“I knew I had seen that Melchior before,” she said as the sea of tourists seethed around them. “And I knew it would be in Romano’s book. He’s from an Adoration of the Magi by Antonio Pegronini.”

“Never heard of him,” said Nemo.

“Most people haven’t,” said Jean. “He wasn’t particularly good. To make it as an Italian Renaissance artist, you had to know your anatomy, and like I said Pegronini didn’t.”

“So what good does it do us to know that somebody altered Himmler’s alchemy scroll with a copy of a bad painting?”

“A detail from a bad painting,” said Jean. “It might not do us any good at all. But it might also be worth a trip to Brenner.”

“Where’s that?”

“In the north of Italy on the Austrian border,” said Jean. “About as close as you can get to Germany and be on Italian soil.”

“And why do we want to go there?”

“Because in the hills above the village is the Chapel of the Magi and in that chapel is a fresco by Antonio Pegronini.”

“Let me guess,” said Nemo, “The Adoration of the Magi.”

“Exactly.”

XI

XI

february 1945

“Rossini?” said Himmler. “Like the composer?”

“Si, Herr Himmler, but no relation.”

“And you are Italian?”

“Si, Italian. But I do work for Herr Göring. He recommends me, I believe.”

“He does,” said Himmler. He considered the diminutive Italian man before him—his olive skin and dark hair, combined with what he lacked in stature, proved his inferior race. And yet, Göring had praised his peculiar talent. Himmler could clearly see the paint under the man’s fingernails. A sign of uncleanliness or of passion for his work, he wondered. It hardly mattered. Himmler needed an artist and Signor Rossini was the only one at hand.

“You know this scene?” said Himmler, sliding a color photograph across his desk.

Signor Rossini picked up the photo and held it close to his face. “Si, si,” he said. “Adorazione dei Magi. The Adoration of the Magi.”

“And you can paint this, just as it is in the photograph?”

“Si,” said Rossini. “I can paint this.”

“How long?”

“Three weeks. Maybe four.”

“You have three,” said Himmler. “I will arrange for your transport tonight. The supplies will be waiting for you there.”

“It is difficult to do such work without an assistant,” said Rossini.

“We are in a war Signor Rossini,” said Himmler. “We all have our difficulties.”

Helmut entered Himmler’s office as the small Italian man left, escorted by an SS storm trooper. “Who is that?” said Helmut, with a hint of disdain in his voice.

“He is none of your concern,” said Himmler. “Not yet.”

Three weeks later the Italian, clutching his hat, stood once more in Himmler’s cavernous office at Wewelsburg Castle.

“And this photograph is after you did your work?” said Himmler, when Rossini had pulled a snapshot out of his pocket.