The co-pilot’s answering “sir?” came faintly.
“Finish what you’re doing and go back to the plane!” Seibert picked up the bracelet. “Bring me a can of gas!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Bring Schumann back with you!”
“Yes, sir!”
Seibert examined the bracelet and tossed it back onto the desk. He sighed.
“What are you going to do?” Ferdi asked him.
He nodded toward the chart. “Burn that.”
“Why?”
“So no one ever sees it.”
“Will the house catch on fire?”
“Yes, but the man who owns it isn’t coming back.”
“How do you know? He’ll be angry if he does.”
“Go play with that little toy outside.”
“I want to watch.”
“Do as I say!”
“Yes, sir.” Ferdi hurried from the room.
“Stay on the porch!” Seibert called after him.
He pushed the long table with its stacks of magazines close against the wall. Then he went to the file drawers under the laboratory window, crouched and opened one, and took out a thick handful of folders and another thick handful. He brought them to the table and fitted them between magazine stacks. He looked ruefully at the red-slashed chart, shook his head.
He brought several loads of folders to the table, and when there was room for no more, opened the remaining drawers. He unlocked and opened the windows behind the desk.
He stood looking at the Hitler memorabilia above the sofa, took three or four items from the wall, looked speculatively at the large central portrait.
The co-pilot came in with a red fuel can; the pilot stood in the doorway.
Seibert put the things he had taken on the package of records. “Take out the portrait,” he told the co-pilot. He sent the pilot off to make sure no one was in the house and to open all the windows.
“May I stand on the sofa?” the co-pilot asked.
Seibert said, “My God, why on earth not?”
He poured gasoline over the folders and magazines, standing well back, and tossed a few splashes up onto the chart itself. Names gleamed wetly: Hesketh, Eisenbud, Arlen, Looft.
The co-pilot carried the portrait out.
Seibert put the can outside the door and went to the open file drawers. He took from one a few sheets of paper and twisted them into a white branch as he moved to the desk. He picked up the lighter there, a cylindrical black one, and pressed flame from it a few times.
The pilot reported no one in the house and the windows open. Seibert had him take out the records and mementos and the fuel can. “Make sure my grandson’s there,” he told him.
He waited a moment, lighter in one hand, white paper branch in the other. “Is he with you, Schumann?” he called.
“Yes, sir!”
He lit the tip of the branch and put the lighter back behind him; dipped the branch to strengthen the flame, and stepping forward, threw it onto the flame-bursting folders and magazines. Flame sheared up the wall.
Seibert stepped back and watched the red-slashed center column of the chart blister and go brown. Names, dates, and lines, sheeted with flame, died away as blackness grew around them.
He hurried out.
Behind the house they stopped and watched awhile, well back from the wavering heat and the crackling: Seibert holding Ferdi’s hand, the co-pilot resting a forearm on the frame of Hitler’s portrait, the pilot with his arms full and the red can by his feet.
Esther had her hat and coat on and one foot out the door—literally—when the phone rang. This was not her day. Would she ever get home? Sighing, she drew the foot back, closed the door, and went and answered the ringing phone in the faint light from the doorpane.
An operator, with a call for Yakov from São Paulo; Esther told her Herr Liebermann was out of town. The caller, in good German, said he would speak to her. “Yes?” she said.
“My name is Kurt Koehler. My son Barry was—”
“Oh yes, I know, Herr Koehler! I’m Herr Liebermann’s secretary, Esther Zimmer. Is there any news?”
“Yes, there is, and it’s bad news. Barry’s body was found last week.”
Esther groaned.
“Well, we’ve been expecting it—no word in all this time. I’m starting home now. With…it.”
“Ei! I’m so sorry, Herr Koehler!”
“Thank you. He was stabbed, and then dumped in the jungle. From a plane, apparently.”
“Oh my God…”
“I thought Herr Liebermann would want to know—”
“Of course, of course! I’ll tell him.”
“—and I also have some information for him. They took Barry’s wallet and passport, of course—those filthy Nazi pigs—but there was a piece of paper in his jeans that they overlooked. It looks to me as if he wrote down some notes while he was listening to that tape recording, and there’s a great deal here that I’m sure Herr Liebermann can make use of. Could you tell me where I can get in touch with him?”
“Yes, he’s at Heidelberg tonight.” Esther switched on the lamp and turned her phone index. “In Mannheim, actually. I’ve got the number right here.”
“Tomorrow he’ll be back in Vienna?”
“No, he’s going to Washington from there.”
“Oh? Well, perhaps I ought to call him in Washington. I’m a little…shaken up right now, as you can imagine, but I’ll be home tomorrow and able to talk more easily. Where will he be staying?”
“At the Benjamin Franklin Hotel.” She turned the index. “I have that number too.” She found it and read it off slowly and clearly.
“Thank you. What time is he due there?”
“His plane lands at six-thirty, God willing; he should be at the hotel by seven or seven-thirty. Tomorrow night.”
“Is he going there about this business Barry was investigating?”
“Yes,” Esther said. “Barry was right, Herr Koehler. A lot of men have been murdered, but Yakov’s going to put a stop to it. You can rest assured that your son didn’t die in vain.”
“It’s good to hear that, Fräulein Zimmer. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Good-by.”
She hung up, sighed, and shook her head sadly.
Mengele hung up too, picked up his brown canvas suitcase, and got on the shorter of the two lines at the Pan Am ticket counter. He had brown hair combed to the side and a full brown mustache, and was wearing a high padded neck-brace. So far it seemed to be doing its job of making people avoid his eyes.
According to his Paraguayan passport he was Ramón Aschheim y Negrín, a comerciante en antigüedades, a dealer in antiquities; which was why he had a gun in his suitcase, a nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power Automatic. He had a permit for it, as well as a driver’s license, a full complement of social and business credentials, and in his passport, page after page of visas. Señor Aschheim y Negrín was setting off on a multinational buying trip: the States, Canada, England, Holland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, and Austria. He was well supplied with money (and diamonds). His visas, like his passport, had been issued in December, but they were still valid.
He bought a ticket for New York on the next flight out, leaving at 7:45, which in conjunction with an American Airlines flight would get him into Washington at 10:35 the next morning.
Plenty of time to get settled in at the Benjamin Franklin.
6
THE PROFESSOR OF BIOLOGY—whose name was Nürnberger and who, behind his close-trimmed brown beard and gold-rimmed glasses, looked to be no more than thirty-two or -three—bent back his pinky as if to snap it off and present it. “Identical appearance,” he said, and bent back his next finger. “Similarity of interests and attitudes, probably to a greater degree than you’re presently aware.” He bent back his next finger. “The placement with similar families: this is the giveaway. You put these together and there’s only one possible explanation.” He folded his hands on his crossed legs and leaned forward confidingly. “Mononuclear reproduction,” he told Liebermann. “Dr. Mengele was apparently a good ten years ahead of the field.”