The street before him was filling with spectators lining up for the parade. O’Farrell was the staging area for Allies of the United States. In the last few weeks, war on Germany had been declared by Guatemala, Nicaragua, and several other coffee-producing nations outraged at German U-boat warfare. So there were groups of foreigners in tropical costumes, fitting their mules with colorful saddle blankets and woven sacks stenciled COFFEE for the march up Market Street.

Also, the Onondaga Nation had declared war on Germany. Under a treaty negotiated in the eighteenth century with George Washington, the nations under the Iroquois Confederacy had the power to declare war separately from the United States, and the Onondagas had done so because of a specific insult against them in Berlin, after a Wild West show.

So O’Farrell Street, already hosting men in serapes, was now the site for a half dozen Indians who were preparing to reprise some of the very act that had so enraged the Kaiser.

Lee walked past them. He needed to give the Bureau his name so they could confirm he was on the payroll. He worked up the courage to approach the Commerce building, found the lobby, and then, after the doors swung shut behind him, took the stairs two at a time to the fifth floor.

The Bureau of Lighthouses was the last door at the end of the hallway, gold letters on frosted glass, with the familiar seal below, the Pharos of Alexandria. He was unsure if he should knock. He remembered his badge, and fumbled in his pocket to put it on his lapel: a red enamel star showing he had been the best Assistant Keeper of the winter of 1916. He threw open the door and immediately waved, as if he already knew and loved what he would find within.

“Hello,” he said.

There was a small anteroom inside. At the end was a short white counter with a teller’s cage, as if it were a bank window. Sitting on a stool, smiling, wearing a green auditor’s visor, was a German—Alsatian— shepherd.

The room was silent except for the dog’s panting. Lee looked left and right. They were alone. He took a couple of steps closer, and let the door close behind him.

As Lee approached, the dog’s eyebrows moved to register all sorts of momentary emotions: pleasure, playfulness, and, as he got closer, suspicion.

Lee put his hands on his hips and said, with only a trace of fear, “Hello, boy.”

The dog let out a thunderous series of barks that echoed in the anteroom, causing Lee to flinch.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” It was a man’s voice. “Barney! Get down, now! Bad dog!”