THE BRAZILIAN EMBASSY HAD once been a grand house, another dream of Paris, but not grand enough to have had a ballroom, so the party was spread over several ground-floor reception rooms, people moving between them like schools of fish, darting around the passing trays of champagne glasses. Aaron had expected a name check at the door, but no one had asked. Instead they were steered to an informal reception line where a silver-haired man was playing exuberant host, his voice switching from Portuguese to Spanish with an easy warmth, as lilting and relaxed as the music in the background.
“João, how nice to see you,” Jamie said. “May I introduce Aaron Wiley. New with us. Aaron, Ambassador da Silva.”
“Mucho gusto,” da Silva said, an automatic response, then in English, “Another new one. Every week it seems. How busy you must be. But you are very welcome. It’s your first time in Buenos Aires?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you have an excellent guide. Jamie knows everything that goes on in Buenos Aires.”
“Not quite,” Jamie said. “Just the best parties.” This with a complimentary nod. “And you have guests waiting. I hope we’ll have a minute later.”
“Oh, a minute. That sounds like business. Me, I prefer gossip. You can’t gossip in a minute. Ernesto. But where is Gloria? Not ill, I hope.”
And somehow, a kind of social swallowing up, they were moved along into the crowd.
“That’s it?” Aaron said.
“It’s a party. What were you expecting?” He turned as he picked up a glass of champagne, facing the door again. “Oh, right. Of course.”
Aaron followed his look past the receiving line. She had come with a good-looking man somewhere in his forties. Tanned face, trim, a suit that might have been made for him. She was wearing the dress that had been hanging on her closet door, looking the way he had imagined her in it, and he felt, oddly, that he had chosen it for her, laid it out with the gloves and charm bracelet, knowing she’d look like this.
“I hope someday you’ll tell me exactly what’s going on. Not now,” Jamie said, raising his hand, a tease, “that would ruin the story. But at the end. The way detectives do in books, when they explain everything.” He took a sip. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get into any trouble. I don’t want to have to explain you.”
“Trouble?”
“Right here in River City,” Jamie said, pleased with himself.
“Walk with me for a minute. I don’t want her to see me yet.”
“Hard to get? I wouldn’t bother. It looks like she’s already got.” He nodded toward the door, her escort, then looked up at Aaron. “What are you up to?”
“I’ll tell you at the end,” Aaron said, moving them farther into the party.
In a minute Jamie was stopped by someone, an Argentine, and Aaron drifted away before he needed to be introduced. It was an easy party to get lost in, crowded, everyone talking, the several rooms making it hard to keep someone in sight. The late afternoon light was pouring through the open French windows, then reflecting off the tall mirrors, and as Aaron looked around, it seemed impossible to imagine any kind of trouble. The women were beautiful, or at least beautifully put together, made up and dressed for display like pampered mistresses. He stood by a pillar near a drinks table taking in the room. Genial da Silva, the polished diplomats, rich businessmen and their watchful wives. The kind of party she’d been to a hundred times, what she knew. But then someone near da Silva moved aside and she was suddenly in his line of vision and she didn’t seem to be at the party at all but off somewhere by herself, the way she’d been that first night at the Alvear bar. Her dress was simpler than the others, everything about her simpler, as if none of that really mattered, just her youth, the bright shine of her. He stared past the others, unable to look away, seeing her as he’d seen her in the hotel room, clothes dropping around her feet. Then he was in her bedroom, touching her things, the silk becoming skin, the same feeling. He looked away.
She was moving past da Silva now, into the larger party, her head turned toward her escort, listening. A waiter offering champagne broke into the sight line, then another couple, so that she was close to him, a few feet, when she looked up and finally saw him, surprised, then flustered, caught off guard. Her escort had turned to greet some other people, so they had a second alone, the others busy.
“What are you doing here?” she said, the thought just coming out, unfiltered.
“Jamie brought me.”
“Here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Oh,” she said, an involuntary sound, a skip on a record, not expecting this, her eyes suddenly bright, pleased.
He looked at her, not saying anything, eyes talking instead, a private second. Her reaction unmistakable before she had time to think, the way a woman looks when she’s happy to see you.
And then the second was over, the others turning to them, and she was flustered again, as if his being here was not only unexpected but inconvenient, ill-timed. She put her hand up to brush her hair back, a gesture to buy a minute, the charm bracelet dangling, just the way he’d imagined.
“Ricardo, Aaron Wiley, a friend from New York.” Explaining him again. “Ricardo Moreno.”
Moreno dipped his head, an abbreviated bow. “You’re here with the embassy?”
“Just visiting.”
“Ah.”
“I had no idea he was here,” Hanna said. “We bumped into each other at the Alvear bar.”
“You were close friends in New York?” Moreno said tentatively, not quite sure how to ask, and Aaron saw that he was going to be jealous, protective, unless Aaron defused it.
“It was really my wife you knew,” he said smoothly. “I don’t even remember how you two met.” Over to you.
“A friend of Tommy’s. We were office widows—Aaron always working. And Tommy— But we managed without you both.”
“Perhaps you’ll see more of each other here.”
“I’m only here a few days, I’m afraid.” He turned to her, social. “When are you coming back to New York? Don’t you miss it?”
“But it’s the best time of year here,” Moreno said, still looking at Aaron.
“If you play polo,” Hanna said pleasantly. “Ricardo loves it. I still don’t see why you won’t play in the Open. You’re good enough.”
“But not young enough. Do you play?” A testing question, measuring.
“I’ve never even seen a match. But I know it’s popular here.”
“Once the season starts, people don’t do anything else,” Hanna said. “It’s a ghost town.”
Moreno smiled. “With parties every night. After each match.” He turned to Aaron. “You mustn’t listen to her. You really should think about staying on.” A question, still testing, but gentler now.
“Oh god, there’s Emil. Be an angel, will you, and run interference for a few minutes? I want to catch up with Aaron. You won’t know anybody we’re talking about, so think how boring. I’ll come rescue you, promise.”
Moreno, apparently easy now, gave another of his nods.
“He’s jealous about you,” Aaron said, watching him head over to a tall gray-haired man with Wilhelmine posture.
“He has no reason to be.” She looked up. “Neither do you. Men.”
“ ‘Office widow’ was a nice touch. Why the little charade?”
“It’s easier. Anyway, what could I say? That I don’t know what you’re doing here? Is that what you want?”
“I want to see you again.”
She looked away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Yes, it is. I’ll buy you a steak. We could just—go. The ambassador would never know.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s just a party.”
“Really, I can’t. Don’t.” She looked back up at him. “That’s why you came? To see me? How did you know I—?”
“Bildener reminded you. I figured you wouldn’t miss it.”
“Bildener,” she said, her voice edgier, nervous. “Oh. At the Alvear. Yes. You could have called.”
“This is more fun. Besides, you can’t hang up.”
“No, there are people. So we pretend we knew each other in New York.”
“It worked,” he said, glancing toward Moreno. “I guess that’s our story now. How did my wife know Tommy?”
“How did anybody?”
“Oh. Not really very nice for me. Did I know or was I the last to know?”
“The last.” A small smile. “Your innocent nature.”
“Did I ever make a pass?” He nodded to the room. “He’ll ask.”
“No, you’re not that kind of man.”
“I must have been crazy.”
She looked at him, her face pink, flushed.
“Come with me.”
“I can’t. I can’t leave here. Not yet.”
“Is there a checklist? Five people you have to see? I’ll do two, you do three, and then you’re done.” He paused. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Knowing it was true the moment he said it. Following her blonde head in a crowd.
“Don’t say that. Careful. Here’s Markus.”
Aaron looked up to see Markus Bildener and his wife coming, glasses in hand.
“Why careful?”
“He thinks he’s my father. Protecting me.”
“From what?”
“You. Anyone. A fortune hunter.” She looked up at him. “Are you?”
“No. Are you rich?”
She smiled a little. “I mean it, be careful. He thinks you’re with Jamie. Up to something.”
“I am,” he said.
She turned. “Trude, how nice. Markus.”
“Gnädige Frau,” Markus said, a hand-kissing deference. “Mr. Willis, isn’t it? Forgive me.”
“Wiley.” A nod to Trude. “Frau Bildener.”
“So. Our Hanna is showing you Buenos Aires?”
“No, no, we just ran into each other,” Hanna said. “I’m here with Ricardo.”
“And his horse?” His idea of a joke. “A coincidence then, to find each other here. You know Ambassador da Silva?” he said to Aaron.
“No, a friend brought me.”
“Ah,” Bildener said. “Well, da Silva’s parties… But I thought you were going to the mountains.”
“I am. But there’s more to see in Buenos Aires than I thought.”
“Well, for young people everywhere is interesting. Me, I find it melancholy.”
“Markus,” Hanna said.
“Yes, it’s true. You don’t find it so sometime?” He faced Aaron. “Look at the centro, the Haussmann streets. They built a capital for an empire, but there was no empire. There never will be. They say Vienna is like that now, a capital without an empire. Thank god I’m not there to see it.”
“You’re Viennese?” Aaron said.
Bildener dipped his head. “But now a porteño. Be careful you don’t stay too long. Like me.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since the war. Another empire lost. But history is like that, no? Rise and fall. Mistakes are made. And then you have to survive. So, a porteño, why not?”
“Markus, such talk,” Trude said. “We were grateful to find a home here.”
“Yes, yes, very welcoming. Maybe not so much now, with the Americans running everything.” He raised his eyebrow at Aaron, testing his reaction to this. “But then, certainly. Europe was in ruins and we were eating. So yes, we were grateful. How could we not be? All the same, it’s not—Vienna. You miss that.”
“That’s all in the past,” Trude said.
“Yes, and here we are drinking champagne. So. I’m glad you could come,” he said to Hanna.
“I promised I would,” she said, looking away.
“It’s good for you to get out. And you know he’s fond of you, da Silva.” He turned to Aaron. “The Argentines, they always look a little down their noses at the Brazilians. A mixed race. But of course with Hanna there’s none of that.”
“No?”
“She doesn’t believe in race theory. A source of argument with—the older generation. So we wait a few years and then we see who was right.”
“What would be the proof?”
Bildener looked at him, but didn’t answer. “And meanwhile she charms the Brazilians. Da Silva said there was someone he wanted you to meet.”
“Yes, all right.”
“We shouldn’t monopolize you then,” Aaron said. “Maybe we’ll run into each other at another party.”
“Yes, that would be nice. Shall we have Markus introduce you to some people or will you be OK on your own?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go soon anyway.”
“You came with—Mr. Campbell?” Bildener said, wanting to know.
“Yes, that’s right. Jamie. Do you know him?”
Bildener smiled. “We’ve met. A great interest in local politics. Not like the other Americans.”
“Jamie?”
“Yes, you’re surprised. It’s like a hobby with him, keeping track, how the parties come and go, one minister after another. But not a Perónist, I think.”
“Is anyone now?”
“Millions. You would be surprised how many long for his return.”
“Is that likely? He’s in exile.”
“But not dead, Mr. Wiley.”
“Perón was very kind to us,” Trude said.
Bildener shot her a glance.
“And here we are talking politics and you have all of Buenos Aires to meet. Well, at least all of Barrio Norte. Hanna, you won’t forget da Silva—?”
“No, of course not.” She turned to Aaron. “I’ve got to go sing for my supper. I hope you enjoy the party. If you see Ricardo— Oh, there he is, I’ll tell him myself. Trude, Markus—”
But as she said it, the name was repeated behind them, a booming echo. “Markus, my good Herr Bildener,” the voice said, followed by a stream of Spanish.
Aaron looked up. A priest in a black cassock and pectoral cross, plump, a genial, florid face. On his head, incongruously, a zucchetto looking just like a Jewish skullcap, as if the religions had finally agreed on something.
“And Hanna, my dear child, what a pleasure.” This in accented German.
“Excellency,” Bildener said. A bishop then, the church hierarchy and its titles still vague to Aaron.
“English, please,” Hanna said, taking his hand and nodding toward Aaron.
“Ah, an American? I should say North American. We’re Americans here too.”
“But still German,” Bildener said, something important to him.
The bishop wagged a scolding finger. “Is that pride? A venal sin, you know. What difference could it possibly make? We are all children of God, surely.” He grinned mischievously. “Even the Germans.”
He laughed, the words bubbling out of him.
“Monsignor Rosas,” Bildener said, introducing him.
“Luis Rosas?” Aaron said, blurting it out, not thinking. A name in Max’s folders, a step on the ratline, lending Otto a helping hand.
Hanna glanced at him, surprised.
“I’m known to you then?” Rosas said, pleased, used to being recognized.
“Forgive me,” Aaron said, backpedaling. “I heard the name but I can’t remember where. Maybe it was someone else.”
Rosas sighed. “Probably not. After the Catholic Alliance it was impossible to go anywhere. People would hear the name and think, aha, that one, the Catholic Alliance. Not the face, I didn’t allow that to be used, but the name they knew.”
“Ah,” Aaron said, as if this answered it.
Rosas smiled. “Not a very popular group with your embassy. Why? I don’t know. A mutual interest, stopping the Communists. But the Americans, the North Americans, like to do things on their own. They never saw the special role Argentina could play, a Christian nation, untouched by the war. This loyal daughter of the Church. Who better to save Europe?”
By forging landing permits for Otto and the others, now Christian warriors, their sins absolved by the threat of the Church’s true enemy. Aaron looked at him again. Not a pinched executioner’s face, another Otto, but a jovial Friar Tuck figure, breezy, enjoying himself, a world away from the Auschwitz siding, the selection. But he must have seen it, that freeze frame of stopped time when everything had been morally clear, before it was an exaggeration.
“Monsignor, not another speech,” Bildener said, a friendly tease. “Have some champagne.”
“I must say, da Silva’s parties. But look at you,” Rosas said, taking Hanna’s hands and holding them. “All grown up.”
“I’ve been grown up for years now.”
“And very lovely too, but to me— Still that little girl. Always wanting to confess. With nothing to confess. Good as gold.”
Hanna flushed, embarrassed by this. “I didn’t tell you everything.”
“Then you can tell me now. When’s the last time—?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she said, smiling.
“I doubt it. You were such a good girl. People don’t change.”
She looked away, uncomfortable.
“Ah, still wearing your trinkets,” he said, looking down at the bracelet. “I remember the little dog—no, it’s different.”
She moved her hands away, out of sight.
“It’s a new one. Bigger.” Uncomfortable again.
“Well, what isn’t?” Rosas said, patting his stomach. “We’re all getting—” He turned to Bildener. “You should see Jorge. So heavy, at his age. I had no idea he was here. In São Paulo, I thought. Nobody tells me anything. I said, how can you come to Buenos Aires and not let me know?”
Bildener had looked at him in a kind of alarm, then over at Hanna, who looked back, a moment between them, so that Aaron had the sense of missing something, distracted by Rosas’s easy flow.
“Who?” Aaron said.
“Jorge Martínez,” Rosas said simply, Bildener now looking at Aaron, reading his face. “An old friend. Some business here, he said,” Rosas said to Bildener. “What business? Just in and out. When I think, in the old days, how we all—”
“Luis. Excellency,” Bildener interrupted. “I’m sorry, I promised da Silva—” He reached for Hanna’s arm.
“Ah, a higher authority.”
Bildener stopped, realizing that if he took Hanna away he would leave Aaron with the priest. Aaron watched his body stall, then pivot, his thoughts being visibly acted out.
“I said I would introduce Mr. Wiley to some of our friends,” Bildener finished, now taking Aaron’s arm. “You’ll be all right?” he said to Hanna.
She bowed to Rosas, a leave-taking. “It was lovely to see you.”
“I never said. I was so sorry about—”
She patted his hand. “I know. Soon. It’s been too long.”
And then, before he could say anything else, she was gone, melting into the crowd, Bildener’s eyes following her, a kind of tracking.
“Such a pity,” Rosas said. “To lose a parent so young.”
Aaron looked at him. Did he know? Otto’s old helper.
“Her father, you mean,” he said. “You knew him.”
“As Helmut Braun. A very pleasant man. Of course, it was a shock—I think to everybody,” he said, including Bildener. “Well, but who are we to judge? Only God does that.”
Aaron thought of several responses to this but was too taken aback to offer any of them. What would be the point? The lie as effortless as breathing. A man who’d helped murderers, happy to leave everything else to God.
“Ah, but here’s my chance. Look at da Silva. Stuck with the dullest man in the room.” Rosas giggled. “It would be a mercy to rescue him, no? Shall we do that, Trude? Enjoy your stay,” he said to Aaron. “I hope we meet again.” His nod like a benediction.
Aaron watched them go. “A man of the cloth,” he said.
Bildener smiled a little. “His whole family was like that. Very social. The night before he entered the seminary, he threw a party for his friends. At a milanga in San Telmo. Cases of champagne. People still talk about it.” He paused. “It’s interesting that you knew him. His name.”
“I still don’t know how. Not the Catholic Alliance. I never heard of it. What is it, anyway?”
“A group against the Communists. Started after Poland fell. Now I think it’s difficult for them. Perón supported them, so now they’re Perónist. Out of favor. Luis was close to him. They say he arranged the papal visit. For Evita. But everyone takes credit for that, so who knows?” Another pause. “Maybe you take an interest in local politics too. Like your friend Campbell.”
“No, I’m just passing through.”
Bildener looked at him, skeptical, Aaron already part of a different story he’d made up. “But you knew Luis. Maybe it was that business with Eichmann. You were interested in that?”
“Eichmann?”
“The trial. Luis was mentioned. As someone who had helped him. Of course, not true. How would Luis know such a person? Another lie. Trial. If you can call it a trial. Everyone knew they would kill him. There was never any doubt about that.”
“No,” Aaron said.
“They just—take people. German people. Who knows what they did? Or didn’t do? But do you think the Israelis care about that? Another German to put on trial, that’s what they want. And the government here— Of course, this wouldn’t happen before. Perón would never stand for that. On Argentine territory? Never. But now—you can’t help but worry, if you’re German.”
“You don’t think Eichmann was a special case?”
“We’re all special cases to them. At least Otto’s out of it now.”
“But it must have been hard for her. Hanna.” Looking up as he said it, her head visible across the room. She was talking to a small group, a clutch bag in one hand and a glass in the other, the Spanish Hanna now, not the one he knew. Bildener looked across with him.
“Yes, hard. So unexpected,” he said, watching her. “They were very close, you know.”
“I didn’t. She never talked about him. In New York.”
“Well, she had a different life there,” Bildener said vaguely. He turned to Aaron. “I wonder if I can say something to you without giving offense.”
Aaron waited.
“If I can speak for her father.”
Aaron nodded, not sure where this was going.
“She married a Jew once and it did not go well for her.”
“Tommy wasn’t Jewish.” Still not sure.
“A mix,” Bildener said, waving this off. “Who knows how much blood it takes?”
“And?”
“You have a Jewish look. I know we’re not supposed to say that now. A different time. Maybe it’s a changed name, maybe not. That’s your affair. But another Jew? No. I’m thinking of her, you see. That’s why I say these things to you.”
Aaron stared at him, the words like an icicle on his back, the cold dripping down his skin, Bildener’s eyes hard blue.
“She thinks it doesn’t matter, but it does. You can’t mix blood.”
Nothing changed. This one to the left.
“Go to hell,” Aaron said quietly.
Bildener reared back, genuinely surprised. What had he expected? “I have offended you.” Cocktail party politeness. “So maybe I shouldn’t have said. Since you’re just passing through.” A slight nod, as if he were physically prodding him along.
“No. I mean it. Go to hell. Burn.”
“So. I was right. A Jew.”
“After they put you in a glass box. Like Eichmann. So everybody can see. I’ll be in the front row.”
“At my trial?” An exaggerated irony.
“No, at the freak show. With all the others like you.”
“Stay away from her.”
“Where everybody can see.”
“You can change your name but you can’t—” He stopped, eyes widening, a streak of fear flashing across them, seeing something in Aaron’s face, the adrenaline rushing out of control. Stop. Leave.
Aaron turned and walked away, not toward anything, just away, his hands trembling now, feeling curiously exposed, as if everyone were watching him. What had just happened? An enemy he hadn’t needed to make. A complication. Worse, not controlling it, a rage so close to the surface all Bildener had to do was pull a trigger. Where had that come from? Not from Max, plodding, methodically filling his folders. What good is mad? he’d said. You have to win the case.
He stopped at the bar near the open French doors. The last thing he needed, gas on a fire. He ordered a club soda and stood against the wall, calming down. Men in suits and shiny shoes, women in dresses and diamonds, talking louder now, the party swelling, Spanish and Portuguese and English. Monsignor Rosas had moved on from the ambassador, a ripple of laughter following him. Champagne the night before the seminary. Bildener had moved too, toward the edge of the room. Steady, not at all upset, the moment with Aaron forgotten, or maybe having served its purpose, driving him away. He was talking to a heavyset man whose jowls shook as he spoke, leaning in, intimate. Maybe the faithless Martínez, who’d put on weight, or another soldier in the Catholic Alliance, saving Poland for the Church.
“Sitting this one out?” Jamie, with a square glass and what looked like bourbon.
“It’s more fun to watch.”
“You’re the one who wanted to come. Meet anybody?”
“Monsignor Rosas.”
“The padre? He tell you how he’s taking on the Commies?”
“More or less.”
“Somebody should. We’re not doing so hot.”
“Are they? His group?”
“Marx or the Pope. They think it’s a choice. They’re surprised people don’t make it.”
“I gather he was friends with Perón.”
“Everybody was. When he was Perón. But Madrid’s far away.”
“And we want to keep it that way.”
“We don’t want him back, that’s for sure. What happened to your girlfriend?”
Aaron looked over his shoulder at the crowded room. “She’s around somewhere.”
But not nearby. The jowly man had moved away, heading down the hall toward the business end of the embassy, a row of office doors, closed for the party. Bildener was coming back toward the center of the room when he was intercepted by Ricardo, an awkward meeting neither of them wanted but had to get through. For a second Aaron imagined them talking about the Argentine Open, the boredom cushioned by politeness, but then Hanna was there, handing Ricardo her glass while she moved her purse, the endless juggling of women at cocktail parties, purse, drink, cigarette.
“What about Jorge Martínez?” Aaron said.
Campbell looked up, surprised. “What about him?”
“What do we know?”
“You met him too? You really work a room.”
“No, but he’s here. So who is he?”
“Intelligence Bureau. Or was. A piece of work. Kind of guy makes lots of enemies. But the friends were the right ones. So when they were making—adjustments, after Perón left, they moved him over to the diplomatic corps. Out of the way. God knows what he had on them, but anyway, enough to save his ass. Some cushy job in Brazil. He’s back?”
“Flying visit, in and out. He’s a friend of Bildener’s?”
“Back in the day. Now, I don’t know. You don’t hear much about the Fourth Reich these days.”
Her words too, a sarcastic edge. Now she was handing Ricardo her glass again, apparently asking for a refill, then leaning forward to hear Bildener, close to her ear. Maybe something about the American friend’s behavior. Or more paternal advice. Whatever it was, she barely heard it, distracted, looking around, then moving off down the hall, stopping a waiter to ask a question.
“Why the interest?” Jamie was saying.
Aaron shrugged. “Just curious. The monsignor seemed surprised he was here. So I wondered why.”
“Like I said, he’s a guy who made enemies. The way he made them was torture, whatever nasty was going around. So it’s not a good town for him anymore. People remember.”
“Then why come?”
“He’s Argentine. Maybe he came to see his mother.”
“No,” Aaron said, thinking. “Business. In and out. So what kind of business?”
“You have a suspicious mind.”
She was looking at the doors as she passed down the hall, then evidently found the right brass plate and went in, a darting glance behind her. Where the man with the jowls had gone. Not the ladies’ room.
“Jamie, you know what he looks like?”
“Big guy. I can dig up a picture if you want.”
“You had him under—?”
“A person of interest.”
“Oh?”
“They all were in the Intelligence Bureau. That’s who ran things, so we needed to keep tabs. And one would lead to the other. They took care of each other.”
Suddenly she was back in the hall, looking flustered, as if she had made a mistake and gone through the wrong door, a cover story, hurrying now, back to the party, stopping just for a second to adjust her glove, one of the charms snagged. She looked up, and for a minute Aaron thought she was looking at him, but Ricardo moved away from his group, handing her a glass. A quick smile, a gulp of the drink, back in the party, Aaron still looking over Jamie’s shoulder, not sure what he’d seen, waiting for the man with the jowls to appear. But the hall stayed empty, as if he’d never been there or was busy behind some other door.
“So they ship him off to Brazil. But not to Rio, the embassy.”
“Well, Brasilia now. They’re not exactly lining up to go there.”
“Still, he’s a big guy. He’d want the embassy. But he’s in São Paulo. So what’s there, a consulate? He’d be happy with that?”
“It’s São Paulo, for Christ’s sake. We’re not talking about some place up the Amazon.”
Still no one in the hall. The party loud around them.
“Anyway, he’d fit right in there,” Jamie said.
“Why?”
“It’s where the Germans are. The tourists go to Rio, but the Germans go to São Paulo. All the big companies. So he’d have lots of friends. Old home week.”
“Because that’s what he did here.”
Jamie nodded. “Recruit military advisors. Ex-Luftwaffe. To train the air force. All aboveboard, except for a new identity here and there. If they’d been more than pilots. And then the others, the ones the Intelligence Bureau took a special interest in.”
“Like Otto Schramm?”
“Maybe. We don’t know. And now— There may be records somewhere, but I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it. Why don’t you ask her?”
Aaron looked at him.
“Oh, that’s right. She doesn’t know you—” He stopped. “By the way, the tap? Nothing. I said I’d give it a week, but I don’t think you’re going to get anything there. Either she’s careful or she’s not in touch. Or you’ve made a mistake.”
“Give it the week anyway.”
“Nice woman. At least on the phone. Kind of girl you’d think about marrying, except for the family.”
And then there he was, in the hall, closing the door behind him and heading deeper into the embassy, away from the party. Not the men’s room either. The meeting no more than a minute or two, something you’d miss if you blinked. Just enough time to deliver a message. Which meant one of them would have to pass it on to Otto.
“Jamie? Could you put a tail on him? Martínez?”
“More official business? No. And no. You’re out of favors, remember?”
“You have a file on him then?”
“Still no.”
“A quick look. Back in a day.”
“What do you think you’re going to find?”
“I don’t know. A needle in a haystack. If he helped Otto once, he might still be helping him.”
Two people in the meeting. She was moving away, toward the other reception room.
“You know that’s not what we’re here for, right? Looking for Nazis.”
“We should be.”
Out of sight now, in the other room, maybe about to leave.
“I’ll catch you later,” Aaron said, patting his upper arm.
He walked through the crowd, turning sideways to slice between standing groups. She had gone into the opposite hall, the right way to the ladies’ room this time, and he waited at the corner. He put his glass back on a passing tray. A single meeting, no more than a few minutes, maybe not even about Otto. But it must have been. An address, a number. He’d be so happy to see you. No longer strolling on the Jungfernstieg. At home. Somewhere near. Close now. Use anything.
She stopped when she came back into the hall, surprised to see him, a flash of apprehension. She had taken off her gloves and now held them with her purse, more juggling.
“Enjoying yourself?” she said, trying to be casual.
“Not much. I had a fight with Bildener. He tell you?”
She shook her head.
“He wants me to stay away from you. No Jews.”
“Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “That’s about Tommy.”
“I said I wouldn’t.”
She looked up. “Did you?”
“What about you? See everybody you had to see?”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought da Silva wanted—”
“Oh, that. Yes.”
“So we’re free to go. No one will notice.”
“I can’t leave Ricardo. We came together.”
“That’s before you got sick. You don’t want to spend the rest of the evening in there,” he said, nodding toward the ladies’ room.
“Something I ate?” she said.
“Ask him to put you in a cab. That way he’ll know you’re going home alone.”
“And where will you be?”
“Waiting for you. At the hotel.”
She looked over at him, eyes alive now, as if he had touched her.
“Just like that,” she said.
“You’re finished here,” he said, curious to see her reaction, but she answered by looking around the room.
“I have to say good-bye to da Silva. He’ll want to send a doctor. It’s not so easy as you think.”
“Ricardo will make your excuses. He’d be good at it. Just have him put you in a cab.” He looked at her. “We’ll play hooky.”
A question mark, not familiar with the word.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll explain it later.”
“You’re so sure I’ll come.”
He took her hand, a good-bye, the skin warm to the touch, and felt her react to it, a reflex, pulling away.
“No. But I’ll wait.” He started to leave, then turned to her. “Come,” he said, looking at her. “I want you to.”
At Posadas he sat in the lobby, pretending to read a newspaper in a club chair near the revolving door, one eye on the street. Early evening, circles of dark under the trees. The desk clerk was busying himself with some papers, eyes down, an exaggerated pose of discretion. Aaron imagined her still at the party, trying to make her excuses, Ricardo hovering. You’re so sure I’ll come. But he wasn’t. He turned the newspaper page, restless. Pictures of men in suits, the minister of this, the minister of that, a whole government he didn’t know. Friends of Jorge, who’d helped Otto once. Maybe landing cards, maybe something more, the Intelligence Bureau impossible to refuse. Meeting with her, away from the party. Think it through. But he couldn’t, Jorge as fuzzy as the men in the newspaper. What if she didn’t come? If he’d overplayed it?
He got up and went over to the window, nervous, a teenager waiting for a date, not knowing what to do with himself. It had to mean something, meeting like that. She’d be careful now. But she’d come before. It’s enough, she’d said, but it wasn’t.
A black-and-yellow taxi pulled up in front, idling while the passenger paid. When the door opened, the long legs came out first, the skirt hiked up as she slid out. He felt an almost giddy sense of relief. Here. A bellboy rushed out to close the door behind her, bowing with deference. Not sneaking in, an arrival. Then she saw him through the window and smiled, some joke between them, knowing she’d come.
“Any problems?”
“No. He didn’t believe me, but he had to save face. So now tell me. What’s hooky?” Talking in a rush, her voice too low for the desk clerk to hear.
“Playing hooky. Not going to school. Doing something you want to do instead.”
“And if you get caught?”
“More school. After hours. But the trick is not getting caught. To get away with it.”
She looked up at him. “Playing hooky,” she said, practicing the phrase.
“Are you hungry? Should we have dinner?”
“After,” she said, her eyes meeting his, so that the word went through him, a shudder, as if a hand were touching his genitals.
They went back to the elevator, and when it left the ground floor he kissed her, pushing her against the metal frame. “Wait,” she said, but kissed him back, ready, her breath coming faster, the only other sound the whine of the iron cage as it rose past the next floor.
In the room, he thought it would be slower, making love to someone you already knew, but it was as before, clothes thrown to the floor, urgent, the hurry of stolen time. When she rolled him over and knelt on top, riding him, her breasts cupped in his hands, she began a gentle rocking motion, almost languid, that for a second seemed to promise a different rhythm, but then she was leaning down, kissing him, and the pleasure came rushing at them again and they went faster and faster to meet it, breathing ragged, making little involuntary sounds, until they were there, unaware of anything else.
Afterward they lay still, their bodies sweaty and warm, letting the breeze dry them. Now what? Ask her what Jorge had wanted? Tell her what he was doing? Feeling like this, his whole body flushed with well-being, and knowing it was wrong, some violation, not what Max had asked him to do. But how else to do it? He looked over at her, her face relaxed now, eyes closed, and he thought of how he’d felt seeing her get out of the taxi, a little rush of blood rising closer to the skin. I want you to come. And he had wanted it. But she’d met with Jorge, long enough to get a message, which she’d give to Otto. People don’t lie in bed, she’d said. But they did.
She moved, leaning over him. “Is there a shower? I’m so sticky.”
He nodded toward the bathroom, then watched her as she got up and walked across the room, the way the back of her moved, something he knew now. When he heard the water start, he got up to get a cigarette. He looked at the desk, remembering emptying his pockets in the rush to get naked. Wallet, keys landing where they’d been flung. Her charm bracelet. He smiled to himself. Something she’d liked as a girl, according to Rosas. Even the same charms, the dog, the— He stopped, then reached over and picked it up. An empty ring. No key. But there had been one. He remembered seeing it in her apartment. Where he shouldn’t have been. Noticed it because it was smaller than the other pieces. He stared down at the bracelet and saw her coming down the hall at the embassy, adjusting it on her glove, because something had got hooked. An empty ring. Missing the key. Not a charm, a real key. To what? Too small for a door. Thin, the kind you slid in and turned. He looked up. A safety deposit box. A number and a small key, all you needed. Now with Jorge. Not a message, a bribe, a payment. But what had she bought?
He reached over to her bag, listening to the water. The way he’d felt in the apartment, a small tingle of shame, no excuse possible if she walked in now. But she’d bought something. He opened the bag. The usual lipstick and handkerchief and small bills and cosmetics. And an envelope, stiff. He opened it and took out the paper. Folded over, like a book. In Portuguese, but Portuguese even he could understand. A resident visa. For Erich Kruger. He stared at the picture. The same cheekbones, sharp eyes. So this is what Otto looked like now. Like Erich Kruger, heading for Brazil. His future bought and paid for.
The shower stopped. He slid the visa back into the envelope and put it in her bag. Why she had to go to the party. Something Bildener knew. Who else?
She opened the door a crack. “You really ought to try it,” she said. “It feels wonderful.” Happy, having made love.
And hearing her, he knew what he would do, saw the next few minutes unfold, like a preview. He’d go into the bathroom and they’d both get in the shower, their bodies soapy, rubbing up against each other, and they’d get excited again under the water, maybe even make love there or get back on the bed, not minding the damp, but maybe in the shower because they really shouldn’t and that was exciting in itself. But they’d do it somewhere because now they needed to be closer than ever. Otto was going somewhere, about to show himself.