The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  David and Dani looked at each other and nodded

  “But,” Henry went on, “you didn’t know about the letter to Mozart from Franklin, so how did you know to look in the fireplace? The painting alone couldn’t have told you, and I know there’s no mention of it on Trudy’s music.”

  David answered, “From the sketch, Henry. Remember all of those little doodles? Dani found that they are really Masonic symbols.”

  Henry’s mouth opened. “Well, I’ll be. I should see that music again.”

  “Petrovic took—”

  “I have it right here, Professor,” Douglas broke in.

  This garnered another leer from Fowler. Douglas handed Henry the sketch.

  “This is fascinating,” Henry said, looking through his bifocals at the sketch. “They are symbols. And now I believe I know why Mozart began a sketch to something he’d composed so many years earlier.”

  David shot a confused glance to both Dani and Kathryn. "Why?"

  The teacher addressed the student, “Davey, Franklin wrote that letter to Mozart just a little over two months before his own death. I think Wolfgang was just trying to remember the piece. Perhaps it was even his intention to perform it in honor of Franklin at some point in time.” Henry turned to Dani. “Tell me, dear, do you know what all these symbols mean?”

  “We thought so,” Dani replied, “but if you didn’t find anything—”

  “What’s this?” Henry interrupted, pointing to a symbol.

  “It’s called the all-seeing eye, and it represents God. That was the main connection I made to the painting over the mantle upstairs.”

  “Fascinating,” Henry mumbled. “And this?”

  “A sword pointing to a heart, it means justice will soon reign.”

  Henry smiled and nodded.

  David spoke, “Henry, the letters C-K-F in the bottom corner, did you—”

  “Ah, yes,” Henry uttered, “that was about the only thing I could remember from this piece. It always baffled me as to its meaning. I even scribbled it lightly in pencil on Trudy’s copy so I wouldn’t forget about it.”

  David looked at Dani. “Our third hand.”

  “This is odd,” Henry said.

  “What?” Dani asked.

  “This, it looks like a coffin.”

  “Yes, it is. We’re not sure about the meaning because it contradicts itself. The coffin symbolizes death, but the leaf on it symbolizes immortality.”

  “Hmm, very interesting,” Henry replied.

  “What are you thinking, Professor?” David asked.

  Henry looked across the room at Kathryn.

  “Kathryn,” Henry said. “You have an idea, don’t you, dear?”

  Kathryn got up, walked across the room, and took the sketch from Henry. Everyone was silent as the woman scanned the page.

  “It’s a letter,” she said, almost matter-of-factly.

  “A what?” David came back.

  Henry looked at the page again and then up at Kathryn and nodded with a smile. “Very good, very good indeed.”

  Dani unsurreptitiously nudged her way between David and Kathryn and looked at the page herself. After a moment, she saw it too. “I think you’re right.”

  It hit David last. “Of course, why didn’t I see that?”

  Henry patted him on the arm. “Because we weren’t looking until now.”

  “What?” Douglas asked. “What letter?”

  Fowler put his hand on Douglas’s shoulder. “Relax, will ya? What do you all mean a letter? I thought the sketch was a piece of music?”

  It was Kathryn who answered, “It is, and this might have started out to be a sketch to some music Mozart was trying to remember—something he’d written thirteen years earlier. But it ended up a letter—a letter in symbols.”

  “To who?” Douglas asked.

  Dani answered, “A brother mason, probably here in America—maybe even Dr. Cook’s father.”

  Henry took it up, “The letter from Franklin to Mozart would have taken weeks to reach Mozart. Once it did, Wolfy wasted little time since he knew Franklin was in his last days. You see, Mozart was nothing if not somewhat of an egomaniac, and the thought of one of his works being lost to the world forever, let alone to himself, would not be acceptable regardless if he sympathized with Franklin’s motivations or not. So he took matters in his own hands. And why not? He was a full-fledged brother of the lodge, he could still obey Franklin’s wishes—just be in control of his baby’s destiny. This is Mozart telling his brothers where to hide the symphony upon Franklin’s death.”

  All three government men looked at one another.

  “So where is it?” Douglas asked.

  The quartet ignored the blunt question and went back to the sketch. Kathryn turned to Dani. “Dani, can you start at the top and read exactly what you know each symbol means?”

  “Sure.” Dani put her finger at the top of the page. “This is the compass and the square, it’s the center piece of almost everything connected to the craft."

  "That's the greeting," Henry said.

  "This is the sword pointing to the heart, it demonstrates justice will sooner or later overtake us, and although our thoughts, words, and deeds may be hidden from the eyes of man, they are not hidden from the all-seeing eye.”

  “Referring to the injustice of slavery Franklin spoke of in the letter," Kathryn said.

  Henry added, "And though they may not live to see it, justice would prevail."

  Dani continued down the page. “This is the all-seeing eye of God. And this is the coffin, death, with the sprig of the acacia, immortality. But I don’t know what it all means when they’re together.”

  “That’s okay, dear, continue,” Henry consoled.

  “This is the nine-layer wall, it’s the symbol for the Ark of the Covenant, or a place to house the great symbols of faith. Here are the letters C-K-F, which to my knowledge, have no Masonic meaning. That’s all.” Dani didn’t notice until she stopped, but Kathryn was holding a pen and writing down what she said.

  David, on the other hand, was staring into space.

  “David,” Dani said, “you okay?”

  David took the old parchment from Dani.

  “What is it, Davey?”

  David spoke like he was speaking to himself, “What would Mozart have declared to be immortal even after death?”

  “Christ,” Kathryn answered. “He was very religious.”

  “True, but what else?”

  There was silence.

  Then Henry said, “His music.”

  Dani, Kathryn, and Henry all gathered and looked again at the sketch. It hit them all at once, but it was Dani who vocalized their collective reaction.

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Douglas asked, the question almost coming out as a shout.

  David looked at Douglas. “Does the president know about all of this?”

  Douglas shot a look around the room before he answered. “Perhaps, why?”

  Douglas’s response caused Fowler to laugh out loud.

  David smiled. “Because if you want to get your hands on this particular piece of music, you’re definitely going to need to call him.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  STREET TEMPORARILY CLOSED—CITY OF PHILADELPHIA. The barricade erected at the intersection of Arch Street and Fifth blocked both pedestrian and automobile access. The same type of barrier shut off the perimeter at ten other locations from Second to Sixth between Market and Race. The official explanation: a leak had been detected in a natural gas line running directly under the Independence National Historical Park. So at five forty-five a.m., the City of Brotherly Love's most historic area was officially evacuated and sealed off. The media was assured crews from the city's Department of Water and Power as well as a crack team from the Army Corp of Engineers were on the case, and the area would be reopened, safe and good-to-go by nine a.m. There was no immediate danger. That was the official line.

  Two men in orange vests a
nd hard hats waved the large black van through the barricade. The vehicle proceeded down Arch and pulled in behind a city utility truck. The doors flung open and eight weary people stepped out.

  After boarding the Bell helicopter at Andrews Air Force Base, Scott Douglas had suggested everyone should use the opportunity to get some sleep. None did. Regardless of fatigue, the sheer weight of what they were about to do was too heavy, the consequences too great.

  “Mr. Douglas, I presume?” asked the military man with the chiseled face.

  “Yes.”

  “General Stanley Turner, at your service.”

  No handshakes were exchanged.

  “Thank you, General,” Douglas replied. “Is the area secure?”

  “Locked down tight as a drum.”

  “Good work. Your men didn’t waste much time, did they?”

  “We were dispatched from Bragg at oh four hundred,” the old soldier replied. “We’ve been ready for you since oh six hundred.”

  “Were you instructed as to protocol?” Douglas asked.

  “It’ll look like no one was ever here,” the general answered. “Follow me.”

  Douglas looked back to the others and motioned for them to follow. Two marines stood sentry as they entered through the wrought-iron gates. “Make yourself comfortable, it’ll still be a little while,” General Turner said as the group entered the cemetery of Christ Church and the final resting-place of Benjamin Franklin.

  High-intensity halogen lights transformed dawn into high noon within the cemetery gates, and the thin whine of power tools assaulting stone reverberated throughout the courtyard. Each of their hearts pounded a little harder as one by one the group filed into the courtyard and passed the two concrete slabs to their left. One bearing Franklin’s name, the other his wife’s, Deborah.

  Dani flopped to the ground midway in and leaned against the red brick wall of the old church. Henry and Gertrude made themselves comfortable on a bench in the back of the cemetery away from the noise, and Gertrude instantly nodded off on Henry’s shoulder. David, who had not allowed Henry to stray more than a few feet from his side since leaving the house in Georgetown, found another bench close to the elderly couple. Kathryn sat beside him. Fowler, Greenfield, and Douglas remained with the general by the grave.

  “You know, Mr. Douglas,” Fowler said softly, “I was just thinking.”

  “About what, Agent Fowler?” Douglas answered, watching the progress of the work in front of him.

  “How you’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.”

  Greenfield shot a look toward his agent and then toward Douglas for the reaction. There was none.

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, Agent.” Douglas replied.

  Fowler smiled. “You know, two things have bugged me from the moment I met you and the mysterious Mr. Woo.”

  “And what would those be, Agent?”

  Fowler crossed his arms and looked straight ahead as he talked. “How did the CIA just happen to have stumbled onto that particular FBI surveillance photograph of Webber and Petrovic? We must have thousands of photos going through our office. You tellin’ me the CIA found by accident a photograph of a guy whom by its own admission was impossible to ID? No, I think they knew where to look. Which leads me to the other thing. How did an international assassin ever come to learn of a missing Mozart piece to start with?”

  Douglas remained nonchalant.

  Fowler’s smile disappeared. “You should have told us, Douglas.”

  “Told you what, Agent?”

  “That Viktor Petrovic was with the company.” Fowler opened his note pad and started reading aloud. “Real name: Major Michael Peter Sullivan, son of UCLA music professor Raymond Sullivan. Listed as killed in action in Iraq.”

  Douglas responded with only a blink, but it was a response.

  “Yeah, I know. After I learned Professor Sullivan once had a son, a little birdie told me I needed to look into it. See, I’ve been around a while too, Mr. Douglas. Also, I have friends in some very convenient places.” Fowler read again. “Major Michael Peter Sullivan, Special Forces, trained to infiltrate and eliminate specific targets. Black Ops. Discharged for mental instability. Last known whereabouts, Montana. In short, your hit man became a white supremacist. How am I doin’?”

  Douglas didn’t say a thing.

  “I’ll make the rest up, but I bet I’m pretty close. Major Sullivan is just another isolationist whacko until an African-American boy kills his mother in a botched carjacking. He goes over the edge and decides to aim higher. With skills courtesy of Uncle Sam, he can do it. He changes his name to something nice and eastern-European like Viktor Petrovic and puts himself on the open market. Oops, the company’s got a problem. A very well-trained international assassin with Made-in-America written all over him. Pretty close, aren’t I?”

  Douglas looked Fowler in the eye. “Interesting story.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” Fowler replied. “Now, I only have one question for you, and I want a straight answer. Is Major Sullivan still a problem for me, or did Mr. Woo take care of him in that cemetery back in Georgetown?”

  Douglas took a moment, licked his lips, and then turned back to the graves. “You have no further problems, Agent Fowler.”

  “The man killed his own father, for the love of God. We had a right to know.”

  Douglas sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “You know, Agent Fowler? You might be right. Oh well.”

  Fowler looked at Greenfield. “I’m getting too old for this, Bob.”

  Across the cemetery, Kathryn watched David watch Henry and Gertrude. “I don’t remember ever seeing him this happy.”

  David didn’t reply.

  “We haven’t really had a chance to talk, have we?”

  “No, I guess we haven’t,” David answered, still looking at Henry.

  “I wish—”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “I wish,” finishing her sentence, “after all these years, we would have met again under different circumstances. I feel like there’s so much to say.”

  David finally looked at the woman. “There’s nothing to say, Kathryn.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  David answered softly with no edge at all. “No, it was a long time ago.”

  “You've never thought about us?”

  David lowered his head. He started to lie and then stopped himself—he'd been lying for too many years. “Yeah, almost every day.”

  “Then—”

  “But I’ve been wrong to do so.”

  Kathryn didn’t reply.

  David continued, “Kathryn, I don’t hate you, but I did. I hated you. I hated Anthony. I hated Henry. But most of all, I hated myself.”

  “Yourself? Why would you—”

  “Because I always knew it was my fault."

  “I don’t understand.”

  David took Kathryn's hand. "Kathryn, why did it happen? Why did you start up with Anthony when we were still together?"

  Kathryn pulled her hand away. "Oh, David, I don't know—”

  "Yes, Kathryn you do know. More importantly, so do I." David let out a long breath and looked over at Henry and Gertrude. "I was not a very nice person, was I? Certainly not what anyone would call attentive. No, it has always been about me, my career, my life, my…" David stopped and looked back at Kathryn. "If it hadn't been Anthony, it would have been someone else, eventually. I'd have made sure of it.”

  “What I did was childish rebellion. And I paid for it. You weren’t—”

  “Kathryn, I was. And I've paid for it.” David looked off. “I never appreciated what I had—you, Henry, all the award and accolades. You know why? Because from the time my parents were killed, I thought the world owed me something, some sort of reimbursement. But you know what I finally understand? The world doesn't owe me a thing. It doesn't owe anybody anything. Bad things happen—that's life. I asked for the life I've lived these past twelve years. I'm to blame, not the world, and certainly not you o
r Henry. But I think I can forgive myself now. I don’t have to be that way anymore.”

  Kathryn squeezed his hand. What she wanted to say, she wouldn’t. What she wanted to do, she couldn’t. So she just smiled. “You’re a good man, David.”

  Both were silent for a moment.

  Kathryn looked over to Dani, who had her eyes shut. “Do you love her?”

  David didn’t reply immediately. “I think so.”

  Kathryn’s forced a smile. “I like her a lot.”

  David looked at Kathryn, the woman who, even though not in his life, had been so much a part of his life for so long.

  “I’m sorry about Anthony,” David said.

  “Really?”

  He grinned. "Yeah, really. He and I aren't all that different.”

  Kathryn shook her head. "Yes, you are."

  David smiled. “So what will you do?”

  Kathryn sighed. “I don’t know. It’s been so long since it’s been only me, I might like it. Maybe I’ll go back to school, finish my master's. I seem to still have a knack for the research thing. Who knows? Maybe Dani can get me a job at the Smithsonian.”

  David chuckled. “You? Working? That’ll be the day.”

  “Hey,” Kathryn protested, slapping David’s arm. “I used to work. Or have you forgotten those all-nighters at Henry’s?”

  David looked in Kathryn’s eyes for a long moment before answering. “No, I haven’t forgotten. And I never will.”

  Kathryn’s eyes filled with tears, but the smile never faded. She leaned over and gently kissed him on the cheek. But as Kathryn pulled back, David caught Fowler out of the corner of his eye approaching quickly.

  “They’re bringing up the casket.”

  They set the decayed black box on a steel grate beside the broken earth. It was wooden and small, very small. One soldier reached over and brushed away the loose dirt atop the lid. In gold leaf all read the simple words, ”Rest In Peace—Benjamin Franklin.” Below were the letters, CCC.