Edgar Drake played, and there was a crack of gunfire and a splash, and another, and another. And only then did he open his eyes, to see two of his companions floating in the water, and the third, faceup, silent on the deck of the raft.

He stood at the piano, the raft spinning lazily from the force of the fallen bodies. The river was quiet; he did not know from where the shots had been fired. Trees on the bank rustled slightly in the wind. Rain clouds drifted slowly through the sky. A parrot called, and flew off from the opposite bank. Edgar’s fingers remained still, suspended above the keys.

And then, from the right bank, a rustling, and a pair of dugouts pushed off from the shore, making their way steadily downstream to the raft. The piano tuner, who did not know how to control the raft, could do nothing but wait, stunned, as if he too had been shot.

The current was slow, and the dugouts gained on him. Each dugout held two men. When they were about a hundred yards away, Edgar saw they were Burman, and that they wore Indian Army uniforms.

The men said nothing as their dugouts pulled alongside him. One man from each dugout climbed out onto the logs. The arrest was swift, Edgar didn’t protest, but only lowered the key cover over the keys. A rope was tied from the dugouts to the raft, and they paddled to shore.

They were met on the bank by a Burman and two Indians, who escorted Edgar up a long path to a small clearing of guardhouses, above which flew a British flag. They walked to a small bamboo hut and opened the door. There was a chair in the center of the room. “Sit,” said one of the Indians. Edgar sat. The men left, closing the door. Light shone through the slats in the bamboo. Outside, two men stood guard. There were footsteps, the door opened, and in walked a British lieutenant.

Edgar rose to his feet. “Lieutenant, what is happening?”

“Sit down, Mr. Drake.” The man’s voice was severe. He wore a freshly pressed uniform, its angles sharp and starched.

“Lieutenant, those boys were shot. What—”

“I said sit down, Mr. Drake.”

“You don’t understand—there has been some dreadful error.”

“This is the last time I will ask you.” “I—”

“Mr. Drake.” The Lieutenant took a step forward.

Edgar stared him in the eyes. “I demand to know what is going on.” He felt anger rising, replacing shock.

“I am asking you to sit down.”

“And I won’t. Until you tell me why I am here. You have no right to command me.”

“Mr. Drake.”

The blow was swift, and Edgar could hear the crack of the man’s hand as it crashed across his face. He fell back in his chair. His hands rose to his throbbing temple, sticky with blood.

The Lieutenant said nothing, but only eyed Edgar warily. The tuner nursed his cheek and stared back. The Lieutenant pulled a chair out of the shadows. He sat facing Edgar and waited.

Finally he spoke. “Edgar Drake, you are under military arrest by order of army headquarters in Mandalay. Within these papers are recorded the nature of your crimes.” He lifted a stack of folders from his lap. “You will be held here until an escort arrives from Yawnghwe. From there you will be taken to Mandalay, and then to Rangoon for trial.”

Edgar shook his head. “This must be a mistake.”

“Mr. Drake, I have not given you permission to speak.”

“I need no permission.” He rose again from his chair, and the Lieutenant rose as well. They faced each other.

“I—” Edgar was cut short by another blow. His glasses fell. He stumbled back, almost knocking over the chair. He held on to it for support.

“Mr. Drake, this will be much easier if you cooperate.”

Shaking, Edgar reached down and picked up his glasses and put them back on. He stared through them with incredulity. “You have just murdered my friends. You strike me, and you request cooperation? I am in the service of Her Majesty.”

“No longer, Mr. Drake. Traitors are not accorded such respect.”

“Traitor?” He felt his head spinning. Now he sat, still. “This is mad.”

“Mr. Drake, these charades will get you nowhere.”

“I know nothing. Traitor! On what charges?”

“The charges? Aiding and abetting Surgeon-Major Anthony Carroll, a spy and himself a traitor to the Crown.”

“Anthony Carroll?”

The Lieutenant didn’t respond.

Edgar thought he saw a faint sneer on the man’s face. “Doctor Anthony Carroll? Anthony Carroll is Britain’s finest soldier in Burma. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

They stared at each other.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” said the Lieutenant.

The door opened, and in walked Captain Nash-Burnham. At first Edgar barely recognized the stout, jovial man he had spent an evening with at the pwè in Mandalay. His uniform was dirty and rumpled. His cheeks were unshaved. Deep bags underlined his eyes.

“Captain!” said Edgar, rising once again. “What is happening?”

The Captain looked at Edgar and then back to the Lieutenant. “Lieutenant, have you informed Mr. Drake of the charges?”

“Only briefly, sir.”

“Captain, tell me what is going on?”

Nash-Burnham turned to Edgar. “Sit down, Mr. Drake.”

“Captain, I demand to know what is happening!”

“Damn it, Mr. Drake! Sit down!”

The Captain’s harsh words stung more than the Lieutenant’s hand. Edgar lowered himself into his chair.

The Lieutenant rose and gave Nash-Burnham his seat. He stood behind him.

The Captain spoke slowly. “Mr. Drake, there exist very serious charges against you and Surgeon-Major Carroll. I can advise you that it is in your best interest to cooperate. This is as difficult for me as it is for you.”

The piano tuner said nothing.

“Lieutenant.” The Captain turned to the man behind him, who began to speak.

“We will make this brief, Mr. Drake. Three months ago, in a routine review of files at the Home Office in London, a short note written in Russian was found appended to the back of a classified document. The document was traced to Colonel Fitzgerald, the officer in England in charge of Carroll’s correspondence, and the same man who first contacted you. His desk was searched and other correspondences were found. He was arrested as a spy.”

“Russian? I can’t see how this has to do with—”

“Please, Mr. Drake. You are well aware that we have been involved in a fierce struggle with Russia for holdings in central Asia for decades. It has always seemed unlikely that Russia would be interested in a territory as distant from its borders as Burma. Yet in 1878, in Paris, there was a meeting between the honorary consul of Burma and a seemingly unlikely diplomat, the great Russian chemist Dmitri Mendeleev. The event was noted by British intelligence in Paris but its implications were poorly understood. The case was soon forgotten, one of many diplomatic courtships that failed to bear fruit.”

“I can’t see how this has anything to do with Doctor Carroll, or me,

“Mr. Drake,” the Lieutenant growled.

“This is nonsense. You just killed—”

“Mr. Drake,” said Nash-Burnham. “We do not need to tell you any of this. If you don’t wish to cooperate, we can send you directly to Rangoon.”

Edgar closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He sat back, his head pounding.

The Lieutenant continued. “The arrest of the Colonel led us to investigate others associated with his command. Our results turned up little, except a letter dated 1879, from Surgeon-Major Carroll to Dmitri Mendeleev, entitled ‘On the astringent properties of the extract of Dendrobium of Upper Burma.’ Although there was nothing specific in the letter to suggest espionage, suspicions were raised, and the presence of copious chemical formulae in the letter suggested code, as of course did the numerous music sheets sent from our office to Surgeon-Major Carroll in Mae Lwin. The very same music sheets which you, Mr. Drake, carried there. When we reexamined the music sheets sent from Carroll, we found most of the notes unintelligible, suggesting that they contained not song but some covert communication.”