But that didn’t explain how Ulrich had made his money. Thirty years ago he wouldn’t have been blackmailing his Swiss employers, because thirty years ago Holocaust bank accounts and Holocaust life-insurance policies didn’t matter to state legislatures or the U.S. Congress. Ulrich must have been doing something more local. He didn’t seem like a criminal mastermind, just an ugly guy who horribly abused his son and found a quiet way to turn a plug nickel into a silver dollar.
A man lurched out of the shadows in front of me. I didn’t know I could get my hand inside my shoulder holster so fast. When the man asked for the price of a meal, old Ezra filling the air around him, sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I stuck the gun in my jacket pocket and fished in my bag for a dollar, but he’d seen the gun and ran down a side street on unsteady legs.
I drove back to my office, keeping an uneasy eye on the rearview mirror, checking for tails. When I got to Tessa’s and my warehouse, I parked away from the building. I had my gun in my hand when I let myself in. Before settling at my desk, I searched Tessa’s studio, the hall, the bathroom, and all the subdivisions of my office—it’s hard to break in to our building but not impossible.
I put in a call to Terry Finchley at the police department. He’d been Mary Louise’s commanding officer her last three years on the force and was the person she still turned to for inside information on police investigations. I knew he wasn’t involved in the Sommers murder directly, but he knew about the investigation because he’d been getting information about it to Mary Louise. He wasn’t in, either. I hesitated, then left a message for him with the desk sergeant: Colby Sommers is a hanger-on with the EYE team. He knows something about Howard Fepple’s murder; he also was involved in the breakin in Hyde Park where you sent the forensics unit on Wednesday. The sergeant promised to pass it on.
When I switched on my computer, I felt unreasonably let down that Morrell hadn’t responded to my e-mail. Of course, it was the middle of the night in Kabul. And who knew where he was—if he’d gone into the backcountry already, he wouldn’t be anywhere near a phone hookup. Lotty off in some desolate place that I couldn’t penetrate, Morrell at the ends of the earth. I felt horribly alone and sorry for myself.
The fax of Anna Freud’s article on the six toddlers from Terezin had come in. I turned to it resolutely, determined not to wallow in self-pity.
The article was long, but I read it through with total attention. Despite the clinical tone of the piece, the heartbreaking destruction of the children came through clearly—deprived of everything, from parental love to language, fending for themselves as toddlers in a concentration camp, somehow coming together to support one another.
After the war, when the British admitted a number of children from the camps to help them learn to live in a terror-free world, Freud took over the care of these six: they were far too young for any of the other programs. And they were such a tight little group that the social workers were afraid of separating them, afraid of the added trauma that separation would create in their young lives. They were all close, but two had formed a special bond with each other: Paul and Miriam.
Paul and Miriam. Anna Freud, whom Paul Hoffman called his savior in England, cutting her photograph from her biography to hang in his chamber of secrets. Freud’s Paul, born in Berlin in 1942, sent to Terezin at twelve months, just as Paul Hoffman had claimed for himself in the interview on television. The only one of the six about whose family nothing was known. So if your name was Paul, and your father was a German who brutalized you, locked you in a closet, beat you for any signs of feminine character, maybe you would start to think, This is my story, the children in the camps.
But Paul and Miriam weren’t Anna Freud’s children’s real names. In a study of real people, Freud had used code names to protect their privacy. Paul Hoffman hadn’t understood that. He’d read the article, absorbed the story, imagined his little playmate Miriam for whom he cried so piteously on television last week.
The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I felt an overwhelming desire for my own home and bed, for privacy away from other people’s soul-sickening traumas. I wasn’t up to driving north to Evanston. I put Ninshubur’s little collar in a padded mailer, addressed it to Michael Loewenthal’s London home with a note for customs, used goods, no declared value, and dropped it in a mailbox with some airmail postage. I kept an eye out on the street all the way home, but neither Fillida nor the EYE team seemed to be stalking me.
I was happy when Mr. Contreras waylaid me as I came into the lobby. When he learned I hadn’t eaten all day, except for my apple, he exclaimed, “No wonder you’re discouraged, doll. I got spaghetti on the stove. It ain’t homemade, like you’re used to, but it’s plenty good enough for an empty stomach.”