“Now if you will, please tell me when to stop.” I use my thumb to riffle a front corner of the deck, held seemingly out of my view. Roughly three-quarters through, he stops me. In the span of a blink, I use the edges of my vision to peek at the exposed card, thereby learning that the seven of clubs will sit just above his choice. I direct him to insert his selection into the spot he chose. Once he’s done, I launch into overhand shuffles.

Each pass, despite my mixing the stack strategically in clumps, increases the gamble of separating the pair. But shuffling too little will raise suspicion.

The policemen watch in cryptic silence. I’m accustomed to working for the hard-won approval of servicemen in an audience. Just not any who are openly armed. Nor willing to kill me at the smallest provocation.

Maintaining my calm, I turn the deck faceup. Slowly I thumb through the cards. I alternate a hard stare between each one shown and the officer’s face as if straining to read his thoughts. Through my hemming and hawing, I avoid Dirk and Klara, whose nerves can be felt clear across the room.

I’m halfway through the deck when I see the seven of clubs, indicating that the card directly preceding it—the four of hearts—should be the officer’s pick.

“I believe that… Yes, I am sensing, sir, that this card is yours.” Dramatically I slide out the four and display it for all to see.

There’s no collective gasp, no applause. The officer is the sole person aware if my guess is correct. If he lies, only he would know.

A trace of amusement teases his lips—or is it a smirk?

“Give them to me.” He holds out his hand, a startling order.

I pass over the deck, struck anew by the damning images it harbors. He examines several cards, holding them up, flipping them over. Surely he’s just determining if it’s a trick deck I used. I tell myself the map is undetectable, that my experimental sets required being soaked in water to reveal their hidden printings.

Not that samples can’t have flaws.

Mustering a genial expression, I present my palm, gently inviting a return of the cards. But he keeps them in his clutches and issues a command without leaving my gaze.

“Take her outside.”

Chapter 73

Women’s cries are the first thing I hear, a mix of sobbing and pleading, when I’m marched out the front door. Storm clouds fittingly darken the sky. Through the square, a good half-dozen fellows are being led at gunpoint and loaded into a truck. Onto another, confiscated brass and copper items are tossed on a clattering heap. Loved ones—wives, sisters, mothers—struggle to reach their men, kept at bay by “green police” who belt out orders while shaking their fists and weapons.