The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  Winfield waited before he spoke, "How do I know you won't kill me?”

  "Young man, I'm going to kill you either way. The only thing you should be concerned with is if I do it quick and easy, or slow and painful."

  Winfield looked in the old man’s eyes. “You can’t kill me.”

  “And why not?” Old Nick responded.

  “My company—for distribution—I know what you’re planning to do. You need me for the laundering operation to work.”

  Old Nick stared blankly at Winfield. If he was surprised by Winfield’s knowledge, he didn’t show it. After a moment, a wide grin spread across Depriestiano’s face. Then he broke into a hideous high-pitched cackle. Jimmy joined his father and started laughing as well.

  Anthony didn’t even break a smile. “Where is it, you son of a bitch?”

  Old Nick said, “Start with his fingers. If he still refuses to talk, kill him.”

  Anthony broke in, “No, he has to tell us.”

  “Nobody does to me what he has done and lives. The Mozart is secondary—reputation is everything. I’m sure you understand that, Mr. Winfield?”

  “No, Uncle, we—”

  “I’ve spoken, Tony,” the old man snapped back.

  Old Nick looked at Lenny and nodded. Lenny reached around the back of the chair, untied the wire, and wrestled Winfield’s right hand onto the arm of the chair. The other man took something from his pocket. Winfield watched as the man flicked his wrist, releasing the steel blade from its case.

  “For god sake, man, tell us where it is,” Anthony pleaded with Winfield.

  Winfield’s head shook, and his breathing became faster as the man brought the blade to the top of his hand.

  “Now,” Old Nick spit, “last chance. Where is it?”

  Winfield’s eyes widened as he felt the sharp edge of the blade break the skin of his little finger above the knuckle.

  No one saw it coming. Fowler’s invasion was quick and precise. “Drop the knife!” Fowler ordered as he came into the light. The man with the knife looked up to see Fowler’s 9mm aimed at his skull. He dropped the knife by reflex.

  “Who the hell are—” Old Nick’s thin voice screamed.

  “Nicholas Depriestiano? Agent Thomas Fowler, FBI,” Fowler said as a team of federal agents appeared from nowhere. “You okay, Rick?”

  The man the Depriestiano’s knew as Thurman Winfield nodded as agents started freeing him from the chair.

  “Sorry we took so long, but we had to wait for Old Nick here to make his play. Nicholas Depriestiano, it is my pleasure to tell you that you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you give up this right, anything you say can and, may I add, most assuredly will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”

  Anthony went white as the cuffs clicked shut around his wrists. “This is a mistake. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Anthony Depriest. I have a concert tonight. Take these off of me. I’m famous. I know the mayor.”

  “Sir, do you understand your rights?” Fowler asked Old Nick again.

  Old Nick watched as Jimmy and the two men were led away. He glared down at the African-American whose wounds were being tended to by another agent. “He with you?”

  “Oh yeah,” Fowler answered. “Say hello to special agent Richard Ballard.”

  Old Nick kept a tight face and nodded. He looked at Anthony, whose babble had turned into pleading. “I’m not supposed to be here. This is a mistake.”

  “Shut up!” Old Nick yelled. “You’re as pitiful as your worthless father.” Depriestiano turned to Fowler. “Get me out of here.”

  “Agent,” Fowler said to the man handling Anthony, “would you escort Mr. Depriestiano out to the car? I need a moment with that one.”

  “Sure thing. Right this way, Mr. Depriestiano.”

  As Old Nick was led out, Fowler approached Anthony.

  “Can you help me? This is a mistake,” Anthony pleaded again.

  “It’s not a mistake, son,” Fowler replied. “As I heard you say just a few minutes ago, you really stepped in it this time.”

  Anthony hung his head. “What can I do?”

  Fowler shook his head. “That’s between you and the federal prosecutor.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I made a promise I need to keep. Ms. Depriest?”

  Kathryn stepped from the darkness. Her eyes were dry, her face serene. She walked to within inches of Anthony and stared into his eyes.

  “Darling,” Anthony began again, “this is a big—”

  The slap echoed through the building. “Anthony,” Kathryn said, “I want a divorce.”

  »»•««

  “How bad is it for him?” Kathryn asked as Fowler opened her car door.

  “It depends on how much he knows about his uncle’s operation. If he has information, the prosecutor will deal. If Anthony's smart, he'll talk. Lord knows, Jimmy's already singing like Sinatra. He's not saying a word, though, about Daddy. That could be Anthony's good luck. He wasn't in too deep up until tonight. All he was really guilty of was some minor racketeering and being a jerk. But tonight, he was party to assault, torture, and the attempted homicide of a federal agent—that’s pretty bad stuff.”

  Kathryn stared out the window and nodded.

  “Where can I take you?”

  Kathryn desperately looked at the agent. “How about to DC with you?”

  Fowler didn’t answer.

  “I can help. Please, I need to get out of New York.”

  “Ms. Depriest, I don’t think it would be a good idea—”

  “I’ve found something that David and Dani don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “A piece of music. Anthony had it in his safe. Henry sent it to me, but Anthony intercepted it, and I never saw it. Mr. Fowler, I know it's a Mozart.”

  Fowler looked back at Kathryn. Every inch of her beautiful face was pleading. “Do you have it with you?”

  Kathryn nodded and withdrew the photocopy from her purse.

  Fowler looked at the music and then closed his eyes. "I knew it. That son of a bitch," he uttered over a long sigh.

  "Who? Anthony?"

  "No, another son of a bitch," Fowler answered. He retrieved his cell phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialed. David answered on the third ring. “David?’ Fowler said surprised. “Where’s Agent Burns? Why didn’t he answer?”

  “He just got called from outside by one of the other agents.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. They said there was a state policeman at the front gate who was looking for somebody or something…I don’t really know what the story was—it’s nothing, really—how’s the situation up there?”

  “Complete. I’m heading back to DC. How's the work going?”

  “I think we’re onto something. It’s pretty weird, but we might have found the link between Mozart and Franklin, and maybe more.”

  "Like what?"

  "I'll wait 'til you get here. It's too bizarre to go into."

  “Did Dr. Parsons talk to her father?”

  “Yeah," David replied. "That’s part of it. She’s with Marcus right now in the garage. She turned up some new info on Dr. Cook, and she’s checking it against Marcus’s info on Franklin. She’s really something, instincts of a bloodhound.”

  “That’s her job. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I just finished Kathryn’s notes. Like I said, I think we've got something, but we need to put it all together.” There was a pause. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. Listen David, Kathryn found something. It’s a piece of music Anthony Depriest had in his safe that was Henry’s. It's a photocopy of the Sugarberry piece."

  "What?" David responded.

  "Yeah."

  "How did Henry get—”

  Fowler interrupted, "I can't explain right now, but I think I know. David, Kathryn wants to bring it down herself for you and Dr. Parsons to go over.” />
  There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line.

  “David, are you there?”

  “Yeah, that’d be fine. Mr. Fowler, are you sure it—”

  “Yeah, I'm sure. Even an old third chair trombone player like me can tell it's the same. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  Fowler turned off the phone and looked at Kathryn. “We don’t have time to stop and get any of your clothes.”

  Kathryn smiled. “That’s fine.”

  Fowler returned the smile and turned the phone back on.

  “Bob, it’s Tom, we got him. Old Nick is in the cage. And you’re going to love the tape. Agent Ballard was brilliant and—” Greenfield interrupted.

  As Fowler listened to the assistant director, his smile faded. Fowler, with phone still in hand, turned on the car and spun out of the parking lot.

  “Bob, get every man you can over to the house right now. And call Alexandria PD. He’s there. Petrovic is there. Jesus Christ, I’m on my way.”

  Fowler turned off the phone and redialed the number to the house in Alexandria. One ring, two rings, three rings, four rings. Fowler let the phone ring twelve times, but there was no answer. He cursed as he threw the phone on the floor and swung the car onto the New Jersey Turnpike en route to Newark airport.

  “What?” Kathryn asked, fastening her seatbelt.

  “A Virginia state trooper was just found on the outskirts of Alexandria with his throat cut.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  It was dark by the time Fowler turned off the main road and into the driveway of the safe house. Kathryn held onto the dashboard as the FBI man gunned the car over the gravel. He was frustrated, irritated, and flat-out worried to death. Not only for the safety of David, Dani, and Marcus, but for the past hour and a half, Greenfield hadn’t answered his cell phone.

  Fowler slid the car to a stop in front of the house. With gun in hand, he leaped from the car, ordering Kathryn to stay put. He was halfway up the steps to the house when Bob Greenfield opened the front door.

  "Bob,” Fowler yelled, lowering his gun, “what the hell's going—"

  “Turn off your cell phone," Greenfield interrupted, his voice low and short.

  "Where's Webber and—”

  "Gone," Greenfield snapped back. “They’re all gone. Turn off your cell phone, that's an order.” He called out to Kathryn. “Ms. Depriest, do you have your cell phone with you?"

  "No," Kathryn replied, jumping from the car.

  “Bob, what—” that was as far as Fowler got before Greenfield turned and stomped back into the house.

  Fowler turned off his phone as instructed, and he and Kathryn followed.

  The assistant director spoke as the three made their way toward the rear of the house. “The assault was nauseatingly simple. Agent Burns, shot in the head, dead at the scene. Agent Grimes, shot in the head, dead at the scene. Anderson, Williams, Gardiner, all shot once in the head at nearly point blank range—Anderson and Williams, dead at the scene. Gardiner’s in a coma.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Fowler responded under his breath.

  Greenfield continued, “All the agents were found within yards of each other midway down the drive. Petrovic apparently was lying in wait, allowing his victims to come to him, lambs to slaughter. The fact all the agents’ firearms remained holstered suggests each approached without hesitation. No struggle, no breach of our so-called high-tech security system, and of course, no sign whatsoever of Webber, Parsons, or Marcus Burg.”

  “No,” Kathryn whimpered.

  “Alexandria police found her,” Greenfield went on, leading Fowler and Kathryn into the makeshift office. “Thank God the patrolman who was first on the scene was ex-military with a background in demolitions. This is Agent Morris of the anti-terrorist division.” Greenfield pointed to the middle-aged man wearing a headset and sitting in front of a TV monitor. “This is what we’ve got.”

  Fowler and Kathryn looked over the agent’s head at the monitor sitting on the table beside the computers Dani and David had been working on.

  “What are we looking at?” Fowler asked.

  “The garage where Mr. Burg was working,” Greenfield answered.

  Fowler got closer to the screen. The image was in color but jerking erratically. It took him a moment to make it out, but once he did, he understood everything—why the outside of the house was deserted and why Greenfield wasn’t answering his cell phone.

  J.P. was unconscious. She sat in a chair with her head down, chin on her chest. Around her torso was strapped a vest of dynamite. Attached to the dynamite with primer cord was a cell phone—and the phone was on.

  »»•««

  It looked different in the dark—without form, a cold mass filling an empty void, a gigantic shadow cast upon an even larger shadow. The lush lawn, the floral landscape, the canopy of trees, all hidden by the night and anointed banal by the situation.

  Single file, Dani led the way up the cobblestone path to the house atop Georgetown Heights, the house of Gertrude Sugarberry. Marcus followed close behind, then David, who held a bloodied cloth to his brow. Petrovic brought up the rear, still in the uniform of a Virginia state trooper, a gun in his holster and one in his hand pointed at David's back. In his other hand, he carried a cell phone.

  The hostages were silent. Few words had been uttered by any of them since David had entered the garage in Alexandria and found the phony officer holding a gun on Dani and Marcus. He held it together until he saw J.P. Then he erupted into insanity. Dani’s pleading scream went unheeded. David flew into a blind rage, ignoring the assassin’s weapon and lunging for the man’s throat, shouting, “Bowen, you son of a bitch!” The attack was met with a swift blow to David’s head with the butt of a pistol. After that the rules were simple. Talking was forbidden unless it was in reply to a direct question, punishment for disobedience was execution and death to J.P.

  Dani reached the porch and stood motionless at the front door.

  “Why are you stopping?” Petrovic demanded.

  “It’s locked," Dani replied in a monotone, refusing to look at the man.

  Petrovic’s eyes stayed fixed on the three as he walked up to the door. Without a moment of hesitation, he withdrew a black cylinder from his pocket and attached it to the barrel of the weapon. One shot was all it took for the doorknob to be completely obliterated. Petrovic shoved Dani into the dark foyer and motioned with his gun for the others to follow.

  “Which way?” Petrovic asked, standing in the doorframe.

  Even in the dim light, David could see the look of defiance in Dani’s eyes.

  Petrovic held up the phone. “Dr. Parsons, the only way for you to save her is for you to complete your task successfully. Now where is it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” David said. “Regardless if we find it or not, you could care less if J.P. lives or dies, you sick bastard.”

  "You willing to bet Jeep’s life on it?” Petrovic started dialing.

  “No,” Dani shouted.

  Petrovic stopped and smiled.

  David stared at the man he once knew as Bowen. The person he actually felt lucky to have on his side. The feeling was overwhelming. He was scared, yes, but not nearly as scared as he was filled with pure hatred, hatred like he’d never felt before—all-consuming hatred. He wanted to kill this man as much as he wanted to take his next breath.

  »»•««

  “It’s pretty basic, sir,” the calm voice said over the small speaker placed beside the monitor so all could hear.

  “What have you got, Kosik?” Morris asked, looking at the monitor.

  “Triple threat, sir. Chair moves, she moves, phone rings, result’s the same. Good news is the link starts with the phone. It’s a simple hot and ground connection. He must have been in a hurry.”

  “Kosik, can you get to it?” Morris asked.

  “Affirmative, sir, give me a moment.”

  Everyone froze as they watched the gloved hands of the specialist inser
t needle-nose wire cutters into the open back of the cell phone. A moment seemed like eternity.

  “That’s it,” the voice said over the speaker. “Baby’s dead.”

  Fowler let out a breath, and Kathryn put her face in her hands. Greenfield immediately issued orders to the other agents in the room. “Get in there.”

  Fowler turned and stomped out of the room.

  “Tom, where you going?”

  "To the garage," Fowler mumbled over his shoulder.

  »»•««

  “Okay, I’m tired of these games,” Petrovic shouted, pointing the gun at Marcus’s head. “Last time, which way?”

  Marcus closed his eyes and stiffened. “Oh man.”

  “No, it's this way,” Dani said.

  Dani walked from the foyer into the living room where Sugarberry had received her. “It’s over there.”

  Everyone’s eyes focused on the painting above the mantle.

  “Behind the picture?” Petrovic asked.

  “No, not the picture, the fireplace,” Dani corrected.

  Petrovic walked in front of Dani, held up the cell phone, and put his face within centimeters of hers—their noses actually touched. “Behind the fireplace?”

  Dani didn’t move from her position. “Not behind it, in it.”

  The assassin’s eyes remained locked on Dani as he backed away. It wasn’t until he finally turned to the fireplace that Dani released a held breath. They all watched as Petrovic walked over to the fireplace and ran his hand over the mantle. He looked at the painting above and then down at the hearth. “In it,” he mumbled to himself. He swung his bag off his shoulder and retrieved a parchment. He opened the article, studied it briefly, and then glanced at the fireplace once again. He turned back to all in the room and over an insane chuckle whispered, “In it? Yes, I see, in it,” nodding his head as a broad smile swept across his face. “I understand,” his whisper turning to a shout. “It’s in it.”

  »»•««

  Fowler, Greenfield and Kathryn waited as EMS rolled Jean Ann Peterson on a gurney out of the garage. The three entered, and Fowler quickly looked around the room. He saw what he was expecting to see—nothing, not so much as a scrap of Dani’s, David’s, or Marcus’s research. He fell into Marcus’s swivel chair, leaned back, and rubbed his eyes.