“All the Columbia House books I traced had been stolen from libraries here and in Prague.” Jean could see in a flash that she had struck a nerve. Though the look of panic that crossed Ingrid’s face lasted only an instant before being replaced with her previous implacable calm, Jean had confronted enough students about plagiarism to know when she had shaken her opponent.

“Would you pardon me for just a moment,” said Ingrid, pulling her phone out of her slacks pocket. “This infernal thing keeps vibrating and I need to turn it off.” She tapped twice on the screen, then set the phone down on the table. “Now, where were we?”

“You were about to explain why you have been giving away stolen library books in an effort to convince me not to call the police.”

“The police? I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“It certainly won’t,” said a voice from behind Jean.

“Jean Simpson, this is my associate Gottfried Bergman.”

Jean had never come face-to-face with the barrel of a gun and her first thought when she turned to see Gottfried leveling a pistol at her was that the opening reminded her of a train tunnel. Then she pictured a train speeding out of it and exploding into her forehead and she thought for a moment she might lose control of her bowels.

“I wonder if you might come with me, Miss Simpson,” said Gottfried with a sweetness that belied the threat of his weapon.

“I . . . I . . .” Jean tried to stand, found that her legs had turned to jelly, and fell back into the chair.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Ingrid impatiently. “Do I have to do everything around here?” She shoved her chair back from the table, stood, and grabbed Jean by the arm, yanking her upright. Jean stumbled forward as Ingrid pulled her toward the door to the basement, Gottfried keeping the gun trained on her the whole time. “Down!” shouted Ingrid as Jean teetered on the brink of the steep wooden staircase.

Jean steadied herself with the bannister and managed to make it to the bottom of the steps. She emerged in a large square room, lit with the glow of several computer screens and three bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. In the far corner a man brushed a few strands of hair out of a woman’s face.

“Can you two keep your hands off each other for five minutes?” snapped Ingrid.

Dietrich stepped away from Eva and walked up to Jean, standing uncomfortably close and staring at her face. “So this is our volunteer for Operation Waistcoat.”

“I’m not a volunteer for anything,” said Jean, who had started to regain her nerve.

“Have a seat,” said Ingrid, ignoring Jean’s comment. She nodded toward an uncomfortable-looking ladder-back chair in the corner opposite the computers.

“No, thank you,” said Jean.