The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  Dani interrupted, "But won't he know you are watching him the minute his record company starts doing business?”

  Fowler nodded. "Dr. Parsons, I can assure you, the Depriestiano name won't show on any document of ownership of Renaissance Records. Besides, the practice itself is done all the time and isn't in and of itself illegal."

  "What do you mean?" David asked.

  "Of course you have to remember I haven't bought a record since…well since they made records. But I've learned in the record business, music is bought and sold in this manner every day, especially on the worldwide market. And not just by small homegrown companies. The major multi-media conglomerates do it also, buy-outs, trade-outs, you name it. That's what makes it such an ingenious idea. Even when it's legit, the money trail is practically untraceable. And in this instance it's made easier because you're dealing with classical music. Unlike any other genre of music, classical music naturally crosses all borders. And don't forget, you're dealing with an intellectual property that is public domain, so there's no one outside the family to pay."

  "That's brilliant," David said almost under his breath.

  "Yeah, it is," Fowler agreed. "Old Nick will make millions, maybe even billions. The Mexicans, Colombians, the Russians, the Sicilians, even terrorist organizations from all over the world will want to do business with Old Nick. In essence, he’ll be the clearing house for all money laundering."

  “How did he know?” Kathryn muttered, to no one in particular.

  “About the Mozart? From Henry Shoewalter,” Fowler answered.

  “But Henry didn’t have any contact with—” She stopped and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he did,” Fowler said. “How did you and Shoewalter correspond?”

  Kathryn closed her eyes and nodded. “Mostly by mail.”

  “For a long time, Mrs. Depriest, we thought you might be involved. By the way, you’re being followed. Jimmy.”

  Kathryn felt sick.

  Dani finally spoke, “Mr. Fowler, are you sure? Anthony Depriest is one of the most respected conductors in the world, and this Thurman Winfield doesn’t sound like the most reliable source.”

  “He’s not. But our Thurman Winfield is.”

  Dani and David looked at each other.

  Fowler continued, “You see, the Thurman Winfield the Depriestiano family is dealing with is not the real Thurman Winfield. He’s one of our agents. We did a deal with the real Thurman Winfield and made the swap before anyone had met face to face.” Fowler looked back at Kathryn. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Depriest, our facts are accurate. Your husband has been using you.”

  Kathryn stood and walked to the back of the room. Fowler exchanged brief glances with Greenfield and the other man. When she turned around, her chin was up, and her eyes were dry. “What do you need me to do?”

  Fowler looked at Greenfield and nodded. “I was hoping that would be your reaction. We’ll get to that in a minute, but right now I need to go on with my story. And that leads me to you, Mr. Webber.”

  “I haven’t seen Anthony Depriest in years,” David said.

  “I know, and I know why,” Fowler said, looking at Kathryn. “First, let me tell you what you want to hear. This man right here," Fowler said nodding toward Greenfield, "is the assistant director of the FBI. He wants me to inform you the FBI doesn’t believe for a second you killed Henry Shoewalter or had anything to do with the disappearance of Jean Ann Peterson.”

  David closed his eyes and released a long breath. Dani took his hand.

  “But,” Fowler said emphatically, “the fact remains, David, people didn’t start dying until you came onto the scene.”

  “Mr. Fowler,” David pleaded, “I don’t know why.”

  Fowler stood and patted David on the shoulder. “I believe you, son.” He turned to the desk and picked up a folder.

  “This isn’t the why, but it is the who.” Fowler opened the folder and handed David an eight by ten photograph. It was of a bearded man in a Yankee’s cap.

  “Who’s this?” David asked, looking at the picture.

  Fowler glanced again at Greenfield and the other man and then handed David another photograph. "The same man this is."

  David looked at a photo of a young priest standing behind a cash register.

  “The first photo we took, the location is the Mall just outside this building. The second one is from the surveillance cameras downstairs in the gift shop. David, that's the man that killed Henry."

  David’s hand began to tremble, and the photos fell to the floor.

  “Mr. Fowler,” Dani asked, “is this the man that—”

  “Yes, he’s responsible for this too. As well as a young FBI agent.”

  “But why, who is he?” Dani asked, her voice shaking.

  Fowler picked up the folder again and withdrew another photograph.

  “David, I want you to look at this photograph and tell me who you see.”

  David took the picture and immediately shot upright in his chair. “That’s me and Bowen,” he said almost as a question.

  “Who?” Fowler came back.

  “Me and Joshua Bowen. He’s a Los Angeles police officer. He’s helping me. He's the only person who believed I didn’t kill Henry and J.P.”

  Fowler looked at the two men in the back of the room. Then Greenfield spoke for the first time. “Why did he tell you he believed you?”

  “Because he met J.P. the night I was arrested for that bar fight. They spent the night together, so he knew I couldn’t have done it.” Greenfield looked at the man beside him. David continued. “Bowen hasn’t got anything to do with this. He’s the son of the D.A. in Los Angeles.”

  “Who?” Fowler responded, his eyes widening.

  “The D.A., Arthur Bowen, he’s his kid. That’s why I was released from jail. He told his dad about spending the night with J.P. and how I couldn't have done what I was being accused of, so his dad got me released. He couldn’t vouch for me because it would ruin his old man’s career.”

  Fowler looked over at the men in the corner and shook his head in disbelief. Then he looked back at David and put his hand on his shoulder again.

  “Mr. Assistant Director, would you introduce our guest to Mr. Webber?”

  Greenfield looked at the man beside him and then back to David. “Mr. Webber, I’d like you to meet the District Attorney of Los Angeles, Arthur Bowen.”

  The distinguished-looking man stepped forward. “Mr. Webber, pleasure to meet you, especially since I did you such a service. One problem, though. I don’t have a son.”

  David’s face went pale. “What?”

  “Three daughters—no sons.”

  “But…no. Bowen told me…you got me out of jail.”

  “No, I didn’t. I went over your file on the flight here. One of my assistants was handling your case. You were released for simple lack of evidence.”

  David looked at Dani and then back to Fowler, his face twisted with confusion.

  “David,” Fowler said, pointing to the photograph, “this man, the one you know as Mr. Bowen’s son, and this man, and this man,” showing David the photos of the priest and the man in the Yankee’s cap, “are all the same man. His name is Viktor Petrovic, and he’s a wanted international assassin.”

  "No, it can't be,” David mumbled. “I spoke to him, he's not here, he's in L.A."

  "You spoke to him recently?" Greenfield asked, looking at Fowler.

  "Yesterday, and I left him a message today. He couldn't be the same guy.”

  Fowler sat down on the desk again and spoke over a sigh. "Where was he when you called him, David?"

  "I told you, Los Angeles, he couldn't be—”

  "No," Fowler interrupted, "Where did you call? His home? His office?"

  "His cell phone," David answered.

  Fowler nodded. "Mr. Bowen, do you have your cell phone with you?"

  "Of course."

  "Would you mind giving me the number?"
>
  He gave Fowler the number.

  Fowler picked up Dani's office phone and dialed. Ten seconds later a high-pitched chirping came from inside Arthur Bowen's suit jacket. Fowler looked at David and hung up the phone.

  David fell back in his chair.

  "David, we need that number."

  David didn't respond.

  "David," Fowler said again.

  David reached for his wallet, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to Fowler.

  Fowler looked at the number and walked to the door. He opened the door and handed the slip of paper to another man.

  David looked at Dani and shook his head.

  "We'll run the number,” Fowler said, “but my guess is it's a burner. I also doubt Petrovic can be reached there anymore."

  "So he's been here all along," David said.

  "I would hazard to say within hours of your arrival."

  "After he assassinated an LAPD detective," Arthur Bowen added.

  David looked up. “Ryan?"

  "Yeah," Fowler said. "Ryan was a good cop. When he couldn't ID Petrovic through LAPD or the bureau, he sent his fingerprints to INTERPOL. It only took them minutes. Unfortunately, Petrovic was paying attention. Here's the rest of it, David, at least how you were dragged into this. We were following two of Depriestiano's men, who were following Henry Shoewalter. Shoewalter surprised them and unexpectedly caught a last minute flight to Los Angeles. Why, we really don't know." Fowler looked at Kathryn. "But whatever the reason, your husband was certain Shoewalter was going to L.A. to meet David about the Mozart piece. To be honest, I'm not so sure about that, but Anthony was." He looked back to David. "So, to buy his two goons time to catch up, he arranged for you to get yourself arrested."

  David opened his eyes in disbelief. "Harshbarger?"

  "They were following you from the minute Ms. Peterson bailed you out. But at some point that night Depriestiano's men vanished from under our noses. Until this afternoon, we didn't know what happened to them. They and one other person turned up floating in Echo Park Lake."

  David's face went white. "J.P.”

  "No, not J.P.—an LAPD officer. His throat was slashed, and he was stripped naked. Now we understand why," Fowler said, looking at Greenfield and Bowen. "Petrovic needed the uniform."

  "Where's J.P.?" David asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

  Fowler picked up the folder. "We don't know, but we think she's alive."

  "What? J.P.'s alive?" David shouted.

  "I said, think she's alive, David. We need you to confirm her identity."

  Fowler handed David another photograph. "We just got this a few hours ago. Since you left L.A. so unexpectedly, we assumed Petrovic wouldn't have had time to secure a well thought-out place to hold up. We knew he was tailing you and reasoned he had to be staying in close proximity, so we confiscated the security tapes of all the surrounding hotels. This is from the Marriott on Twelfth. I need you to tell me if the woman in the wheelchair is J.P."

  David looked at the photo of a tall, masculine woman pushing a wheelchair. Fowler got his answer without David saying a word.

  "That's what we thought,” Fowler said, taking back the photo.

  David leaned back in his chair. His heart was racing. He didn't know if he should be happy or sad or relieved or petrified. His hand was resting on his knee, erratically shaking, when Dani reached over and took it in hers. "She's still alive, David, she's still alive. We can't give up hope. We'll get her back.”

  David squeezed her hand and forced a smile.

  "Mr. Fowler," Dani asked, “what does he want?"

  “The same thing we all want.”

  "The Mozart?"

  "It would seem so. What is this thing, anyway?” Fowler asked.

  Dani shook her head. "We think it might be a requiem Mozart wrote for his mother. If it exists, it would be worth a great deal of money."

  "Are you any closer to locating it?" Greenfield asked.

  "No," Dani answered.

  "How about Shoewalter, was he?" Fowler asked.

  "We don't know. David doesn't even think it is a mass."

  "Why?'

  Dani looked at David before she answered—he was still shaking. "Because the date of David’s sketch doesn't work with the date of Mozart's mother's death. I have a piece by a woman named Sugarberry—” Dani suddenly stopped. "Oh God. She must be—”

  "We don't know that, Dr. Parsons," Fowler said. "The Sugarberry woman lives in the house you, Dr. Rogers, and David were at earlier today, right?"

  "Yes," Dani answered.

  Fowler nodded. "Go on, you were saying the dates conflict?"

  "Here, I can show you." Dani got up and went toward her safe but stopped before she'd taken a step. The door to the safe was open. It was empty. "Oh, no," Dani said, her voice cracking.

  "I assume," Fowler moaned, "that's where the pieces were?"

  Dani closed her eyes and shook her head.

  "That’s just great," Greenfield said from the back of the room.

  Fowler smacked the photos against the desk.

  The room was silent for several moments. Fowler walked to the door and opened it. He said something to the man outside. No one could hear what he said. He closed the door, walked close to Greenfield, and whispered in his ear.

  Greenfield nodded.

  Fowler returned to the desk. “All right, everyone. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of being led around on a leash by Viktor Petrovic.”

  “What do you mean?” Arthur Bowen asked.

  “I mean,” Fowler answered, “that bastard has been pulling the strings long enough. I say it’s time we start pulling his strings.”

  “How?" David asked.

  Fowler started to speak and then stopped himself. He looked at Greenfield. “No, Bob, we can't do it, it's too dangerous."

  Greenfield nodded without protest.

  "What?" David half yelled. "Mr. Fowler, if there's something I can do, ask me. Hell, I volunteer. You need me, and I want that bastard.”

  It took several moments while Fowler wrestled with every conceivable option. Finally, he surrendered to the truth of David’s statement. “You’re right, I do need you. But I need Dr. Parsons too."

  David looked at Dani and then back to Fowler. “No, not Dani, she's out of this. I'll do anything you want, but not Dani."

  Dani spoke as if she hadn’t heard David, "What do you need us to do?"

  "Dani, no. I'm not letting you—”

  "David," Dani cut him off. "He was here in my office. He killed Charlie. Paul's just barely—” she put her face in her cupped hands.

  David placed his hand on her back and gently rubbed. He let out a breath. "What do you need us to do, Mr. Fowler?"

  Fowler nodded. "You and Dr. Parsons are going to find that Mozart piece. You’ll have the full resources of the United States government. Anything you need, you’ll have. If it can be found, you two will find it. We have a safe house in Virginia. You’ll work and live there until this thing is over.”

  Dani started to protest, but Fowler cut her off. “I’m not letting either one of you out of the FBI’s sight, so don’t even try to argue with me.”

  “I want to help—I can help,” Kathryn said.

  “Oh, you’re going to help, Mrs. Depriest,” Fowler replied. “But I need you for something else. Dr. Parsons, how are you at acting?”

  Dani looked up.

  “Because I need you to give the performance of a lifetime to the press."

  Dani said, “Mr. Fowler, I don’t think I can—”

  “Dr. Parsons…Dani, all of you, listen to me. Petrovic now thinks he has everything you have. That means he thinks he doesn’t need any of you anymore. And that means he doesn’t need Ms. Peterson, either. If we have any hope of flushing this monster out and getting Ms. Peterson back alive, we have to make him think he’s wrong—that we know something he doesn’t know."

  The room fell silent.

  Fowler continued, "
I'm not going to lie to either of you, this is very dangerous. I can't make you…hell, I shouldn't let you do this. I’m using you as bait to draw Petrovic out. So what do you say?"

  "Of course we'll do it," Dani answered without hesitation.

  "Mr. Webber? I need to hear from you too."

  David looked at Dani and then turned to Fowler. His face was hard; his eyes were calm. "J.P.'s alive. I'll do anything you say."

  Fowler nodded.

  »»•««

  Twenty-five miles west of Washington, DC, a white rental sat in the empty parking lot of a rundown motel. Inside room number four Viktor Petrovic sat naked at a desk looking into the mirror. Sweat poured from his body as he held a pair of needle-nose pliers over the flame of a butane lighter.

  He laid the instruments down and untied the bloody T-shirt he used as a bandage from around his shoulder. The wound had stopped bleeding and was now a sticky and matted glob. He reached into a brown paper sack and removed a bottle of alcohol. Taking a deep breath, he poured the liquid over his shoulder. His head snapped back as fire shot through his body. He made no sound.

  He opened his eyes and gasped for air as the pain subsided. Without waiting, he picked up the tool, moved closer to the mirror, and inserted it into the tiny hole. His face turned red, and his eyes began to water as he pushed the pliers deeper into the wound. He heard the squish of broken and mangled cartilage, ripped muscle, and torn tendons as he twisted the instrument toward his neck. He felt nauseous, his sweat had intensified, and he was sure unconsciousness was only moments away. He bent the handle upward until he felt the tiny piece of lead pushing against his collarbone. He maneuvered the tool to an open position and squeezed tightly when he was sure he had snagged the invader. He let go a low growl as he pulled the bullet from his body.