The fisherman, maybe. There had been that moment’s doubt about him, but it had long passed. Barnard Wagner had given him no further reason to suspect him of being anything more than what he was—a simple young man whose ambition was to fish and earn his living on the water. Nonetheless—Konrad sighed at his memories—he had uncovered treachery behind the unlikeliest exteriors, and gratitude for the kindnesses shown a man’s son could blind him to the motives behind them. Best that he investigate.

Hans took a nap this time of afternoon, and he’d outdone himself with the luncheon, so Konrad left him undisturbed and went in search of Wilhelm. He found him reading a book Claus Bauer had brought him, one of the numerous entertainments he’d provided to fill his son’s solitary hours. To round out the boy’s study, Konrad had engaged another tutor, a middle-aged, brisk, businesslike woman who came in the mornings, but his son was alone for the rest of the day. Wilhelm liked the woman well enough, but he absolutely adored Herr Bauer.

Konrad sat down on the chair’s footstool. “Wilhelm, I have something to ask you. After luncheon, when you and our guests were playing kickball, did Herr Wagner leave to come back into the house?”

His nose still in the book, Wilhelm replied without apparently having to think about his answer, “No sir.”

“Well, then.” Konrad rose, satisfied. He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Continue with your reading.”

Konrad was almost out the door when Wilhelm said, “Herr Bauer did.”

*  *  *

Louis Mueller locked his set of master keys to the Sorbonne in his desk drawer, feeling his usual frustration at his empty-handedness. He had finished his rounds of Saturday snooping and once again found nothing of report in either the office of Jules Garnier or in the cubicle of Claus Bauer. Both had been under his special scrutiny for almost a month after the October 2 search of their desks had jiggled his suspicions, but Claus Bauer’s peculiar language pattern had never appeared again in his notes. His penmanship followed the rules of proper German syntax. No more references to Claus Bauer had shown up in Jules Garnier’s datebook, nor any notation of a clandestine nature in his personal papers. Still, Herr Bauer’s reminder in his lesson planner to bring a sandwich for Wilhelm March and the personnel director’s cloaked phrase CB in place continued to nag him. They meant something. He was sure of it.