execution of innocents. To steel himself from grief, long ago Middleton learned to shift his thoughts quickly to the mission at hand: to complete it would honor the likes of young Wetherby. Sikari and fresh water. Devras Sikari had developed an interest in fresh water. What could it mean?
Middleton left the park and as he waited for black cabs to pass, he saw a crowd milling under the hall’s glass-and-filigreed-iron marquee. Ticket-holders, he assumed, waiting to enter. Not that he would’ve delayed: He loved the hall’s alabaster-and-marble walls, the painting in the cupola over the stage in which a figure representing the Soul of Music stared in awe at a fireball that stood for the Genius of Harmony. The Wigmore stage was an altar and the music represented an offering to the Heavens. For Middleton, music was mankind’s link to divinity. It was his respite, his relief from the ugly, banal truth of the world of anguish and hatred in which he found himself while pursuing the likes of Devras Sikari. Only watching Charley blossom had given him a feeling of contentment and transcendence as had the music he loved.
“Is there a problem?” he said to the first patron he saw, a middle-aged woman dressed against the threat of rain.
“They aren’t opening quite yet,” she replied, “but they haven’t said exactly why.”
Middleton thanked her and headed toward the artists’ entrance around the corner on Wimpole Street. He’d never known Felicia to be an overly demanding artist, so he assumed the problem was with the house. Perhaps the pianist had taken ill.
His encrypted phone rang, its call an old-fashioned American bell chime rather than an identifying ring tone like the Chopin he’d had on his other line.
“Harry,” Tesla said.
“Nora-”
“Harry, you’d better come home.”
Jean-Marc Lespasse caught up with Connie Carson on the concourse at Tampa International Airport. He smiled as he saw her volley, with a sweet smile, the attentions of one of the men who had tried to woo her on the flight from Nice through Paris. From his seat several rows behind her, Lespasse watched as one male passenger after another found a reason to approach her. Connie wasn’t the only appealing woman on the flight, but she glowed with that sort of naive, fun-loving self-confidence men were drawn to like bees to bluebells. As was her way, she managed to tell each one to buzz off with so much charm that they hadn’t realized they’d been swatted.
“There you are!” she cheered as Lespasse approached.
The last man quickly withdrew and Carson lifted her bloated leather satchel, hoisting the strap on her shoulder. She hooked her arm in his and they strode off, the picture of a happy couple.
“Check your PDA?” she asked.
“So, I guess I’m the lucky fellow-”
“Don’t start, Jean-Marc. A few of those boys had me searching for a parachute.” She released his arm.
“You get the same message from Wiki?”
She nodded. “Big files.”
“I’ll use a computer in the executive lounge,” he said.
“And I’ll get the rental car. Give me your bag.”
“Connie-”
“Give me the damned bag.”
Lespasse had seen Carson dislocate a man’s nose with a blow so swift he would’ve sworn her hand never left her side.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
They met 30 minutes later, Carson leaning against the hood of a Prius in a No-Standing zone. “Where to?” she asked, as she opened the passenger door.
When Carson jumped behind the wheel, Lespasse read from his notes. “Get on Interstate Two Hundred Seventy-Five East.”
She laughed as she pulled from the curb. “I love how you say that. ‘Interstate Two Hundred Seventy-Five East.’ All formal and such.”
“I-Two Hundred Seventy Five East is better?”
“Two Seventy-Five East will do. How long have you lived in America, Jean-Marc?”
“Almost ten years,” he said. He slid on his sunglasses as they drove into stark sunlight beyond the airport grounds. Tampa was as bright as Nice had been.
“Ten years and it’s still ‘Interstate’ and all that?”
“Tired, I guess. Anxious.”
“Same,” she said. “You came here to work with the Colonel?”
“Well, I had worked with him before. But, yes, Harold Middleton was the reason I came to America.”
“You could’ve stayed in France.”
“My wife preferred North Carolina.”
“Your wife? Jean-Marc, I didn’t know you were married.” She looked at the third finger on his left hand. No ring.
“We worked together at Technologie de Demain-”
“Your company.”
“She began as a systems analyst-which was not the reason I noticed her, I can tell you. But Johanna was very clever, very precise. Soon, she was invaluable to me. And of course, I was in love.”
“She was too-if I’m hearing you right.”
“Lucky for me… ”
Carson checked the passenger side view and eased toward the highway.
“The first exit,” Lespasse said. “Don’t get on Inter-Don’t get on Route Four.”
The Prius took the ramp with ease.
“Jean-Marc, I see you’re not wearing a ring… ”
He undid the top buttons of his Oxford and withdrew a chain he wore around his neck. It was looped around a gold wedding band.
“Jean-Marc… ”
“She was killed. On September 11, at the Pentagon. A new-business presentation scheduled for 10 in the morning. She was early, as usual. We had no chance for the business, of course. But that was Johanna. A fighter. Very American. Like you, Connie.”
Carson saw his bittersweet smile.
“Jean-Marc, I’m so sorry.”
“As am I. Thank you.” Lespasse peered through the windshield. “There’s the exit.”
Carson tapped the blinker.
“Cookie-cutter,” she said as they approached the long, one-story building in the corner of an industrial park just short of McKay Bay. “Glass and steel. They throw down a foundation and drop ’em out of the sky.”
“Yes, but this one has palm trees,” Lespasse said.
There were FedEx, DHL and UPS boxes out front, and a tin box labeled Doolittle Diagnostics with a warning that it contained blood products. On the first floor, drawn blinds revealed an empty lunchroom with vending machines and newspapers scattered on tabletops.
Carson and Lespasse entered the vestibule to look at a blackboard dotted with white plastic letters.
“Sindhu Power & Electric,” he said. “Twenty-six South. So they’re still here.”
“Unless no one cared to change the sign.”
“We can imagine Sikari has been here. Perhaps he returned.”
“OK. But I don’t guess we’ll find him at a desk.”
“No,” Lespasse said, as he continued to study the board. “But let’s see what we can see.”
They stepped toward the receptionist, a young, brown-skinned woman who was hiding a college textbook under the crescent-shaped desktop. She greeted them with a warm smile and a Cuban accent.
Lespasse said, “My wife and I have an appointment with Dr. Faraday.”
