“Where is Ingrid Weiss?” shouted another reporter, but Christian pushed his way through the crowd and back into the security of the police headquarters. He hadn’t lied to the reporters, but he had left out a lot. His top priority was finding Ingrid Weiss, and if he needed to use the press to help him do that, he was happy to do so. So he had not mentioned that Jean Simpson was no longer a suspect, he had not said that Ingrid Weiss was certainly guilty of fraud and possibly of much more, and he hadn’t passed along the information that the Italian Polizia had agreed to keep quiet for at least a few hours—the fact that there had been no bodies at the Italian blast site.

Christian still didn’t understand Ingrid Weiss’s game, but he knew it was more than giving away stolen library books. If he could convince Weiss the explosions had been pinned on two terrorists who were now dead, she might show herself and he could bring her in for questioning. So no, he hadn’t told any lies to the press, not yet. But if that was what it took to flush out Ingrid Weiss, he wasn’t above manipulating those reporters in any way that served the cause of justice.

By eight o’clock that night, Ingrid’s elation that they had secured the gold and would be able to use it to promote Himmler’s racial ideals had been tempered with boredom. Eva and Dietrich had gone on patrol every two hours and seen nothing. The news from Munich simply repeated the same information. The cave was cold and damp and ill lit, and lying low, it turned out, was tedious business. She had been thrilled several months ago when Gottfried had secured two bank loans, hired some amateur Nazi historian to find the Fox’s Den, and purchased this property through a hidden subsidiary of Columbia House. But the excitement of hiding out in a facility constructed by Himmler faded quickly. True, they seemed safe here, but she looked forward to the time when she could take a hot shower and sleep in a proper bed. They just needed to hear that the police had recovered the bodies in Italy and blamed the explosion in Munich on Jean Simpson and Patton Harcourt. Then she could emerge from hiding, the relieved victim, cash an insurance check, humbly acknowledge an outpouring of donations, and quietly begin the true work of Columbia House.

Shortly after ten o’clock, as Ingrid lay awake on the IKEA mattress that passed for a bed, Gottfried called out to her.

“What is it?” she said, striding into the space where Gottfried had set up his computer. “And where the hell are the others?”

“On patrol,” said Gottfried. “Or more likely shagging in the woods. But it’s the latest news you should worry about. Christian Ulrich has released another statement.”

“Christian Ulrich?”