by Phil Swann
David saw it immediately. “CCC, I’ll be damned. It was there all along.”
“What, Davey?” Henry asked softly.
“CCC, Christ Church Cemetery. In German it’s Christus Kirche Friedhof—C-K-F.”
Henry looked at the letters and shook his head. “Well, I’ll be.”
Another man, this one not in uniform, stepped up and began circling the casket with a metal detector. “General, we only have two latches on this side. I suggest we use the plasma to burn through the seal. It’ll be cleaner.”
“Carry on,” the general ordered.
The plasma torch was handed to the man. A soft hum emitted from the instrument as the man squeezed the trigger. It took less than a minute. The man looked up to his superior and nodded.
General Turner turned to Douglas.
“Do it,” Douglas ordered.
The three women huddled together, Gertrude in the middle of the two younger ones. Henry and David approached the open coffin. Henry looked in and then looked back at David. David tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. Then, his hand shaking, David reached into the coffin and withdrew a folded cloth. He gently unfolded the cloth and found it was an apron, rectangular with strings on each side. The Masonic symbol of the compass and the square was embroidered in red above a pocket. The pocket was not empty. David pulled out a tightly rolled parchment. Henry held the top of the parchment as David unrolled it. Both men stared at the paper.
“Well?” Douglas asked.
David looked at Henry. Henry looked at David. They both smiled.
Douglas raised his phone. “Mr. President, we have it.”
»»•««
Pretty described the young and effeminate blond male who stepped off the elevator on the top floor of the Grand Hyatt Hong Kong. He walked to the end of the hall and pushed the buzzer. A North Korean soldier opened the door.
“Enter,” the soldier ordered.
He walked in.
“Raise your arms.”
He did as he was instructed.
The soldier ran his hands down the young man’s body and over each leg.
“Shoes—off.”
The sneakers came off.
After inspecting each shoe, the soldier walked to the door and turned down the light. “Undress, the general will be in momentarily.”
Alone, the boy/man took off his jeans and shirt and stood naked in the middle of the suite. After a moment, the bedroom door opened. A husky Asian man, roughly sixty-five years old, stood in the doorframe wearing only a black robe. He gazed at the figure in front of him and smiled.
“Come here,” he ordered.
The boy approached.
General Kim Chul ran his hands down the muscular ivory body. “Nice,” he whispered, dropping his robe and falling to his knees.
The young man wasted no time. With one hand on the general’s head, he reached around his back and withdrew a syringe from between his buttocks. He jabbed the needle into the back of the North Korean’s neck. The general only had time to look up in horror before falling to the floor.
General Kim Chul was dead.
Victor Petrovic picked up the man’s lifeless body and dropped it on the bed. He dressed, sat down in a chair, and waited. After a suitable amount of time, he got up and opened the door to the hallway. As he suspected, the soldier was standing guard.
“General Hotcakes told me to tell you he didn’t want to be disturbed. Personally, I think he’s very disturbed, if you know what I mean,” Petrovic cooed, heading toward the elevator, rubbing his crotch.
The soldier didn’t conceal his disgust. But he did not enter the suite.
Petrovic got off the elevator on the third floor and went directly to Room 300.
“Done?” Conrad Woo asked from a chair as Petrovic walked in.
“Of course,” Petrovic answered, pulling off the blond wig. “There’s one less chink in the world tonight. Doesn’t that just warm you all over?”
Woo didn’t respond.
“So tell me, Conrad, why did I just kill that old man?”
Woo remained expressionless. “Do you care?”
Petrovic thought for a second and then shrugged. “No.”
Woo nodded.
“However,” Petrovic added, taking off his jeans and putting on a pair of black trousers, “I do care a great deal about something else.”
Woo, never taking his eyes off the assassin, picked up a cell phone and dialed. The call was answered immediately. “Complete the transaction.” Woo ended the call and tossed the phone to Petrovic.
Petrovic punched in another number. This call too was answered quickly. “Account two-three-zebra-seven-alpha. I’ll wait.”
Both men were silent.
“Could you repeat that figure, please? Yes, that’s correct. Thank you.”
Petrovic closed the phone and tossed it back to Woo with a smile.
“Satisfied?” Woo asked.
“You know,” Petrovic said, putting on a white button-down, “we wouldn’t have had to go through all of that ridiculousness back home if you guys had just met my price when I asked for it. I mean really, Connie, what do I care about a stupid old piece of music?”
Woo got up and spoke as he headed for the door. “Tell me, what’s it like to kill your own father?”
Petrovic looked in the mirror as he wrapped a silk tie around his neck. “Hmm, interesting. But not real different than killing an old communist queen.”
Woo looked at the man for a long moment and then opened the door. “Michael, stay off of US soil. Otherwise, I just might have to kill you myself.”
Petrovic smiled as he straightened his tie. “In your dreams, Connie, in your dreams. Besides, you guys would miss me.”
Woo turned and left, letting the door slam behind him.
“By the way,” the now proper looking businessman yelled with a German accent, “the names Viktor. Viktor Petrovic. Don’t forget it.”
Epilogue
Washington, DC—July 4th
Pandemonium. Hundreds of men, women, and children pushed, pulled, and bartered their way for a better vantage point along the red-carpet entrance to the Kennedy Center. One by one, limousines delivered celebrities from every sphere of show business, politicians from every party, and religious leaders from every faith. Lights and camera crews were everywhere. NBC, ABC, CBS, FOX, MSNBC, and CNN were all carrying the extravaganza live. Both ShowTime and Pay-Per-View made a run at buying the exclusive rights to air the concert but were denied. The weeks leading up to the night had been a constant barrage of anything having to do with Mozart and Franklin; interviews with leading musicologists, an endless montage of biographies, and countless round table discussions on the political and historical significance of the lost symphony.
The scene backstage, though much more subdued, was still electric. Henry wore a smart black tuxedo with a continental style lapel. His wife, Gertrude, was quietly elegant in a light-violet tea dress with matching satin shoes. Both stood calmly and listened to Dani, who hadn’t stopped talking since they arrived. “I know he’ll do fine. Great, I predict. Oh, I hope he does okay. Henry, will he do okay? I mean, did he used to get stage fright? He said he didn’t, but it’s been so long. He says he knows the piece, but I haven’t heard him play it yet. He wouldn’t let me. He’s been practicing at the university six hours a day for the past two weeks. I know he’ll do okay. Oh God, I think I’m hyperventilating.”
Henry tried his best not to laugh but couldn’t stop himself. “Dear,” Henry said, taking the insane girl’s hand, “Davey will perform wonderfully.”
Dani wore a strapless, cream-colored gown that just touched the floor. Accessories were sparse—a simple silver cross around her neck and a single silver bracelet around her wrist. Her lips were softly colored, cheeks delicately blushed, and her chestnut hair was pulled back, allowing her hazel eyes to sparkle and her smile to catapult across a room. She took a calming breath. “Where’s Kathryn? I need to tell her I spoke to
Wilbur Wallace, and he’s interested in bringing her on board as a researcher.”
“She’s taken her seat,” Henry answered. “She’s here with some male model, Phillip something-or-other. I swear he couldn’t be more than eighteen.”
Dani looked around. “What’s taking him so long?”
The question was no sooner asked than David emerged from his dressing room wearing white tie and tails.
“Oh, Mr. Webber,” Dani breathed. “You look amazing.”
David smiled. “Thank you, Dr. Parsons.”
David pulled her near and passionately pressed his lips to hers.
“Oh, get a room, luv.”
David pulled back and looked over Dani’s shoulder. J.P. and Paul Rogers were approaching, holding hands.
“Good lord, J.P., what’s this?” David asked with pretend annoyance at the sight of her and Paul together.
Paul extended his hand. “What can I say, old boy, she’s great medicine.”
“Oh, she’s a pill all right,” David replied, kissing J.P. on the cheek.
Dani gently wrapped her arms around Paul. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Doctors say I’ll be a hundred percent in a month.”
Dani smiled.
“Listen, David, we need to talk.” J.P. pulled David aside. “I’ve been talking to the producer of this concert tonight. He told me he would be interested in taking this show on the road. Chicago, Atlanta, San Francisco, he’s even talking the Bowl. I told him we’d sit down with him tomorrow to discuss terms. Also, get this, The Tonight Show called. I told them—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jeep,” David said, holding up his hands. “Hey, I’m glad you’re feeling better, but…honey, I can’t think about all that right now.”
“For heaven sakes, luv, why not?”
David chuckled. “Well, for one, I have to play the biggest concert of my life in about five minutes. And two, I haven’t decided what I want to do after this.”
“Are you kidding? You’ll play. What could be more important than that?”
David looked over at the picture a few feet away. Henry, Gertrude, Paul, and Dani were holding hands as Gertrude offered a prayer. He smiled. “That.”
J.P. looked at the four people and then looked back at David. She nodded and smiled too. “You know, luv,” she said, her voice getting much softer, “I think I’m getting tired of L.A. Maybe it’s time for a change of scenery.”
“Like DC, maybe?”
J.P. raised an eyebrow and blew David a kiss as she walked away with Paul.
“Places, ladies and gentlemen,” the stage manager announced.
The orchestra began filing onto the stage and taking their seats. Dani walked over to David and kissed him on the lips. “Nervous?”
“No. Petrified.”
“I don’t know if this will help, but I just wanted to tell you something,” she said, straightening his tie.
“What?”
She stopped and looked into his eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” David whispered back.
The stage manager interrupted with a tap on David’s back. “Mr. Webber, excuse me, sir, but I need you stage right with me.”
Dani gave David another kiss, smiled, and backed up. “Don’t screw up.”
As the orchestra began to tune, David stood alone in the wings, rolling the fingers on his left hand. He looked at his hand. There had been no miracles—there was still discomfort between his ring and little finger, but it was manageable.
“Davey?”
David turned around. “Henry, you should be in your seat. The concert is about to—”
“I know. I’m going right now. I just wanted to say…I’m proud of you.”
David’s eyes filled, and his throat got tight. He could only nod in reply.
“You play well now, okay?”
David shook his head and smiled. “Okay, professor.”
Henry turned and began to walk away when David called out, “Henry.”
The old man turned around.
“This is a long way from Mr. Ramsey’s in South Bend, isn’t it?”
Henry's eyes glistened, and he smiled, “Yes, Davey, a very long way.” He turned to leave again.
“Dad.”
The old man stopped and turned.
“I love you.”
Professor Henry Shoewalter raised his chin. It took two tries before he could get the words to come out. “I love you too, son. Now go play well.”
The audience rose and applauded enthusiastically as President Hartley and the first lady entered the presidential box and took their seats. The house lights went down, and the curtain rose on a huge American flag hanging behind the orchestra, bringing the audience to their feet once more.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the low voice announced, “the conductor of the National Symphony, Maestro Hugo Corrine.”
The audience offered a generous ovation as a bald, stocky man entered from stage left, bowed, and took his place at the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, featured soloist, David Henry Webber.”
Again the audience applauded ebulliently as David entered from stage right. He bowed with his head, shook the maestro's hand, and took his seat at the nine-foot Steinway.
A hush fell over the audience as Corrine raised his arms. Then with a swift downward thrust, the Kennedy Center erupted, and history was made.
If sound could be a color, it would have been bright red. If an emotion, it would have been pure joy. If weather, this surely would have been a hurricane. The audience quickly became hypnotized as they were taken on a journey into genius. Those present would later say their very breathing changed as they listened. Others would confess that what they heard was so new and unknown they actually became frightened, while still others would swear, on that summer evening in Washington, DC, God had been revealed in the tension and release of a masterpiece.
About the Author
Phil Swann’s career has spanned over thirty years as an award winning performer, songwriter, and author. As well as having songs recorded by hundreds of recording artists, Swann is the composer of nine musicals, including Play It Cool, The People Vs Friar Laurence, and Musical Fools. As an author, his work includes The Song of Eleusis and The Mozart Conspiracy (published in Italy as Il Codice Amadeus). Phil lives in LA where he teaches the art and craft of songwriting at UCLA and the Los Angeles College of Music.
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