller than Middleton expected, though he knew the physical details of the war criminal better than he knew his own.
“I rather liked Patty’s Special in the eighth running ten to one,” came the reply. Faust set down the paper and smoothed it carefully. “Colonel Harold Middleton.”
The swarthy-skinned man with the lopsided grin looked up briefly, then snapped his fingers at the nervous waiter with the puff of blond hair. “Bring a glass for my friend.” Then to Middleton, he said, “I hope you don’t mind Beaujolais.”
The American beamed at his quarry’s attempt at gamesmanship. “I have you, Faust,” he said as he pulled out a chair and sat. “We can do this anyway you want.”
Faust folded the paper and fixed him with intense black eyes. “‘Unhappy master, who unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster, till his songs the burden bore; till the dirges of his hope, the melancholy burden bore of Nevermore, of Nevermore.’”
“I deplore people who play with other people’s lives.”
“So do I.”
“It’s over.”
“Let’s hope not, Colonel.” The man took a bite of food, which he seemed to relish. He then said, “One thing I’ve never thanked you for. My name.”
“Your name?”
“That was your creation. I believe you found some documents in a volume of Goethe’s masterpiece, and dubbed me after the hero.”
“You think Faust was a hero?”
“Protagonist then.” He raised his glass. “So here’s to selling our souls to the devil.”
Middleton let his wine glass sit, untouched.
They confronted each other’s stare. Middleton wanted nothing more than to reach over and wring the younger man’s neck.
Faust said, “The great Edgar Allen Poe died at Church Hospital, very close to here. Few grieved. The poor mad genius was placed in an unmarked grave. His last words: ‘Lord help my soul.’”
“It seems you identify with him.”
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… ”
She jumped as her cell phone rang. She stretched her leg and snapped it quickly from her belt. “This is Connolly.”
“Hello, Buttercup.”
She walked toward a corner, away from the kitchen staff ’s prying eyes. “Padlo,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Where are you?”
“Sono a Roma,” he replied, his Italian accented with as much American English as his native Polish. “Someone wants to say hello.”
“Josef, wait-”
“Oh, and by the way, his English is… Actually, it’s non-existent.”
Connolly sighed as Faust and Middleton continued in her other ear.
“Buona sera, Signora Connolly,” an old man said nervously. “Il mio nome e Abe Nowakowski. Posso aiutarlo con il vostro commercio.”
“I’m sorry-‘Commercio’? I don’t-”
“Business,” Padlo said, taking the heavy black handset in the old man’s shop. “Which is still finding Middleton, I presume.”
“I’ve got Middleton,” Padlo heard her say. “And Faust.”
When Padlo repeated the names, the old man recoiled.
“They are together?” Padlo asked.
“Together, and negotiating.”
Nowakowski, who had lived in terror since the moment he first saw the Mozart score, said, “Dove e il Felicia?”
Padlo saw that the old man trembled. “A young girl,” the deputy said to Connolly. “Felicia Kaminski. Jedynak’s niece.” Recalling her photo, he began to describe her.
