The man from the car was of medium height, dark-haired with protruding ears, and shadowy, downcast eyes. He wore a thick tweed suit and a plain white shirt, but without a necktie, no doubt in case he tried to hang himself. He didn’t speak to me and I didn’t speak to him. When he came into the hotel his head seemed to shrink into his narrow shoulders as if—I can think of no other explanation—he was burdened with a sense of shame. But perhaps I’m just being fanciful. Either way I felt sorry for him. If the cards had been dealt differently it might have been me in the American’s Buick.

There was another reason I felt sorry for the man. He looked feverish and ill. Hardly equal to the task of digging a hole in my garden. I said as much to the American as he fetched some tools from the cavernous trunk of the Buick.

“He looks like he should be in hospital,” I said.

“And that’s where he’s going after this,” said the American. “If he finds the box, then he’ll get his penicillin.” He shrugged. “He wouldn’t have cooperated at all if I didn’t have that kind of leverage.”

“I thought you Amis were supposed to pay attention to the Geneva Conventions,” I said.

“Oh we do, we do,” he said. “But these guys are not ordinary soldiers, they’re war criminals. Some of them have murdered thousands of people. These guys put themselves outside the protection of Geneva.”

We followed Wolf into the garden, where the American threw the tools down on the grass and told him to get on with it. The day was a hot one. Too hot to be digging anywhere but in your pockets. Wolf leaned on a tree for a moment as he tried to get his bearings, and let out a sigh. “I think this is the spot, right here,” he whispered. “Could I have a glass of water?” His hands were shaking and there was sweat on his forehead.

“Get him a glass of water, will you, Gunther?” said the American.

I fetched the water, and returned to find Wolf, pickax in hand. He took a swing at the lawn and almost fell over. I caught him by the elbow and helped him to sit down. The American was lighting a cigarette, apparently unconcerned. “Take your time, Wolf, my friend,” he said. “There’s no hurry. That’s why I figured on two nights, see? On account of how he’s not exactly in the best of shape for gardening duty.”

“This man is in no condition for any kind of manual work,” I said. “Look at him. He can hardly stand.”