At 4:00 p.m. Munich time, Ingrid Weiss logged on to her private encrypted email server and sent a coded message to the other three chief associates of Columbia House Enterprises. An operative working to retrieve a stolen artifact had been scheduled to report in an hour earlier. The lack of communication meant there were likely complications. Complications that could prove embarrassing for Columbia House if not dealt with promptly. The operation, while dangerous, had promised results that could transform Columbia House from a small organization run out of a house in Munich into a significant player on the world stage. If problems had arisen, Weiss wanted her team together to deal with them and to oversee the next steps. Within ten minutes she had received replies from all three associates. The one who lived in the Munich area would be there within the hour. The one in Stuttgart wrote that she would be on the next train and should arrive by about seven. The one working in Amsterdam was on the way to the airport and would land in Munich at seven thirty and arrive at Ingrid’s house as quickly as a taxi could get there. Weiss brewed a fresh pot of coffee, filled a platter with bread, cheese, and salami, and descended into her cellar, prepared for a long night.

Hours earlier, in the light of dawn, Jasper had caught sight of a moving shadow out of the corner of his eye. Feigned sleep seemed the best way to invite the visitor in, and after ten minutes of leaning back into the sofa cushions with his eyes closed, he heard the swish of the front door sweeping across the welcome mat. He opened his eyes and saw for an instant the face that had haunted him for seventy years. Then the boyish blue eyes and the tousled blond hair faded away, and Jasper knew this was not really the boy whose life he had taken in 1945, but he also knew that the memory and the dream were closing in on him at last, that his mind was playing merciful tricks. And he knew, somehow, that the man who had been following him for the past two weeks had been sent to deliver him sweet relief at last. Even though Jasper would not accept that relief at the hands of a stranger, he felt comforted by the man’s presence—an insurance policy in case Jasper lost his nerve. When the face dissolved from that of a fifteen-year-old boy into that of a scruffy middle-aged man, Jasper spoke.

“You’ve come at last.”

“I thought you were asleep,” said the man.

“I’ve been waiting for you. You are death, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” said the man, stepping warily closer.

“But you came to kill me.”

“Yes.”

“So it amounts to the same thing.”

“I suppose,” said the man.

“Thank you,” said Jasper.

“People in your situation don’t usually thank me,” said the man.