“More photographs,” said my interrogator. “A picture of you shaking hands with Reich Marshal Hermann Göring, taken in August 1936. Another of you with SS Obergruppenführer Heydrich, taken at Wewelsburg Castle, Paderborn, November 1938.”

“You’ll notice I’m not wearing a uniform,” I said.

“And a picture of you standing next to Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, believed taken October 1938. He’s not wearing a uniform either.” He smiled. “What did you discuss? Euthanasia, perhaps. Aktion T-four?”

“I met him, yes,” I said. “It doesn’t mean we sent each other Christmas cards.”

“A photograph of you with SS Gruppenführer Arthur Nebe. Taken Minsk, 1941. You are wearing a uniform in this picture. Are you not? Nebe commanded a Special Action Group that killed—how many Jews was it, Aaron?”

“Ninety thousand Jews, sir.” Aaron sounded more English than American.

“Ninety thousand. Yes.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Three days ago you were in Vienna, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Exhibit Eight. The sworn testimony of Tibor Medgyessy, formerly employed as the Gruen family butler, in Vienna. Shown your photograph, the one from your own SS file, he positively identified you as Eric Gruen. Also the statement of the desk clerk at the Hotel Erzherzog Rainer. You stayed there following the death of your mother, Elisabeth. He also identified you as Eric Gruen. It was foolish of you to go to the funeral, Gruen. Foolish, but understandable.”

“Look, I’ve been framed,” I said. “Very handsomely by Major Jacobs. The real Eric Gruen is leaving the country tonight. Aboard a plane from an American military airfield. He is going to work for the CIA and Jacobs and the American government, to produce a malaria vaccine.”

“Major Jacobs is a man of the very highest integrity,” said my interrogator. “A man who has put the interests of the State of Israel ahead of those of his own country, and at no small peril to himself.” He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Look, why don’t you admit who you are? Admit the crimes you committed at Majdanek and Dachau. Admit what you’ve done and it will go easier for you, I promise.”

“Easier for you, you mean. My name is Bernhard Gunther.”

“How did you come by that name?”

“It’s my name,” I insisted.

“The real Bernhard Gunther is dead,” said the interrogator and handed me yet another piece of paper. “This is a copy of his death certificate. He was murdered by the ODESSA or some other old comrades organization in Munich, two months ago. Presumably so that you could assume his identity.” He paused. “With this expertly forged passport.” And he handed me my own passport. The one I left at Mönch before traveling to Vienna.