After he’d hung up the phone, Constance knocked again. “The pictures just came in on the wire,” she said. “You’ll want to take a look.”

She was right. The pictures hadn’t been taken by a hack; they were the work of an artist. An artist who hadn’t wanted to send film, but prints. The photographer had caught American Judge Francis Biddle with his head turned toward the man before him, one Otto Ohlendorf, who was admitting to having presided over the murder of ninety thousand Jewish people. But the judge’s eyes were not fixed on the man. Instead they were turned unknowingly toward the camera and they shone with staunched tears as Ohlendorf spoke dispassionately about his concern for the welfare of those who’d had to administer the killings. Where is your concern for all those who died? the image seemed to say, through the suddenly unshielded face of the judge.

The next photograph was of Marie-Claude Vaillant-Couturier; a member of the French Resistance, she had somehow survived both Auschwitz and Ravensbrück and was the first survivor to tell her story to the court. This time, the photographer had caught the judge with the same damp eyes but they were fixed on the woman before him, honoring her by refusing to look away no matter how affecting her words were.

Dan let out a breath. “Let’s get everybody into the conference room to finalize the news budget. This is going front page tomorrow.”

* * *

“That’s some Pulitzer-grade reporting you’ve got on your front cover this morning,” Walter Hallworth said to his son as they drank their coffee and ate their eggs with all of the city’s morning newspapers spread out before them.

There had been no time for Dan to look for a home of his own; he’d returned from the war one day and started work at the newspaper the next so the old family home on the Upper East Side was where he now resided. The arrangement perfectly suited his father; Walter Hallworth might have retired but he still liked to know what was happening in the world of journalism and he still liked to have breakfast with his son, no matter that Dan was out the door by six, ready for the day ahead.

“Where’d you find your stringer?” his father asked now.

“He found me,” Dan said, and proceeded to tell his father as much as he was able to. Gareth had been next to useless, unable to find out anything, except that someone had told him that Monsieur Durant was American, but maybe had a French father, had reported sporadically throughout the war, and lived in France.

The bio note that had come with the images said much the same thing. Short of going to Nuremberg, Dan was at a loss, so he’d sent a message to the hotel Durant was staying in, arranging to pay him and to make him their official correspondent. No more drunken stringers stuffing things up.

“Gareth was a good man,” Walter protested mildly. “Always up for a whiskey.”