EXCERPT

PART I: The Chopin Manuscript

CHAPTER 1
JEFFERY DEAVER

The piano tuner ran through ascending chords, enjoying the resistance of the heavy ivory keys. His balding head was bent forward, his eyes closed as he listened. The notes rose to the darkened ceiling of the recital hall near Warsaw’s Old Market Square, then dissipated like smoke.

Satisfied with his work, the tuner replaced the temperament strips and his well-worn extension-tuning lever in their velvet case and indulged himself by playing a few minutes of Mozart, A Little Night Music, an ebullient piece that was one of his favorites.

Just as he concluded, the crisp sound of clapping palms echoed behind him and he spun around. Twenty feet away stood a man nodding and smiling.

Stocky, with a flop of brown hair, broad of face. Southern Slavic, the tuner thought. He’d traveled in Yugoslavia many years ago.

“Lovely. Ah, my. So beautiful. Do you speak English?” the man asked with a thick accent.

“I do.”

“Are you a performer here? You must be. You are so talented.”

“Me? No, I simply tune pianos. But a tuner must know his way about the keyboard too . . . Can I help you, sir? The recital hall is closed.”

“Still, such a passion for music. I could hear it. Have you never desired to perform?”

The piano tuner didn’t particularly care to talk about himself, but he could discuss music all night long. He was, in addition to being perhaps the best piano tuner in Warsaw if not all of central Poland, an avid collector of recordings and original music manuscripts. If he’d had the means, he would collect instruments too. He had once played a Chopin polonaise at the very keyboard the composer had used; he considered it one of the highpoints of his life.

“I used to. But only in my youth.” He told the man of his sweep through Eastern Europe with the Warsaw Youth Orchestra, with which he’d been second-chair cello.

He stared at the man, who in turn was examining the piano. “As I say, the hall is closed. But perhaps you’re looking for someone?”

“I am, yes.” The Slav walked closer and looked down. “Ah, a Bosendorfer. One of Germany’s great contributions to culture.”

	EXCERPT PART I: The Chopin Manuscript CHAPTER 1 JEFFERY DEAVER The piano tuner ran through ascending chords, enjoying the resistance of the heavy ivory keys. His balding head was bent forward, his eyes closed as he listened. The notes rose to the darkened ceiling of the recital hall near Warsaw’s Old Market Square, then dissipated like smoke. Satisfied with his work, the tuner replaced the temperament strips and his well-worn extension-tuning lever in their velvet case and indulged himself by playing a few minutes of Mozart, A Little Night Music, an ebullient piece that was one of his favorites. Just as he concluded, the crisp sound of clapping palms echoed behind him and he spun around. Twenty feet away stood a man nodding and smiling. Stocky, with a flop of brown hair, broad of face. Southern Slavic, the tuner thought. He’d traveled in Yugoslavia many years ago. “Lovely. Ah, my. So beautiful. Do you speak English?” the man asked with a thick accent. “I do.” “Are you a performer here? You must be. You are so talented.” “Me? No, I simply tune pianos. But a tuner must know his way about the keyboard too . . . Can I help you, sir? The recital hall is closed.” “Still, such a passion for music. I could hear it. Have you never desired to perform?” The piano tuner didn’t particularly care to talk about himself, but he could discuss music all night long. He was, in addition to being perhaps the best piano tuner in Warsaw if not all of central Poland, an avid collector of recordings and original music manuscripts. If he’d had the means, he would collect instruments too. He had once played a Chopin polonaise at the very keyboard the composer had used; he considered it one of the highpoints of his life. “I used to. But only in my youth.” He told the man of his sweep through Eastern Europe with the Warsaw Youth Orchestra, with which he’d been second-chair cello. He stared at the man, who in turn was examining the piano. “As I say, the hall is closed. But perhaps you’re looking for someone?” “I am, yes.” The Slav walked closer and looked down. “Ah, a Bosendorfer. One of Germany’s great contributions to culture.” Next
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