The line went dead. Wilde handed the telephone back to the secretary. ‘Thank you.’

Appache was at his side. ‘Some sort of movement?’

‘Maybe. Just another line of inquiry. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.’

‘You OSS boys like to keep things under your hats, don’t you?’

‘It won us the war, Colonel.’

‘You know, Wilde . . .’

He held up a hand to stop the colonel in his tracks. ‘Forgive me. Superstition. Chickens hatching, that sort of thing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Goddamn it, Wilde, this isn’t good enough.’

But Wilde didn’t hear him. Or didn’t want to. He was already out of the office, heading for the jeep. He wanted a few hours alone, to study the map in greater detail and to get it photographically copied. He had a powerful feeling that it meant something more than just a mountain man’s life’s work. It was a key that might unlock a door. Or snap closed like a gin-trap.

Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Mozes Heck slept in snatches. Even in his army-issue sleeping bag he couldn’t get comfortable on the rocky ground. The temperature fell sharply, and by the early hours, he was cold.

Every time he woke up, he reached for the binoculars and peered down into the village. When the cloud cover lowered and enveloped the mountainside, he could see nothing. Not that there was much to see anyway, even during the daylight hours.

After the farewell scene between Frau Boden and her maidservant, nothing other than the daily routine of alpine life occurred. The harvesting of potatoes, the bringing home of the goats, the storing of hay in barns, the gossiping in the street, the feeding of chickens, the cutting of lumber for winter warmth. There was little or no fuel to be had, so the old men, boys and women worked by hand or made use of their old horses and carts. All the men and boys wore leather shorts of varying lengths and shades, and elf-style hats, often with a feather. All the women wore skirts and aprons and covered their hair in scarves. The children ran barefoot and there was much laughter.

It was a gentle, bucolic pattern of life that must have stretched back hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years and could almost make a man forget that he was here watching for evil.

Now, at midnight, he was alone with his thoughts, and these continually strayed back to Berlin. He had begun to doubt himself. If Miriam Rabinowitz, his first love, the sweetest girl in the world, had turned into the malevolent greifer Miriam Berenbaum, then what judge of character was he? If he had been wrong about Miriam, then how could he think he was right about anything? All his beliefs and all his values were as dust.