And so, Mr. John DeWitt of Providence, Rhode Island, booked the last two double rooms at the Hotel Charles III, and within fifteen minutes all four of them were asleep in beds that were only marginally more comfortable than the van seats in which all but Patton had dozed for the past three hours. Jean did not even complain about sharing a room with Nemo. Ruthie and Patton both feigned nonchalance about bunking together.

Ruthie awoke just after eight and took what passed for a shower, though the plumbing delivered water at a rate more like that of an IV drip. Still, after two days on the run it felt good to clean up. She only wished she had clean clothes to change into. Jean had said the library opened at nine, so Ruthie had just decided that she’d better wake up Patton when a knock came at the door. Nemo and Jean stood in the hallway, barefoot and rumpled. Clearly neither had partaken of the limited pleasure that was the Hotel Charles III showers.

“Have you seen the news?” said Nemo, forcing himself past Ruthie and into the room.

“Our TV doesn’t work,” said Ruthie.

Nemo turned the knob on the TV that was old enough to have a knob on it, but nothing happened.

“What’s going on?” said Patton groggily as Jean sat on the end of her bed, looking shaken.

“The news,” she said in a quiet voice.

“What news?” said Patton, sitting up slowly and clutching the sheet to her chest. She had slept in her bra and panties and had no intention of giving Nemo a show.

“Get dressed,” said Nemo sharply. “And then come into our room, but don’t let anyone see you.”

“Why shouldn’t I let . . .”

“Just do it,” said Nemo, turning for the door.

“Hey,” said Ruthie, “there’s no need to . . .” but Nemo had already left the room before she could reprimand him.

“Don’t worry,” said Patton. “He gets that way. And he usually has a good reason.”

“It’s a good reason,” said Jean as Patton pulled on her pants and grabbed her sweatshirt from the windowsill where she had hung it to air out.

Two minutes later, they all sat on the ends of the twin beds in Nemo’s room, watching the news coverage of the explosion in Munich. Patton, still not fully awake, did not register the words on the bottom of the screen, but when the image of the remains of Ingrid Weiss’s house was replaced with two faces, she took a sharp breath. Patton’s last military ID photograph and a grainy but unmistakable image of Jean filled the screen.

“Shit,” said Patton.

“Shit is right,” said Nemo.

“How the hell did they get this?” said Patton.

“Apparently poor Ingrid Weiss, who is now a victim of anti-Semitism, sent the police a message implicating you two.”

“But Ingrid Weiss thinks Jean blew up in the house,” said Patton.