The window was unmistakably modern, the glass smooth, the lead fittings crisp, with none of the rippled imperfections or sagging geometry typical of older church windows. Yet, for all that, it had been classically executed, depicting a castle on a hill, a couple of birds wheeling overhead and, in the foreground, a few trees clustered around a bubbling spring.
When he was satisfied that he had enough shots, he turned to face Maria again.
"What did he do, your uncle? You know, for a job."
"He was professor at Universitat Wien," she said proudly. "The oldest German-speaking university in the world."
"Teaching…?"
"Physics."
"And before that? In the war?"
She snorted, half in frustration, half in amusement. "Pah. Always the war with you English. It is obsession for you, ja?"
"No, it's just that—"
"Uncle Manfred didn't fight," she said. "He told me. He was too young."
They had begun to walk back toward the entrance as they were speaking and were now standing by the door. Archie pulled his collar up in anticipation of the sharp slap of cold air when they stepped outside.
"Just one last thing" — Archie had almost forgotten to mention it—"Would you take a look at this for me? Tell me if you recognize anyone."
He handed over a copy of the photograph of three men in SS uniform that they had found at Weissman's house. She took it from him and studied it carefully. When she looked up her eyes were angry and her voice hard.
"Is this English sense of humor?"
"No, why?"
"You have made this as a joke, yes? To make fun of me?"
"No, of course not."
"I not believe you. This picture is a lie." She was almost shouting now, her voice resonating off the whitewashed stone walls. "Why you come here? To trick me?"
"Is one of those men your uncle?" Archie guessed.
"You know this. Why else are you here?"
"We found this picture yesterday in London, together with the envelope I showed you," Archie explained. "I swear, until just now I had no idea your uncle was in it. Which one is he?"
She looked down at the photo again, gripping it tightly. "The man on the left. That was Uncle Manfred."
"I'm sorry." Archie sighed.
"Sorry? Why?" Her tone switched from anger to indifference. "This is mistake. Simple mistake. He was too young to fight. He told me."
"I'd love to believe you," said Archie. "But you see the man in the middle? His daughter didn't think he had fought either. She was wrong. He'd lied to her. He'd lied to everyone."
"He had a daughter?" She sounded less sure of herself now.
"Older than you, but not by much. She was the one who discovered this photo, not me."
"And she thinks… she thinks this is real?" Maria seemed to have shrunk before his eyes, her voice fading to a whisper, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Oh yeah," Archie said gently, trying to erase the image of Elena Weissman's bloody corpse that had been burned into his mind. "You see, she discovered a room, a secret room where her father had kept all his wartime mementos hidden from her. Uniforms, flags, guns, medals."
"Medals?" She looked up, wiping the palm of her hand across her cheek. "War medals?"
"Yes." Archie frowned. "Why?"
"Folgen Sie mir." She drew herself up straight once again. "I must show you. Kommen Sie'"
She threw the door open and hurried out through the churchyard. As she reached the top of the steps leading down to the road, she hesitated for a second, her head swiv-eling to the left, then back again, muttering under her breath all the while.
Archie turned his head to see what she'd been looking at. It was a black marble gravestone, newer than those that flanked it. Although he couldn't read the epitaph, the name, picked out in large gold letters, was clearly visible.
DR. MANFRED LAMMERS.
They retraced their steps in silence. Maria's shock seemed to have been replaced by an unsmiling resolve. Once inside the house, she directed him to the sitting room and disappeared into one of the rooms at the back.
Archie stepped into the room, removed his coat and gloves, and sat down on the cream sofa. The self-assembly furniture looked new and cheap. A gaudy brass and crystal-effect chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling, casting a yellow wash over the clip-frames that adorned the white walls, each containing a shiny Picasso print.
Maria came back into the room carrying a small wooden box made from an attractive polished walnut that glowed like the dash of an old sports car. Archie's eyes lit up at the sight of something old and well made. It was about eight inches across and five inches wide, with a small brass key protruding from the lock. The lid was flat and sat slightly raised above the sides, which rose four inches above a flared base.
But it was the symbol inlaid into the lid that grabbed his attention. Two concentric circles with a black disc at their center and runic lightning bolts radiating out from the middle, twelve of them in all. It was identical to the symbol he had seen on the cap badge of Weissman's uniform.
"He died in a fire." She placed the box on the white plastic coffee table in front of him. "The house had to be almost completely rebuilt. This was the only thing that survived. I found it in his car. I thought he had bought it at a fair somewhere, that it wasn't his. Now…" Her voice faded and she sat down opposite him, staring at the box with an expression halfway between fear and suspicion. "Please take it with you. I don't want it in the house anymore."
Archie turned the key and gingerly opened the lid. Inside, on a red velvet lining, lay a medal, its black, red, and white ribbon folded underneath it. The shape was unmistakable.
A Nazi Iron Cross.
CHAPTER THIRTY
As he approached Viggiano's office door, Bailey heard raised voices, then the sound of something being thrown or kicked across the room. Whatever it was, he guessed that it must have made a rather large dent in the wall.
Before he had a chance to knock, the door flew open and Viggiano marched out, his face red with rage. He paused midstride and looked Bailey up and down with disdain, his left eye twitching furiously, both his hands clenched. Then, with an angry snort, he shouldered roughly past him toward the exit.
Bailey watched his retreating back until he disappeared from view, then turned to face the open doorway. Regional Director Carter was sitting at Viggiano's desk. In front of him, neatly arranged on the blotter, were a service revolver and an FBI badge. An upended wastepaper basket lay beneath a deep scar in the wall.
"Bailey" — Carter's voice was cold and businesslike — "get in here. And shut the door."
Bailey closed the door behind him and sat down nervously at the chair indicated by Carter. The story was that the director had joined the FBI after a car accident and a collapsed lung had ended his professional football career before it had even begun. It was a story that the director's appearance did little to dispel; tall, broad-chested, with a tanned, square face, deep-set brown eyes, and an aggressive manner that seemed more suited to calling plays than running an investigation. The irony was that he was often mistaken for a realtor, having a seemingly endless supply of striped polyester ties and button-down white cotton shirts.
He fixed Bailey with a silent, slightly questioning gaze, his hands steepled pensively under his chin. Bailey's eyes flicked nervously to the floor, the silence increasingly awkward as he waited for Carter to speak. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Bailey coughed and mumbled an apology.