SHE DIDN’T COME OUT until eleven. He had been under the big ombu tree since nine, perfect cover, the park benches hidden from her windows by the canopy of leaves. He had brought a newspaper, but it seemed unnecessary—no one took any notice of him. People were expected to sit here, a haven of shade. Her building was at the top of the rise, front door visible from under the tree. He tried to imagine her morning. A shower, coffee and a newspaper in her robe, morning light pouring in through the window. Maybe thinking about last night, whether she’d done the right thing. Getting dressed. A telephone call—to whom? Or maybe none of it. He could only see the door, a window, the rest of it something to pass the time.
She was wearing white again, or off-white, a crisp summer suit, pearls, dressed to meet somebody. He got up to follow. Even Agency desk men were given basic training, a summer course of tradecraft they’d probably never use, and now that he was here, he wasn’t sure he could do it, keep the right distance, fall back, disappear in a crowd, never let her feel his eyes on her back. What if she took a taxi? The hotel with its rank of waiting cabs was a block away. But she walked, down Alvear past the big mansions, then the rows of new apartment buildings studded with air-conditioning units, toward the Plaza San Martín, where he’d walked that first day. Not in a hurry, maybe slowed down by her heels, but not changing pace either, suspicious, turning around. It would have been easier to do this downtown, getting swallowed up in the crowds, invisible, but she seemed unaware of him, and after a while he felt he had receded into the half-empty streets, the way he had at the Ohlsdorf chapel.
She skirted San Martín and started down Calle Florida, finally stopping at the Harrods branch, another piece of Europe. A minute or two at the windows, just looking, Aaron too far away to be reflected. When she went into the store, he held back. Stores were difficult, no crowds to melt into. What would he be doing on the women’s clothing floor? He’d have to chance her coming back out the same entrance. He crossed the street to a bookstore, pretending to browse as he kept watch at the window. An endless wait, afraid he’d lost her. And then there she was, a flash of white, putting on sunglasses against the glare, a Harrods bag now on her arm. And as she reached up with the glasses, he saw her last night, raising her blouse over her head, naked for him. She looked up, and for a minute he wondered if she could feel him watching, be inside his head, some postcoital telepathy, but then she turned and started walking back to San Martín, just someone on the street.
At the corner she went into a bank, a day for errands, then crossed over to the belle epoque hotel at the top of the square and got a taxi. He waited until they’d turned the corner before hopping into one behind. When he told the driver to follow, he heard the absurdity of it, saw the look in the driver’s eyes. Something that happened in the movies on Calle Lavalle, not in a cab rank on San Martín. “Mi esposa,” he said, as if that explained anything, but it seemed to work, a suggestion of infidelity, a chase the driver could understand. A burst of Spanish, probably some knowing street philosophy, then a conspiratorial wink, and he started the meter, heading down toward Retiro Station.
They caught up to her cab at a corner red light, then swung left behind it onto Libertador, heading north, avoiding the railway tracks and, beyond, the working port of cranes and warehouses and the slums squeezed in between. Libertador was broad, what seemed to be at least six lanes in either direction, an American width, flowing past parks and museums and the old rich houses of Barrio Norte. The cabdriver, waving his hands as he spoke, was creating some drama of his own about Hanna that required nothing but an occasional nod from Aaron. Where was she going? One of the embassies? The racetrack? Some apartment in Belgrano where Otto was waiting? And then, just past the entrance to the Botanical Gardens, they headed right, through the park, the way to Aeroparque, the old city airport. But where would she go without a suitcase, just a shopping bag from Harrods? Unless she wasn’t the one going.
They followed the signs for the airport, but once they reached Costanera, the road along the water, her cab slowed, as if they were looking for the right turnoff. Finally, a right signal into the driveway of what looked like a pier, an Argentinian flag flopping in the breeze off the river, some nautical flags below it. “Dos Pescadores,” the cabdriver said. Two Fishermen, maybe some whimsical name for a restaurant, a boat club. But a hopeless dead end. No cabs cruised here. He’d have to call from inside, after she’d gone, losing her. The cabdriver had slowed, watching her get out, and he must have come to the same conclusion because he parked just beyond the pier entrance, in the shade of a scraggly jacaranda tree. He pointed up at the blossoms, as if they were some romantic touch, right for the melodrama. Aaron opened his hands—Now what?—and the driver winked and cut off the meter, sitting back in a slouch. Now we wait, the story evidently worth a lost fare.
Aaron got out and had a cigarette, leaning against the door. She wouldn’t stash Otto here, marooned beyond the docks. Even the airport, seemingly so close, would be too far to walk. The whole city was like that, everything farther than you thought. But maybe Otto wasn’t in the city at all. Why not Bariloche? The sea breezes of Mar del Plata. Mendoza, drinking red wine. Anywhere. But there he’d been on the Binnenalster, in the heart of it all, not run to ground. He’d be here. While she had lunch. Maybe used the phone. Just a quick message, with a time and place. And then what? He threw the end of the cigarette on the road. Cloak-and-dagger stuff, how you thought when you had too much time on your hands. Just lunch. Maybe a glass of rosé. An old friend. But not that kind. Nobody lies in bed. He could still hear her, that gasp in his ear, the most erotic sound there was. Something nice. It’s enough. But it wasn’t enough.
Lunch took hours. But then he saw her coming out, two other women with her, all talking on the steps while they waited for their rides. Two taxis arrived, one for the others, one for Hanna. Kisses good-bye. She looked at her watch. Aaron nudged his driver, sliding down out of sight, the driver smiling with excitement. Something to talk about later. They retraced their route down through the park on Sarmiento, all the way to the end and then east on Avenida Santa Fe. There was traffic now, a busy shopping street clogged with buses, and when she stopped at a corner and got out, he assumed she thought she’d make better time on foot. He stopped the cab before they got to the corner, pointing to her, walking now, and handed the driver a wad of pesos. A grateful smile, but the faint hint of disappointment, missing the final act.
Aaron thought she would go into one of the stores, but she turned down a street instead, familiar with it. Calle J. Salguero, whoever he was. No doubt an important victory. Two blocks down, the street opened into a plaza, irregular, streets leading off it in several directions. A church at one end, children’s playground in the middle, cafés on three sides. He saw the white suit heading left, a door just steps off the square. He stopped, taking a seat outdoors at a café, sight line perfect. He checked his watch, 3:50, then noticed a waiter checking his watch too, waiting for something. At first a trickle, one or two people, then more, emptying out of the buildings, several stopping for coffee, a small rush of business. Aaron got up and crossed the square. Plaza Güemes. Another unknown. He made his way to Hanna’s street. Calle Charcas, which meant nothing either. Then the door, brass plaques near the bells. Dr. Ortiz. Of course. What had Jamie called it? Villa Freud. Time up at 3:50, new patients in at 4, a tidal schedule. He went back to the café to wait, watching her building, glancing at the other customers. Not furtive, but keeping to themselves, not talking to each other, maybe thinking about what had been said, not said, in their fifty minutes. What people did here.
And what would she talk about? The man she’d just slept with or the more familiar subject, the tainted genes, the fear that she’d become her mother. Worse, her father. But that was crazy. Except we don’t use that word here. If you were afraid, the fear at least was real. Was she actually lying on a Freudian couch? But people sat in chairs now. Talking about what? Doro, who stopped laughing and went away. A trip halfway around the world, everything new. The big house on Calle Aguado. A magazine article, blowing it up. Looking at him, knowing. What happened to birds when they were wounded, the strange inertia, not being able to fly. Maybe what Dr. Ortiz was helping her to do. Or not. Maybe she wasn’t talking about any of it. Maybe it was just Aaron who wanted to know. Because it wasn’t enough.
When she came out, 4:50 on the dot, she walked down Charcas, a more difficult street for him, residential, so that he was farther behind when she turned back up to Santa Fe and hailed a cab. No choice but to hope she’d gone home and follow her there. In half an hour he was back under the ombu tree, peering up, waiting for a light to go on. For all he knew, she was at the Alvear, hitting her limit with Pablo. But then there was a light in the window, oddly fluorescent, and he realized she’d turned on the television. In for the night. A blameless day. And maybe the next, and the one after that. Which was getting him nowhere. What would Max have done? Use whatever resources he had. Your contacts, he’d called them. Don’t forget who Otto was. Use anything. But Max hadn’t slept with her.
The American Embassy was across from the Parque 3 de Febrero, so Aaron suggested they meet there.
“What now?” Jamie said. “And what’s wrong with my office?”
“People listen around corners.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I need a favor.”
“And you have to meet me outside to ask it. So it never happened.”
“So you can say it never happened.”
“All right, I’ll bite. What?”
“I want you to put a tap on her phone. I need to know who she calls.”
For a minute Jamie said nothing, shuffling responses, trying to read Aaron’s face.
“First of all, we don’t do that.”
“Yes, you do. I see the reports.”
“And if we did, I’d need a req from Langley. Official. The Argentines find out, they’d kick my ass out of here.”
“They won’t find out. They’re not looking for this. Just a few days.”
“Do I get to ask why? Or do I just operate blind?”
Aaron hesitated.
“Do you know how crazy this sounds? First you turn up in Buenos Aires, where nobody just turns up, with some airy fairy story and now you’re asking us for a tap? So what the fuck is going on? Is this official?”
“No.”
Jamie looked at Aaron. “You know you could have said it was and it would probably take a few days before—”
“And I’d have the tap. But that would leave you exposed. This way you can cover your ass.”
“Wonderful. I can deny everything. I can also not do it and save myself the trouble. If it’s not official, what is it?”
“A favor. I’ll owe you.”
“No, I mean what do you want it for? You don’t put a tap on somebody just because you have the hots for her. Not in the Agency anyway. Who’s she supposed to be talking to?”
Aaron looked over. “Otto Schramm.”
Jamie stared at him, not moving. “From the beyond.”
“No. Buenos Aires. He’s alive.”
“And she knows where he is.”
“I think so.”
“Funny you didn’t mention this before.”
“I didn’t need the tap before.”
“Sons of the Reich.”
“That part’s true. What would you have done? Put it in your daily? Better to have some proof before you get everybody excited.” He opened his hand. “So the tap.”
“You’re serious about this.”
“He’s here. That’s why I came.”
Jamie looked away for a second, trying to digest this. “That’s quite a situation. Now what?”
“They make contact. We trace the call. I go take his picture. We need to ID him before anything. No mistakes.”
“The Argentines aren’t going to like this. Ever since Eichmann—”
“Let them take the credit this time. Make up for past sins. The Germans have had a warrant out for years. Extradite him and let them handle it.”
“This isn’t what we’re here for. You know that, right? We’re here to keep everybody happy, keep the OAS going.”
“And save the Americas from Communism. I know. We still do all that. This is something else.” He looked at Jamie. “It’s Otto Schramm.”
Jamie met his eyes for a second, then looked down. “I’ll give you a week. And this never happened. You don’t use the trace in evidence. You don’t use it at all.”
Aaron nodded. “You won’t be sorry.”
“I’m sorry already. I don’t even know why I’m doing it.” He glanced up. “That it?”
“One more thing?”
“Only one?”
“There’s a big party at the Brazilian Embassy.”
“And?” Jamie said, surprised.
“Add me to the list.”
“As what?”
“I don’t know. Second secretary, cultural affairs. That could mean anything. New in town.”
Jamie threw him a look.
“Don’t worry. I’ll put on a clean shirt.”
He had left her having lunch in Recoleta and got back in time to see her come out of the restaurant and head down busy Pueyrredón. It was the same as the day before—some errands, lunch, window shopping. She stopped at a bookstore on Santa Fe and talked to the clerk for a while, evidently a regular occurrence, familiar. Now what? He kept her blonde hair in sight in the crowd, fixed on it, wondering where it would go next, and it occurred to him that he wasn’t just following her to find Otto but to find her, to know her life.
She’d been headed in the direction of Villa Freud but now turned right, no Dr. Ortiz today, circling back to Recoleta up Anchorena toward the German hospital. She went into a small office building. Five minutes, no more, and she was back, glancing at her watch, heading north again. Aaron stopped at the office building, checking the directory in the hall. A typical collection of small businesses—a lawyer, a dentist, a travel agency, a jewelry repair. The watch. Any of the others would have taken longer. He stepped back into the street. She was gone. For a second he panicked, cursing, but how far could she have gone? Some shop. And when he passed the hairdresser’s, he caught a glimpse of her through the window. Getting her hair done for the embassy party. It’s very important that you go, Bildener had said. Why? Had she skipped the last one? An old friend of her father’s.
He kept going—people noticed if you stopped—and found a café where he could wait. But he already knew what would happen. The hair appointment, home to dress, maybe the Alvear, a night out. Without Otto, safely put away somewhere. There had to be contact. Now at least he’d know the calls at home. But why not one from the hairdresser’s? Any café? A phone he couldn’t trace. Patience. Max sometimes took years. But he didn’t have years. He felt he was drifting through the days, the way she drifted through hers, both of them waiting. But she wouldn’t just drift. Not her. He was walking just behind her, missing something.
Fritz left a message to meet at the ABC restaurant downtown in Calle Lavalle, a kitsch re-creation of a Bavarian inn, timbered with a sloping roof, squished between two office buildings. After the sunny glare of the street, the inside seemed dark, the country sconce lighting swallowed up by the paneled walls, a high border of heraldic shields hard to see. Fritz had already started on a beer.
“Do you believe this place?” he said. “A friend on Stern told me about it. You can’t get food like this in Germany anymore.” He nodded to a passing platter of pigs’ knuckles and ham hocks and schnitzels Holstein. “They all used to come here. Eichmann once, they say. Mengele. They might even have met here. Imagine such an introduction. Would one know what the other looked like?”
“How’s the jet lag?”
Fritz waved his hand. “Eat lunch here, you either have a heart attack or sleep all afternoon. I’ll be fine. I met already with Goldfarb.”
Familiar name, but how? Aaron mimed, Who?
“A friend of Nathan’s. Also Max.”
“Nathan?”
“He came to see me in the hospital.”
“I didn’t know you knew him.”
“I didn’t. I think he was checking up on you. If it was true it was Schramm.”
“And?”
“He believes you. He said I was the proof. If it had just been someone who looked like Schramm, he wouldn’t have done this.” He touched his ribs. “So, no mistake.”
“I thought he wasn’t interested. No more Eichmanns.”
“Otto’s different.”
“How?”
“Because he’s supposed to be dead.” He caught Aaron’s expression. “Look, there are two stories here. Otto. Getting him. But then the other—how he lived here. Could fake his death. Think how many people must have helped. And think where—the police? The Intelligence Bureau? It would have to be. Even without Perón, the secret service protects him. Very embarrassing for the Argentines if that came out.”
“And Nathan wants it to?”
Fritz nodded. “They didn’t hide Eichmann. He hid himself. He came with a new name, passport. Works in Tucumán, then here, nothing special. An ordinary man, poor even. The Argentines can say they never knew. And then the Israelis come and kidnap him, take him out of the country. Outrage. Violating our sovereignty. How would you like it if they did it to you? Never mind what he did. You don’t snatch citizens off the streets. So, they’re humiliated—but they take the high ground. Lots of fists shaking at the Israelis. But this—now we have them protecting Otto. High up. Maybe even Perón himself. Get Otto and you can expose the Argentines, what they’ve been doing for years. Helping Nazis. And now Israel doesn’t look so bad. So, a good story for them. That’s why he helped me come.”
“He helped you?”
“A little. Part of the ticket.”
The waiter arrived with sauerkraut and a selection of wursts.
“I ordered. It’s big enough for two,” Fritz said. “It’s all right?”
Aaron nodded, looking away from the heaping plate.
“So who’s Goldfarb?”
“A businessman. Nobody. But he knows a lot of other nobodies. All the ministries.”
“And what’s he going to do for us?”
“So much paper in the world. But sometimes a trail. Who is Otto now? Helmut Braun died, so he must have traveled as someone else. And he was recognized. So now maybe he becomes someone else again. Another name. And that would mean new papers.”
“He was recognized in Germany. As far as he knows, we’re still there. Not chasing him here. Why get new papers?”
“Maybe. And maybe he’s very careful. So let Goldfarb see what he can find. If it’s since Hamburg, it’s recent. How many passport applications can there be?”
“Plenty. And he’s doing this without a current picture, anything to match.”
Fritz shrugged. “He has the time. His family was at Auschwitz. For him it’s worth a little trouble.” He speared a piece of boiled potato. “So, the daughter. Anything?”
“Not yet. No contact. And that’s not like him. To stay in hiding. Look at Hamburg. He couldn’t resist. So he has to come up for air sometime.”
“And you’ll be there.” He looked over. “You’re not hungry? The bauernwurst is excellent.”
“She said she’d talk to you, for the book.”
“Yes? What does she say about him?”
“It’s—complicated.”
“But she protects him. So that’s not complicated.”
“No.” Where he always ended, circling back.
“She says he’s dead?”
Aaron nodded. “Right on script. No mistakes. She said she was relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“I told you, it’s complicated. Isn’t it like that with the others?”
“Sometimes. The interesting ones. The others—you know in their hearts they don’t believe it. They can’t. They say people exaggerate. What happened.”
Aaron looked up. “That’s just what Schramm said—it was all an exaggeration.”
“Did she believe him?”
“No.”
“But she still protects him.”
Aaron put down his fork, uneasy, and took out a cigarette.
“You like her,” Fritz said, leading him, a reporter.
Aaron shrugged this off, saying nothing.
“Maybe you should do the interview. She talks to you.”
“She lies to me.”
“Everybody lies. You learn that in this business. The trick is to keep them talking. Something comes out.”
“Maybe. She’s careful about him.”
“Any photographs? A photograph would be valuable.”
“You mean is there a family album? I doubt it. Considering.”
“No, in the apartment. Pictures from childhood, something like that. Maybe letters. Something in the desk.”
Aaron looked at him. “We just met for a drink.”
Fritz was staring back. “You haven’t—?”
“What? Broken in?” Thrown by this.
“Aaron,” Fritz said slowly. “We need to know. It’s serious, this. What we’re doing.”
“That’s illegal.”
“And Auschwitz was legal. So much for legal.” He paused. “Just don’t get caught.”
“We can’t—”
“They don’t teach you this? Your people?”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Sometimes, how else?” He slowed again. “We need to know.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring, beginning to flip through. “You know her movements? How long she’s likely—? Ah.” He stopped and slipped a key off the ring, then held it out to Aaron. “It doesn’t work with every lock. Maybe they’re different here. But usually, yes. Here.”
Aaron stared at the key, as if it were alive and if he touched it something would happen to him. Just a key, dull, not shiny. Don’t.
He reached over and took the key.
“So try it,” Fritz was saying. “It saves time. I thought they taught you how to do this.”
“No.” His stomach still queasy, but the key now in his pocket, some step taken.
“I have a friend, he can pick anything. It’s useful. Does she have a maid?”
“I suppose. I haven’t seen one. I’m usually following her.”
“And she doesn’t see you?” Fritz said, finding this amusing. “At least they teach you that.” He wiped his mouth, finally finished. “Watch before you go in, if there’s a maid. It’s hard to explain.”
“What? Going through her desk? Yes.”
“Through everything. But a light touch, yes? Everything as it was.”
He was under the ombu tree early, with a newspaper, but she didn’t appear until just before noon, dressed for a restaurant lunch, a suit with handbag and white gloves. Which gave him at least an hour or two. No maid today, unless she turned up later, unexpected, a door opening in a French farce. He waited until she was well past the Alvear.
There was a locked door in the vestibule, where visitors were buzzed in, and the passkey worked, which meant that it would probably work upstairs too. No excuse not to go through with it now. No one in the elevator, the building in a midday hush, people at work or out somewhere, the faint whine of a vacuum cleaner overhead. In the quiet hall, mentally on tiptoe, he forced himself to walk normally. The key worked, just a minor jiggle while it found its groove. He stepped inside. From this point on, he was vulnerable, no explanations possible. Breaking and entering.
It was a modern apartment, international style, nubby off-white couches accented with pillows, bookshelves, swivel chairs with brass reading lamps, abstract paintings and pieces of sculpture. At first it seemed as impersonal as a hotel suite, but then the eye began to take in the details—magazines open on the glass coffee table, photographs in the bookshelves. Hanna as a child with Beate and presumably Doro. A group of schoolgirls at somebody’s birthday. A table at the Stork, filled with glasses, only Hanna and another woman full face, the men off camera. Nothing of Otto.
He crossed over to the desk, still listening for the sound of footsteps, the room quiet enough to hear himself breathe. An appointment diary to the right of the desk pad, the entries for the last few days exactly what he remembered—Dos Pescadores, Dr. Ortiz, the hairdresser where he thought he’d lost her, even him, a drink at the Alvear. No notes. For an odd second, looking at the book, he wanted to know how everything had seemed to her. How had she felt about him? Not what she’d expected. But there was nothing but a name and time, her feelings still her own. Lunch today downtown. The embassy party later, underlined. Markus waiting, his eye on the door.
He flipped through her address book, lists of names he didn’t know, any one of which might be the new Otto, but somehow he doubted it. Not something you wrote down. There was Bildener. Under L, a list of lawyers, in New York and here. More names. What exactly was he looking for? So quiet he could hear the clock.
He went through the drawers. Folders of bills, some letters from Germany, Beate keeping in touch, her own passport, nothing of Otto’s. Another drawer with documents, the apartment lease, her divorce papers, all carefully in order, as if she were making it easy for him. See? I have nothing to hide.
He got up and went over to the bedroom, each step feeling like a violation, something he’d been told not to do and was doing anyway. Closets and closets full of clothes, everything personal now, the hotel feeling left behind in the living room. Racks of shoes, shelves with handbags. Everything hers, smelling of her. Sweaters. Blouses. In the top drawer, silk underwear. The sort of place where a passport or visa might be slipped under the panties, the intimacy of them somehow protective, where people wouldn’t go. But he was there, the panties in his hand, and suddenly he felt his face grow warm, embarrassed by the odd pleasure of it, what a fetishist must feel, touching her by touching her things. He took his hands away. Another drawer, bras and nylons. Another, lingerie. He felt a silk nightgown, peach with a border of lace, imagining it on, the shoulder straps falling, her stepping out of it, then stopped, the pleasure mixed with shame now. Something a boy would do, making a woman in his head just by feeling silk, smelling it.
He went over to the bathroom. More nightgowns behind the door, a terry wrap. A makeup table, lights around the mirror, drawers of nail polish and powders and creams. A full medicine chest, the usual Band-Aids and iodine and cuticle trimmers. Rows of pill bottles, prescription, some from Dr. Ortiz, how she slept. He looked at the dates. Something she’d been doing for a while, putting herself to sleep. To dream what? A diaphragm case. Tampax. He closed the mirrored door, feeling embarrassed again, prurient.
There was a dress hanging from one of the closet doors. A cocktail dress, maybe what she was planning to wear tonight. Next to it on the bureau, a bag and gloves and jewelry already laid out, as if she didn’t want to decide at the last minute. A gold charm bracelet, not girlish, real jewelry, something to dangle and flash on a glove. He picked it up, curious if any of the charms were personal mementos, bits of her life. But they seemed standard pieces—a dog, a little house, a shoe, a key, the key smaller than the others. He looked more carefully. Too small to be real, a toy. He put down the bracelet. What was he doing? Otto wasn’t hiding behind her dresses.
He went back into the living room, checking behind picture frames for wall safes. The desk again, with the folder of official papers. If there was anything it would be here. In Spanish. What looked like a will. Her name only, clearly the sole heir. A Buenos Aires bank statement with a healthy balance, but not suspiciously large. The real money, Tommy’s settlement, presumably still in New York in dollars, what rich Latin Americans did, handled by some lawyer or broker in the address book. He stopped, uneasy again. Money was private, a different kind of lingerie. He looked at his fingers on the paper, clumsy, intrusive.
A muffled sound outside, a door closing. He froze. Maybe the elevator, Hanna coming back, the maid arriving late. And he was sitting at her desk with her bank statement in his hands. What are you doing? What could he possibly say? He listened for footsteps, waiting to hear a key in the lock. But nothing happened. He breathed out. He glanced up at the desk photos again. The little girl in Germany. The glamour girl at the Stork. Now being followed, someone secretly rummaging through her life.
He put the folder back, then felt it blocked by something in the back of the drawer. He reached in, his hand stopping as he felt the cold metal. A gun. A box next to it. He pulled it out slowly, as if a sudden movement would set it off. A gun. Lots of people had guns. A single woman, a big city. Something you had for protection, nothing unusual. Except it sat there in his hand turning everything upside down. There was never anything innocent about a gun. He felt he was touching another part of her. Had she ever used it? Did she even know how? But here it was, blunt and heavy and cool in his hand, something he hadn’t known about her before.
He put it back carefully. Everything as it was. But what if he had missed something, some little detail that would give him away? A silk slip visibly disturbed, the fold no longer smooth, something. Or just the scent of him, the way you could feel another presence, even after it was gone. He checked the top of the desk one more time, the way it had been, then went over to the door, listening for any sound in the hall. Nothing. The click of the door behind him. The quiet elevator sounded like a roar. No neighbors. And then he was under the ombu tree, feeling relieved and foolish at the same time. She’d never know. But a risk he should never have taken. People didn’t hide secrets in lingerie drawers. They trusted to memory or forgot them in files. Max, maybe Goldfarb, knew how to look at files. But memory had to be volunteered. Memory needed to trust you.