“I planted a seismic detector in the bushes across the street in case we ever did this,” said Gottfried. “Ran it off the neighbors’ Wi-Fi. The second I hit ‘detonate’ that thing went off the charts.”

“Brilliant!” said Ingrid. “No more Jean Simpson and no evidence of the true nature of Columbia House.”

“Plus,” said Eva, “you are now the sympathetic victim of a terror attack. Your house blown to bits just because you were trying to help out the descendants of Holocaust victims.”

“How long do we wait before we send the message to the police?” said Gottfried.

“I think we should wait a couple of hours at least,” said Ingrid.

“Why?” said Eva. “An explosion like that, the police will be on the scene in minutes and the press won’t be far behind. The last thing we want is for them to find their own evidence instead of using ours.”

“She’s right,” said Dietrich. “We tell them where to look, and that’s where they’ll look.”

“OK, send it now,” said Ingrid.

“You sure it won’t seem suspicious?” said Gottfried. “Coming so soon.”

“How long has it been?” said Ingrid.

“Six minutes,” said Gottfried.

“And you’re sure you can send it so they can’t trace our location?”

“Absolutely,” said Gottfried.

“Give it ten minutes,” said Ingrid. “Then do it.”

Patton sat behind the wheel of the van shaking as the pages of books, some of them in flames, fluttered down around them. She could feel blackness closing in on her and Ruthie’s screaming in the back seat didn’t help. Lights flicked on in the houses nearby and doors opened. She could dimly hear shouts over the ringing in her ears and Ruthie’s ruckus.

“Stop it,” said Patton as calmly as she could muster, but Ruthie seemed not to hear.

“Oh God, oh God, that woman,” she shouted. “What do we do? What do we do?”

“You stop it,” said Patton, more forcefully this time. In a situation where she had no control, trying to control Ruthie might yank her out of the fog and back to reality. Nothing would remove the blackness, but maybe she could unfreeze herself if she could just get Ruthie to shut up. When the hysterics continued, she picked up her Luger off the seat, turned around, and pointed it squarely at Ruthie.