“Orders, claims, customer information, new locations. Dr. Ritter has left for Chicago by now.”

“How does the encryption work?”

“You use a book. Sometime soon I’ll bring somebody with me. He’s the one who does it.” Max’s foot jittered.

“Does the company have that much business?”

“Yes.”

Max was tense in a way that seemed to carry over to Josef. He put on Ella Fitzgerald, “Goodnight, My Love,” and smoked, trying to fight off the feeling that something wasn’t right.

At one o’clock the signal was too weak. Josef went up on the roof, checked the antenna; just as he’d thought, the wire had come loose from its housing. Josef put it back in place. He looked across the roofs, the swaying clotheslines, the forgotten bedsheets blowing in the wind. He thought about Max. Tall people had it easy. By plain virtue of their height they radiated authority and superiority. But in Max’s case something seemed to have gone wrong—something about that slightly hunched back of his, like he’d rather be short than tall.

When he came back down, he could hear a howling, buzzing, and crackling coming from the apartment, as if from a large insect. Max was turning the tuning knob aimlessly.

“Turn that thing off for a second.”

Max looked up at him and, to his surprise, did as he asked.

“What’s this really about?”

“Business. We told you already.”

A cold glare, eyes moving restlessly left and right.

He hesitated. “Tell me about Germany. What did you witness there?”

“What did I witness?” Max did an imitation of someone who was meant to sound flustered and hysterical.

“You said jazzhounds are getting arrested.”

“Yeah, they’d probably arrest you too.” Max laughed, then, seeing that Josef was serious, looked at the clock. “Almost two. Back to work, Herr Klein. Or else I’ll have to take the money back.”

Josef sent everything in ten minutes and received a confirmation. Max again parked himself on the couch, scratching the panting German shepherd behind the ears.

“These days they hate Germans here,” Max complained.

“There are good reasons for that, don’t you think?”

“I was gone for two years. And now they look at you like you’re the scum of the earth.”

“So?” Josef caught sight of Max’s hands: wide, frog-like fingertips and soft white skin.

“The problem is,” Max went on, “the Germans here are doing it all wrong. I was at the rally at Madison Square Garden myself. And I saw you there.”

“I was there for our customers’ sake. Not my own.”

Max rubbed his chin. “I’m going to let you in on something. Fritz Kuhn isn’t authorized.”

“What do I care?”