“About five years ago the government announced it was going to release another batch of so-called Nazi files. Most of it was rubbish. But the archivists let a couple of gems slip through.” Ramirez held up the folder. “Including these.”

“What are they?”

“Copies of the cables Weber sent from Switzerland during his trip in 1967. Take a look.”

Gabriel accepted the documents and read the first dispatch:

PLEASE INFORM THE MINISTER THAT MY MEETING WAS PRODUCTIVE AND I EXPECT A FAVORABLE OUTCOME IN SHORT ORDER. ALSO, PLEASE PASS ALONG A SIMILAR MESSAGE TO THE INTERESTED PARTY, AS HE IS QUITE ANXIOUS FOR NEWS OF ANY SORT.

“Weber was clearly referring to his meetings with Walter Landesmann,” Ramirez said. “And the interested party was obviously a reference to Kurt Voss.”

Gabriel looked at the second dispatch:

PLEASE INFORM THE MINISTER BANK LANDESMANN HAS LOCATED THE ACCOUNTS IN QUESTION. ALERT THE TREASURY TO EXPECT A TRANSFER OF FUNDS IN SHORT ORDER.

“The next day, Carlos Weber was found dead.” Ramirez picked up a stack of thick files, bound by metal clasps and heavy elastic bands. He held them silently for a moment, then said, “I need to warn you, Gabriel. Everyone who goes looking for that money ends up dead. These files were assembled by a friend of mine, an investigative reporter named Rafael Bloch.”

“Jewish?”

Ramirez nodded gravely. “At university, he was a communist like me. He was arrested briefly during the Dirty War, but his father paid a very large bribe and managed to secure his release. Rafi was damn lucky. Most of the Jews who were arrested never stood a chance.”

“Go on, Alfonso.”

“Rafi Bloch specialized in financial stories. Unlike the rest of us, he studied something useful—namely, economics and business. Rafi knew how to read a ledger sheet. Rafi knew how to trace wire transfers. And Rafi never, ever took no for an answer.”

“It’s hereditary.”

“Yes, I know,” said Ramirez. “Rafi spent years trying to prove what happened to that money. But along the way he found something else. He discovered that the entire Landesmann empire was dirty.”

“Dirty? How?”

“Rafi never went into specifics with me. But in 2008, he finally felt confident he had his story.”

“What did he do?”

“He went to Geneva to have a word with a man named Landesmann. Martin Landesmann. And he never came back again.”

IN RETROSPECT, said Ramirez, a journalist with Rafael Bloch’s experience should have proceeded with a bit more caution. But given the impeccable public reputation of the man in question, Bloch foolishly allowed himself to believe he was in no danger.