The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  "Okay, Bob," Fowler said, looking at Greenfield. "What's the conflict?"

  "The floor’s yours, Mr. Woo," Greenfield said.

  Conrad Woo nodded to the assistant director and adjusted himself in his chair to face Fowler. "A little formality first, Agent Fowler. This is of course all classified. It can't leave this room. I've been given the okay from my director to bring you into the loop."

  "Son, I've been doing this since before you were born. I'm cleared."

  "Of course, my apologies.” Woo reached into his attaché case, removed an eight by ten photograph, and handed it to Fowler. "Four years ago this photograph was taken in Jerusalem. The man on the left is a rabbi named Ezar Bloc. Years ago, Bloc had done the impossible. He succeeded in befriending Arafat. It was Bloc’s relationship with Arafat that brought Arafat and Rabin to the table for the ’95 accords. He was assassinated outside a restaurant in Tel Aviv two hours after this photo was taken.”

  "And the other man?” Fowler asked, studying the photo.

  "The man who killed him. His name is Viktor Petrovic, a.k.a. Das Kind. Translation: The Child."

  "Why do I get the feeling he's neither kind nor childlike?"

  "For lack of a better term, he's a mercenary, and the worst kind, one with an ideology. He's an assassin for hire to anyone who shares his beliefs."

  "Islamic extremist?" Fowler asked.

  "Believe it or not, no—white Euro-Christian superiority and a united Eastern Europe. Besides the murder of Bloc, he's suspected in at least five bombings throughout Europe, two bank robberies, and the recent kidnapping of the Israeli Ambassador's eight year-old daughter in London. He's a good Nazi, and very good at what he does.”

  "Okay," Fowler said, tossing the photo on Greenfield's desk. "What’s this got to do with the Bureau?"

  "Petrovic is on American soil," the man from State answered.

  "How do you know?"

  "Because you found him," Woo said, looking directly at Fowler.

  Fowler glanced at Greenfield.

  Woo continued, "Petrovic changes his appearance like we change our socks. It's uncanny, he can become anybody, including someone very young, thus the name Das Kind. After that picture with Bloc was taken, it was two days before we realized it was him. We were quicker identifying him in this picture."

  Woo reached into his attaché case and pulled out another photograph.

  This one Fowler recognized. "You’ve got to be kidding?"

  The photo was of two men getting into a charcoal-gray Ford Focus in Van Nuys, California. Adhered to the bottom boarder of the photo was an FBI sticker. It read: David Henry Webber &_____________?

  Chapter Twenty

  "Now you see why I’m here," Woo said, leaning back in his chair.

  Fowler rubbed his forehead. "How did you get an FBI surveillance photograph?"

  Douglas answered, “Given the circumstances, Agent Fowler, I hardly think that’s relevant.”

  "You would think that, wouldn’t you?" Fowler responded. He looked at the assistant director. He had known Bob Greenfield thirty years and knew this wasn't sitting well with him, either.

  "You guys at Langley are shameless," Fowler said, shaking his head.

  Woo responded with an emotionless stare.

  Fowler continued, "Bob, why am I here? I'm sure these guys know more about the cases we're working on than we do."

  Greenfield remained typically relaxed. He was a man who wasn't easily rattled, and if he were, few would ever know it. "Let's just fill them in, Bob."

  "Is that an order?"

  "From the very top," Greenfield answered.

  Fowler sighed. "You want to save me some time and tell me what you already know, or are you going to make me start from the beginning?"

  Douglas answered, "Why don't you start from the beginning, agent?"

  The knot in Fowler's gut twisted tighter, but Greenfield's look told him to calm down. He reminded himself that Greenfield probably despised the arrogance of the man from the State Department as much as he did. Fowler took a deep breath and exhaled in surrender. "Okay. How much do you guys know about the mafia?"

  "I saw The Godfather," Woo answered.

  "Well, Nicholas Depriestiano makes Don Corleone look like Pope Francis."

  "Old Nick, right?" Woo interjected.

  "Yeah that's what he's called," Fowler responded, aware this was Woo's way of letting all in the room know he knew more than he should have known.

  Fowler continued, "For the past thirty-five years, the Depriestiano family of Brooklyn has been connected to just about every illegal enterprise you can come up with: gambling, prostitution, black-market, drugs, money laundering, loan-sharking, not to mention good old-fashioned murder. Old Nick himself has shaken down half the businesses in Flatbush at one time or the other. No one's ever been able to nail him. Hell, he's never even been indicted. We're trying to change that."

  "How long have you had him under surveillance?" Douglas asked.

  "About a year. We got a break about six months ago."

  "What kind of break?"

  Fowler looked at Greenfield again. Greenfield nodded. Fowler sighed. "Anthony Depriest."

  "The conductor?" Douglas said as animated as he ever got.

  "Yeah. Anthony Depriest was born Antonio Depriestiano."

  Woo broke in, "You mean he's Old Nick's son?"

  "Nephew, but he was raised by Old Nick after his father died. So we played a hunch and put Depriest under twenty-four-hour surveillance. We figured since he'd done such a good job all these years hiding the fact he's Old Nick's nephew, he might be hiding other family secrets as well."

  "And it paid off," Woo stated.

  Fowler looked again at Greenfield. Greenfield nodded once more. Fowler rolled his eyes. "Depriest currently has a business deal with the family."

  “The missing Mozart,” Woo stated matter-of-factly.

  This brought Fowler out of his seat. “Jesus Christ! What don’t you know?”

  “Tom,” Greenfield ordered.

  Fowler sat down and put his hand over his mouth. His eyes were on fire.

  “What we don’t know,” Woo answered, “is the whereabouts of Viktor Petrovic, and that’s all we care to know. He’s on US soil. That’s why we need the bureau’s help.”

  “Is Petrovic in cahoots with Depriest?” Greenfield asked.

  “Not likely. Petrovic works alone,” Woo answered.

  “So what does he want?”

  Woo said, “The same thing Depriestiano wants, the Mozart. The only difference being what they do with the money. Petrovic has visions of a new Fourth Reich and anointing himself Fuehrer. With the money he’d make from the sale of the piece, he could do it.”

  “You’re not serious?” Fowler blurted.

  Douglas answered, “Painfully so. At last count, no less than fifteen countries, all seething anti-West sentiment, are making overtures to their new leader, Viktor Petrovic.”

  “How much is this damn thing worth, anyway?” Greenfield asked.

  “Enough,” Woo answered.

  Douglas shifted gears. "Why is this picture in the Depriestiano file, Agent Fowler? How does David Henry Webber play into this?"

  “We're not sure is the answer to the second question. The answer to the first is simple. Two of Depriestiano's wise guys were sent to L.A. last week. They were tailing a retired music professor from Juilliard named Henry Shoewalter. Since the old guy was a music professor, we assumed he was connected to Depriest, so we followed them. Early Friday morning Shoewalter turns up dead, and this David Webber fellow is arrested. Webber’s a new player, it was the first we'd ever heard of him. The picture you have was taken as he was being released from custody, which is why it's in our file,” Fowler said to Woo. “We've been working overtime trying to find out who the other guy is. We assumed he was one of Old Nick's men. Thanks for clearing up the mystery."

  "Does LAPD know about the surveillance?" Woo asked.

  "No."

  "Is
that protocol?"

  Fowler chuckled. "Are you kidding me? You're talking about protocol?"

  "Tom," Greenfield snapped.

  Fowler raised his hand. "We know Depriestiano has moles inside the LAPD."

  Woo nodded. "I assume you still have Depriestiano's men covered?"

  "Depriestiano's wise guys are MIA."

  "What happened to them?" Douglas asked.

  "We don't know, otherwise they wouldn't be MIA."

  All were silent until Woo uttered mechanically, "Petrovic."

  "When was Petrovic last seen?" Douglas asked.

  "Yesterday,” Fowler said. “Two agents were assigned to cover Webber. He had breakfast with him. LAPD is also tailing Webber. I'm sure they're as confounded as we are—or were—about who the other guy is."

  Douglas stood with authority. "Can we get him?"

  Fowler looked up with disgust. “Yeah, we’ll get him. It’ll give us away to Depriestiano and a year’s worth of work goes down the tubes, but we’ll get him."

  “Maybe not, Tom,” Greenfield said. “If Petrovic is freelance, then Old Nick probably isn’t even aware of him.”

  Douglas stood. “Gentlemen, I said I was here to just observe. I meant it. You’re the professionals, so I’ll stay out of your way.”

  “Agent Fowler,” Woo added, “this shouldn’t hamper your Depriestiano op. We just need to get Petrovic—alive if possible. Given the crowd he runs with, the potential intel is invaluable.”

  Fowler nodded.

  "Tom, do we know Petrovic’s current whereabouts?" Greenfield asked.

  "No. But he’ll contact Webber again. Then he’s ours."

  “Be careful, Agent Fowler,” Woo said as he stood. “Petrovic is a very dangerous man. Make sure you’ve got a small army when you take him.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Fowler responded. “We’ll handle it.”

  Douglas headed for the door. “Assistant Director, I assume you will instigate an open line of communication with Mr. Woo?”

  “Of course,” Greenfield answered.

  Douglas turned for the door with Woo behind.

  “So,” Fowler said, “you guys seem to know everything else. Do you know where this mysterious Mozart music is?”

  Woo and Douglas looked at each other, but it was Douglas who answered, “No. We have no idea where it is. Do you?”

  Fowler cracked a half smile. “No. No idea at all.”

  »»•««

  Douglas and Woo exited the elevator into the FBI’s subterranean parking garage. Douglas looked straight ahead as he spoke. “You were good up there.”

  “Thanks,” Woo replied.

  “Any chance they could actually get Petrovic?”

  “None. Fowler’s a dinosaur. He won’t get within fifty feet of him. God help him if he does. But he’ll lead us to him.”

  Douglas nodded. “Status in Pyongyang?”

  “The general’s scheduled to be in Hong Kong in seven days.”

  Douglas stopped. “Not much time. Are we ready?”

  Woo nodded. “Everything’s in place. Just one missing ingredient.”

  “Indeed, just one missing ingredient,” Douglas said, opening his car door.

  “So why didn’t we tell them what the Mozart piece really is?”

  Douglas got in the car, looked up at Woo, and smiled. “Because then we’d have to tell them how we know that bit of information, wouldn’t we?”

  “So? We explain it to them.”

  “Mr. Woo,” Douglas said, starting the black sedan, “after twenty-two years in government and four Presidents, you learn a few fundamental truths.”

  “And those would be?”

  “Keep it simple.”

  Woo didn’t reply.

  Douglas continued, “Find Petrovic, that’s all they need to know.”

  “And David Webber? He’s not part of this. We could have at least told them he didn’t kill Professor Henry Shoewalter.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Woo. Webber is a big part of this. He’s also a walking testament to another truth.”

  Woo raised an eyebrow.

  Douglas smiled and shifted the car into drive. “Chaos brings results.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The calliope played at a deafening volume, getting louder as the merry-go-round spun faster. David sat on a snow-white steed, tremulously holding onto the pole, pushing his left ear against his left shoulder in an attempt to muffle the agonizing cacophony. Then, in a moment of painful desperation, he raised both hands to his ears, completely letting go of the pole. The carousel continued to speed up. David felt the inside of his thighs begin to burn from the strain of hanging onto the giant horse. Finally, David was hurled into the air, spinning and twisting with no discernible design as he flew through black empty space.

  He landed hard on concrete, but felt no pain. He looked up and saw off in the distance Joshua Bowen running toward him. He tried calling out but couldn't make the air go over his larynx. Then he felt it, dampness soaking through his pants and onto his skin. He looked down and saw that his legs were gone, sunken into the cement. The concrete was now quicksand, and his torso was all that was now visible. He could barely move his arms. They were so heavy from the weight of the morass. He looked for Bowen again. He was still running toward him but not getting any closer. He tried calling out, but still no sound. He was sinking, sinking, sinking.

  "Housekeeping," the female voice bellowed, accompanied by three knocks.

  David sprung up, unsure of his surroundings. He struggled out of bed and stumbled to the door. Looking through the peephole, he saw a small black woman, all in white, standing patiently behind her cart. He felt a sudden pang of fear before he spoke. "Can you come back later? I'm just getting up," he said, for some reason surprised and relieved by the sound of his own croupy voice.

  "Sorry to disturb you, sir," came the reply through the door.

  David rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was 10:22 a.m., 7:22 a.m. by his internal West Coast clock. Leftover pizza, an empty cigarette box, and an emptied bottle of Jim Beam flanked the clock. The last time he remembered looking, it read four thirty a.m.

  Ravel was wound on the bed, nose snuggled between the mattress and the headboard. He hadn't budged since being let out of his cage following David's clandestine operation of sneaking him past the front desk and up to the room. Many were impressed with the fancy downtown Washington, DC, hotel. Ravel wasn't one of them. Neither was David. To him, it was too small and insanely overpriced. But given its location, roughly six blocks from the Smithsonian, the free transportation to and from Reagan National, and the fact he hadn't had a vacation since…forever, David decided, what the hell, I got a Visa.

  It was an hour, a shower, and a cup of coffee later before David felt cognizant and the pounding in his head had subsided. Even Ravel had grown more comfortable with the surroundings, finally venturing off the bed to the bowl of food David had placed under the wash basin, along with a makeshift litterbox David had constructed from the pizza box—the litter came courtesy of the drug store on the corner. The cat was crunching away as David, now in jeans and a white button-down, picked up the telephone and dialed.

  This is Joshua Bowen, please leave a message.

  "Bowen, it’s Webber again. Don't you ever pickup? I left you a couple of messages last night, so you should have my number here at the hotel—again, I'm in room 1470, okay? I'm heading over to the Smithsonian now. Call me. If I'm not here, leave me a message and let me know when I can get a hold of you. I've been doing like you asked and going over the sketch. I found some interesting things, I…so—” David stumbled for something else to say. He really wanted to talk to Bowen. Not because he actually had any new information on the Mozart, he didn't, He just needed to talk. He needed to hear again he wasn't alone. "Well, okay, call me, all right?"

  David hung up the telephone and ran his hand through his damp hair. He slipped on a pair of brown loafers, grab
bed his briefcase, the room keycard off the desk, and headed for the door. Ravel stopped eating and looked up at him as he unlocked the deadbolt. "Shit, what am I going to do about you?"

  David picked up the purring cat, stroked its head, and returned him back to the pillow on the bed. He picked up the phone again.

  "Hi, this is David Webber in room 1470. I'll be working all day in my room and won’t require maid service. In fact, I won't for my entire stay. Can you please inform housekeeping to just leave fresh towels outside my door? Thank you."

  "There you go, buddy," David said, picking up his briefcase again. "You have the place all to yourself. I'll even turn on the TV for you. Don't order room service. We can't afford this hole as it is."

  ∙•∙

  Six rooms down from David’s sat an abandoned maid’s cart. As David stepped into the elevator, a maid emerged from a room. She lifted a stack of towels off the second shelf of the cart and retrieved a small, black rectangular object. Looking both ways down the hallway, she raised her wrist to her mouth. "He's coming down, car number three, blue jeans, white shirt."

  "I'm on him, hold for clear,” came the reply.

  "Holding," the woman said, her eyes continuing to scan the hallway.

  The voice came back, "Okay, he's out of the hotel. Do your stuff, Sheila."

  The woman pushed her cart back in front of room 1470, withdrew a keycard, and inserted it into the door.

  »»•««

  He never noticed it when he was growing up, but now it was like breathing paste. David stood in front of the hotel already wiping sweat from his brow. Twelve years in L.A. had spoiled him, weakened his resistance to the humidity of the East coast. He unfolded a map he'd gotten from the concierge and turned it three different times before coordinating his position. Then, with a wipe to his forehead, he entered the herd of sightseers trampling down Tenth Street.

  A taxi would be faster, and sightseeing was the last thing on his mind, but there was one historic place he wanted to see, and if he walked, it was on his way—plus he needed to move. He had begun to think he'd gone in the wrong direction, but just after crossing F Street, he saw it, Ford's Theatre.

  David's interest in Abraham Lincoln had started as a child. The first time he heard the story of the Great Emancipator, his humor, his honor, his bravery, he was hooked. As an adult, his fascination with the sixteenth president never waned. He was one of the few human beings David Webber actually admired. He remembered J.P. saying to him how ironic that was. “It's hard to believe, luv, that such a hopeless and cynical bastard like you would be drawn to the epitome of hopefulness and virtue."