Peter radioed in the Bronco’s plate. While they waited for an answer he shook pieces from the envelope into the ashtray, then turned the flame of his lighter directly on the threads. They lit like yellow kindling; strings of black ash rose on brown smoke, and a familiar, noxious aroma filled the car.

“Pure Trabi.” Peter blew out the flame. “Proving nothing. There’s not enough left of Tommy’s Trabi to match to this, but even a lawyer would have to say the Bronco hit something.”

The radio spoke rapid German. Peter wrote on a pad “Fantasy Tours” and the address of Boris Benz.

Arkady said, “Ask how many cars are registered in Fantasy’s name.”

Peter asked, then wrote on the pad the number 18. Also, “Pathfinders, Navajos, Cherokees, Troopers, Rovers.”

He put the phone back in its sleeve. “You said you never met Benz.”

“I said that Tommy met Benz.”

“You said that you and Tommy were on the highway because you were looking for Benz. You went to the sex club first.”

“Tommy saw him there a year ago.”

“Who was the connection? How did they meet?”

Arkady had succeeded in keeping Max’s name from Peter because Max was only one step away from Irina. It would be a bitter outcome, he thought, if he had come all this way just to drag her into Peter’s investigation.

Peter said, “Why would they meet? Tommy wanted to talk to Benz about the war?”

“I’m sure Tommy told him about it. He was interviewing people for a book about the war. He was obsessed with it. His apartment is a museum of the war.”

“I was there.”

“What did you think?”

Peter’s eyes looked energized, as if they had picked up electricity from the radio. From his jacket he produced a key. “I think we should visit this museum again.”

Swastikas stretched across two walls. The Wehrmacht map covered a third. On the shelves were Tommy’s collection of gas masks, tin panzers, a hubcap from Hitler’s touring car, assorted ammunition, Goebbels’s reinforced shoe. A clock in the shape of an eagle said twelve A.M.

Peter said, “I was here earlier. In and out. Normally we don’t search the apartments of traffic victims.”

On the table where the birthday cake for the Berlin Wall had melted, a typewriter was set up with notes, paper and file cards. Peter wandered about, focusing field glasses, trying on an armband and an SS cap, like an actor let loose in a prop room. He lifted a helmet, the one Tommy had worn at the party.

“Alas, poor Jürgen, I knew him well.”

He laid down the helmet and picked up a dental mold. “Hitler’s teeth,” Arkady said.

Peter opened the mold. “Sieg heil!”

The short hairs on Arkady’s neck rose.

“Do you know why we lost the war?” Peter asked.

“Why did you lose the war?”