It was not Kurt Voss, of course, but the resemblance between father and son was astonishing. Indeed, with only a few minor alterations, the figure coming toward them across the terrace might well have been the same man Lena Herzfeld had watched striding across the stage of the Hollandsche Schouwburg theater, a portrait by Rembrandt in one hand, a sack of diamonds in the other.

Peter Voss was somewhat trimmer than his father had been late in life, a bit more rugged in appearance, and had retained more of his hair, which was now completely white with age. On closer inspection, his boots were not as resplendent as Gabriel had first imagined. Deep brown in color, they were coated by a thin layer of powdery dust from his afternoon ride. He shook their hands warmly, bowing slightly at the waist, then guided them proprietarily to the sunlit table. As they settled into their places, it was clear Peter Voss was aware of the effect his appearance was having on his two guests. “There’s no need to avert your eyes,” he said, his tone conciliatory. “As you might expect, I’m used to people staring at me by now.”

“I didn’t mean to, Herr Voss. It’s just—”

“Please don’t apologize, Mr. Allon. He was my father, not yours. I don’t talk about him often. But when I do, I’ve always found it’s best to be direct and honest. It’s the least I can do. You’ve come a very long way, surely not without good reason. What is it you would like to know?”

The straightforward nature of Voss’s question took Gabriel by surprise. He had interrogated a Nazi war criminal once, but never had he spoken to the child of one. His instincts were to proceed with caution, as he had with Lena Herzfeld. And so he nibbled at the edge of a fig and, in an informal tone, asked Voss when he first became aware of his father’s wartime activities.

“Activities?” Voss repeated, his voice incredulous. “Please, Mr. Allon, if we are going to have a candid discussion about my father, let’s not mince words. My father didn’t engage in activities. He committed atrocities. As for when I learned about them, it came to me in bits and pieces. In that respect, I suppose, I’m much like any other son who discovers his father is not the man he claimed to be.”

Voss poured them each a glass of the garnet-colored wine and recounted a pair of incidents that had occurred just weeks apart when he was a teenager.