by Phil Swann
“So, there’s really no tape recorder involved?”
Marcus laughed. “Oh man, you’re so last millennium. It’s all digital, dude.”
"What's the microphone for, Marcus?" Dani asked, referring to the rectangular microphone and stand sitting by the keyboard.
"I like to record ambient sound from the room. It adds nice texture to the digital recording."
“How did you choose the instrumentation?”
“I mostly worked from Mr. Webber’s sketch since it had a more complete outline of what Mozart intended. The bitch is we really don’t know what the piece was actually meant to be. That, of course, would help in selecting the appropriate instrumentation the old dude planned to use. The Kochel had nothing even close. The notations gave me some idea, but it’s far from complete. I had to guess at the rest, so I just used the typical instrumentation of orchestras of the period. But one thing is for sure, it was meant to be performed with the piano as the main instrument.”
“How do you know?” David asked.
“Because of the way he wrote the melody and counter-melody. It really had me messed up for a while. I was trying to assign each note in the melody an instrument. When I did, it left me no instrumentation available for the counter-melody and lower-register accompaniment. I was totally bummed until I realized I was dealing with a polyphonic melody, and all the other instruments were designed to support just one instrument playing the lead—an instrument that can play at least six notes at one time, like a fortepiano.”
“That’s unusual, even for Mozart,” Dani said.
“Yeah, especially for something written in the mid 1700’s.”
Dani and David looked at one another. “Why do you think it was composed then?” David asked.
“Once again, because of the melody. Listen.”
Marcus hit the space bar, and the cursor on the screen began to move along the music staff pictured on the monitor. The sound came from two twelve-inch speakers located on either side of the computer. David had played the melody hundreds of times but had never heard it like this. The adagio was rich and warm, and if he didn’t know better, would have sworn the London Philharmonic was performing it. He also instantly knew how Marcus settled on the date.
“See what I mean?” Marcus said, swiveling around in his chair.
David nodded. “Bartolomeo Cristofori, Viennese action. How were you able to—”
“I sampled one a couple of years ago in Italy,” Marcus answered.
“I told you he was good,” Dani said, smiling at David.
“I don’t get it,” Fowler admitted.
David explained, “The piano Marcus is using is an eighteenth century fortepiano. A man named Bartolomeo Cristofori invented it in the early 1700's. There’re only three of those pianos still in existence, by the way.”
“Okay,” Fowler said, still not understanding, “but why is he using a…whatever you called it, and how does that tell us the date?”
Marcus answered, “By the mid-1700’s the instrument had become the thing but was still nothing like the piano we know today. The keyboard was shorter, about four octaves, and the soundboards were considerably thinner, so the sound of the instrument was much thinner.”
Dani took up the explanation. “The only differences in pianos of that time was how the action was set. Viennese action was very light. It complemented eastern European composers like Mozart and Haydn who wrote quick arpeggios up and down the scale, whereas English action was much stiffer. It complemented more chord-oriented music. There was a guy named Clementi who was a rival of Mozart’s and was a master of the English action.”
Marcus broke in, “But by the late 1700’s, almost all pianos, including Mozart’s, had combined the two actions to allow for the more versatile music being composed by the new composers coming onto the scene, like Beethoven. But this piece, with the counter melodies in the left hand and the arpeggios in the right, was stone-cold written for an instrument with Viennese action.”
David jumped in, “And since by 1790, Mozart, along with every other composer of note, was writing music that was more vertical than horizontal, we can safely assume this piece was written well before 1790.”
“Right, dude,” Marcus said.
“I don’t know,” Fowler said, “seems like a huge leap.”
“Not really,” David explained. “Consider if you came from another planet and saw a piece of music by…Jimmy Hendrix, let’s say," David said, pointing to Marcus's T-shirt. "You’d know it was written well after the time the electric guitar and the high-watt amplifier had been invented and was in common use.”
“Art always follows technology and vise versa,” Dani added.
“Learn something new every day,” Fowler said with a nod.
David paced to the back of the room. Everyone waited for him to say something. Finally Fowler broke the silence. “What?”
David looked up, his frustration obvious. “Same question. Why did Mozart write a sketch in 1790 to a piece he’d composed in 1778?”
“Maybe he was trying to remember it,” Marcus said.
“Yeah, right,” David came back sarcastically.
Dani jumped in, “No, wait. Marcus may be right.”
“Come on, Dani, you know as well as I do about Mozart’s ability to transcribe massive amounts of music from his head.”
“Yes, for works he was creating at the time, but this is different. What if this is something he’d written years earlier, like in 1778, and he was trying to remember it? Also, remember, Mozart was not well the last year of his life.”
“But why didn’t he still have it?”
“Maybe he’d lost it.” Dani paused and thought for a moment. “Or maybe he’d given it to someone.”
“Why? And who? And don’t say Jefferson, we already know he wasn’t in Paris, Mannheim, or Salzburg in 1778.”
Dani started to respond but stopped herself. She thought for a moment and then a smile gradually crept over her face. “Yeah, but I know who was. And I bet Henry did too.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Before anyone could ask Dani to explain, she was out the door, running back to the main house, with the three men racing to keep up. For more than ten minutes, David, Fowler, and Marcus sat silently in the back of the room as Dani scanned page after page on her computer screen, mumbling as she made notes in a notebook. Finally, she pushed back from the computer and smiled.
“Well, are you going to tell us?” David asked.
“No, you’re going to tell me.”
“What?” David came back.
“Dr. Parsons,” Fowler interjected, “time is not on our side—”
“I know,” she said, “and I’m sorry, but this is necessary. It’s how we historians do our work, with checks and balances. I need all of you to go through this with me and validate my thinking. Okay?”
“What do you need us to do, babe?” Marcus asked.
“I’ll ask the questions, you answer.”
Fowler and David nodded.
Dani took a breath. “Okay, what do we know?”
The three men looked at one another, and then David answered, “We know we have a sketch composed by Mozart to a piece nobody knew existed.”
“Not exactly," Dani corrected. "We actually have two versions of the same music composed by Mozart. One, a sketch in Mozart’s own hand from around 1790, and the other, a melody line in a combination of two other hands from the early 1800’s. Go on.”
They thought for a moment, and then Marcus spoke up, “Well, we know the composition was composed in the mid 1700’s.”
“Good,” Dani acknowledged, “what else?”
David again, “We know one piece was transcribed by a Dr. James Cook and Thomas Jefferson, probably when Cook was a slave owned by Jefferson.”
“And Jefferson was nowhere near Mozart,” Fowler added.
“Right. Next?”
“So Jefferson didn’t learn the piece from Mozart directly,” David said.
“So how’d he hear it?” Fowler asked.
Marcus answered, “From a friend who did hear it from Mozart directly.”
“Good, you guys, you’re doing great. Now what about Henry?”
David said, “We know Henry once owned the sketch he gave me. We know he wanted it back, and we know he had Kathryn researching Mozart in the year 1778.”
Dani smiled.
David got where Dani was going. “1778. Who was in Europe in 1778?”
“Benjamin Franklin,” Dani answered.
“Benjamin Franklin?” David echoed.
“Yeah, remember I said Jefferson wasn’t in Europe until 1785? He went there to replace his friend Benjamin Franklin as Minister to France.” Dani looked at the computer screen. “Here it is, in August of 1776, Franklin was sent to Paris for the purpose of persuading France to help America in its fight for independence. Jefferson replaced him in 1785. David, do you have that itinerary Kathryn made?”
David jumped up and went to the stack of papers on the floor.
“Ben Franklin,” Marcus whispered. “Totally awesome.”
“Here it is,” David said from the floor.
"When was Mozart in Paris?" Dani asked.
David read, “Mozart left Mannheim in March and arrived in Paris at the end of the month. Anna-Marie died on July third, and Mozart left not long after.”
“So we’re only talking about three or so months in the spring of 1778.”
Fowler asked, “For what?”
“To put Franklin and Mozart together,” David answered. “Are you sure?”
Dani stood and began pacing. “Henry had Kathryn researching Mozart’s life in 1778—only that one year. I think Henry went through much of the same process we have, starting with the strong proof that your sketch, David, was written around that time. But we have the advantage of having something Henry didn’t have, another piece of music, Sugarberry’s. We know it’s also a part of the same Mozart piece no one’s ever heard—except the person, or in this case, persons who transcribed it. Those persons happened to be a freed slave who was once owned by Thomas Jefferson, and Jefferson himself. Now how did they hear it? Obviously, Cook heard it from Jefferson when he was a boy living at Monticello. But how did Jefferson hear it? We know he didn’t hear it in passing, otherwise it would be a known work, and there’d be no mystery. No, he either had to have gotten it from Mozart directly, which we know is impossible, or somebody who was in direct contact with Mozart. Fact: Franklin was in Paris at exactly the same time Mozart was in Paris, 1778—the year Henry wanted Kathryn to research. No other American of any note was anywhere near Mozart at that time. Remember, this was in the middle of the Revolutionary War. Colonists weren’t doing a lot of traveling back then.”
“So why isn’t there a record of Franklin and Mozart meeting?” Marcus asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe there is, and we just don’t know it. Or, more likely, Mozart wasn’t famous enough at that time to warrant anyone making a big deal out of it. But think about it. Franklin was a superstar in Paris. He was always around royalty and heads of state. Now I ask you, who did composers perform for? Answer: royalty and heads of state. It’s not hard to imagine Franklin meeting Mozart at one of his performances, hearing this work, and then showing it to his friend Jefferson when he showed up in Paris to replace him. Remember, Jefferson was a musician.”
“Just one problem,” David said. “If he’d heard it performed, then we and the rest of the world would know about the piece.”
Everyone was silent for a moment.
“What if,” Dani said slowly, “Mozart’s and Franklin’s relationship went beyond audience and performer? What if they actually knew each other?”
No one spoke—everyone was considering the possibility.
“What’s next?” Fowler said, breaking the silence.
“We need to go over line by line the itinerary Kathryn created. And we need to make one for Franklin. Marcus, how are you on the Internet?”
“Screen name’s buddyhackit. Whatta you think?”
Dani smiled. “Find out what you can about Franklin. There’s going to be a library of information, so just hit the highlights giving special attention to the year 1778 from say…let’s give us some room, the first six months of the year. David, you continue going over Kathryn’s notes. Let’s see if we can put these two boys together. Agent Fowler, can I call my dad?”
Fowler thought for a second. “Sure, but you can’t tell him where you are.”
“That’s fine.”
“Why your father, Dani?” David asked.
“Something about the doodles on your sketch. They’ve bugged me since you first showed it to me. I’ve seen them somewhere.”
“And your dad can help?”
Dani nodded. “Yeah, I think he can.”
Fowler was about to ask if there was anything he could do when the door opened and Agent Burns stepped into the room. He whispered into Fowler’s ear, and Fowler reacted, “Are you sure?”
The agent nodded.
Fowler tried to be nonchalant—he failed. “Folks, it looks like you have things handled, so I’m leaving for a little while. I might not be back until tonight, but I’ll check in. If you need anything, Agent Burns here will help you.”
David and Dani looked at each another. David asked, “It’s Depriest, isn’t it?”
Fowler considered for a moment before replying. As casually as he could, he said, “Yeah, it is. I’ll call you. Keep up the good work. Remember, time is not our friend.” The FBI man hurried out the door.
∙•∙
Gravel flew as Fowler spun out of the driveway and onto the main road. He didn’t see the state police cruiser parked on the side of the road, two hundred yards in the opposite direction.
“Patrol 32, do you copy?”
The officer in the car didn’t respond.
“Patrol 32, this is dispatch, what’s your twenty?”
Still there was silence.
“Patrol 32, do you—”
Victor Petrovic, wearing dark sunglasses and dressed in the green khaki uniform of a Virginia state trooper, reached over and turned off the radio.
Chapter Forty-Three
His thumbs were tied behind his back with piano wire. The end of the wire led through the index and middle finger of his right hand, under the seat, to his legs, both of which were bound to the front legs of a wooden chair. A tennis ball was cut in half and stuffed in his mouth, secured with duct tape. His right cheek was bruised, and both lenses in his glasses were shattered. Two giants in dark suits stood on either side of the black man—one was rubbing his knuckles. Jimmy stood in front of the man, biting into an apple.
The Clifton, New Jersey, warehouse was empty except for the chair and the single light bulb hanging over Winfield’s head.
“My turn.”
“No,” Jimmy said to the man who was not rubbing his knuckles.
“Awe, come on, Jimmy boy, let me have some fun.”
Jimmy took a bite and smiled as he chewed. “Okay, Lenny, just one.”
The man stepped in front of the chair and put his left hand on Winfield's shoulder. He made a fist with his right hand and drew back his elbow. Just as he was beginning to release the bomb, the screech of a metal door opening came from the back of the building. The man halted his assault and returned to his position beside the chair as the footsteps on the concrete floor neared.
“Thurman, Thurman, Thurman,” the voice crooned from the dark. “You really stepped in it this time, didn’t you, ol' boy?” Anthony Depriest walked into the light, wearing a black tuxedo. “Thurman, you look terrible. Have the boys been a little rough on you?”
Depriest glanced at one of the hulks standing beside the chair and nodded quickly. The man ripped off the tape holding the tennis ball in Winfield’s mouth. The half-ball fell to the floor, and Winfield immediately began hacking.
Anthony looked at Jimm
y. Jimmy nodded, opened a bottle of water, and poured it over Winfield’s face. Winfield desperately lapped for the liquid.
“Now then, feel better?”
Winfield dropped his head, barely able to look up at Depriest. “Why?” he asked in a raspy voice.
“Oh, I think you know why, Thurman. Did you really think you were going to pull it off? My god, man, I have to hand it to you. I thought I was the only one with an ego that inflated. I almost admire you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The impact from the back of Anthony’s hand echoed through the cavernous building. “Where is it?” Anthony said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hand.
Winfield raised his head and whispered, “I don’t know what you’re—”
Anthony struck him again. “Where’s the Mozart? Does Webber have it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Winfield mumbled.
Anthony nodded to the man Jimmy called Lenny.
Lenny wasted no time. He returned to his previous position in front of Winfield, drew back his elbow, and released a vicious blow. The chair toppled backward. Winfield groaned in agony, not so much from the punch itself but from the excruciating tension that the fall exerted on his thumb sockets.
Jimmy and the other man lifted Winfield back into place.
“Thurman, I’m not enjoying this, but you must understand, the requiem is mine. It’s ordained, if you will. So again, and remember, I have a concert tonight so I don’t have a lot of time to waste, but these men do. Where is it?”
Winfield jerked his head to keep conscious. Blood was coming from his nose and mouth. “I want to talk to the old man,” he mumbled.
“No, that’s not—”
“I want to talk to Old Nick. I’ll tell Old Nick,” Winfield shouted.
“Shut up, nigger!” Jimmy yelled, slapping him with the back of his hand.
The high voice cut through the sound of Jimmy's slap. "Enough!" Nicholas Depriestiano hobbled into the light and shoved his son out of the way. He turned to the bleeding man in the chair and stared. The old man's eyes were cold, his face expressionless. "Tell me," Old Nick said with no inflection.