Denton slipped up to the window.

He could see better in the thin light of day. The window had been made escape-proof by nailing two two-by-fours in a cross shape on the inside of the window frame. That left gaps for light and air, but nothing bigger than a cat could crawl through. The window itself was indented from the window frame and was not affected by the boards. And it was not locked. It eased up under Denton’s fingers—and stuck at about two inches.

“Anatoli?” Denton whispered. “Anatoli!”

A shape loomed up against the glass. Anatoli’s bed was just inside the window and when he sat up his face popped into view like that of a ghost. He looked frailer than ever, his wispy hair in a staticky dance around his head, his eyes large and popping, like the eyes of a drowned sailor.

Denton had the feeling the old man was about to scream and put his fingers against his lips urgently. “Shhhhhhh!”

The old man’s mouth opened into the shape of a scream, but no sound came out. He blinked at Denton.

“Anatoli, it’s me, Denton Wyle!”

The mouth closed. Anatoli’s bony fingers crept under the boards and onto the windowsill. Denton looked down at the poor, gnarled things and took off a glove, covering them with his own.

“Denton…” Anatoli’s eyes were confused.

“Yes. Shhh! We must whisper.”

“Is he with you? Did he come back with you?”

Anatoli’s confusion had melted into a mad fanaticism, his face eager. Denton felt a surge of disappointment and covered it with a smile. “No, Reb Kobinski did not come. But he, uh, sent us back to take care of a few things.”

“What things? What did the master say?”

Dang, this was dumb.

“Um, he’s afraid that some of his work has gotten out. We have to make sure that isn’t the case.”

“But… I dug up all of the master’s work and burned it. I did just as he said!” Anatoli’s eyes watered with tears.

“Shhhhh!” Denton soothed. “I know. I know you burned it.” But Anatoli had not burned it, thank god. Denton was selfishly glad that he hadn’t. “Listen to me, Anatoli. We need to know about the men who are holding you. Do they know about Reb Kobinski? Have they talked about him?”

Anatoli looked upset by the question, befuddled. For a moment, Denton thought this was all hopeless. Anatoli’s eyes were like windows into a chaotic whirlwind. But a struggle went on in those eyes and slowly they cleared. Denton could see in the tension clutching that fragile body, knew that Anatoli was fighting hard for this moment of clarity. Denton could have kissed him in gratitude.

“I don’t think… No, they have never mentioned Reb Kobinski. And I have not spoken his name.”

“That’s good,” Denton said with relief. “Anatoli, that’s very good.”

“They asked about Dr. Talcott and Nate Andros and… and Rabbi Handalman. They did not ask about you.”

“That’s good, Anatoli; that’s just fine. What did they say about what happened in the clearing that night?’

A shudder went through Anatoli as the battle for sanity lost ground in his eyes. “Lights, noise. They keep asking. They ask if I saw… if Dr. Talcott had something in her hand, did something. I… pretend to be crazy.” Anatoli smiled a sad, tremulous smile, as if to say, Who’s kidding who?

“Have you overheard their conversations? Do you know—”

There was only a few seconds’ warning. Anatoli stiffened and shoved Denton’s hands away. He dropped down onto the bed just as the door to the hall opened. There was no time to run back to the safety of the trees. Denton could only duck down under the window and flatten himself against the side of the house. He looked down and saw his long knees poking out, visible to anyone who might look out the window. He swiveled to tuck them against the wall.

“What the fuck?” he heard a masculine voice inside the room—annoyed.

“What’re you trying to do, old man?” came a deeper voice—both men were in the room. “Suicide by hypothermia? It’s fucking ten degrees out there.”

Denton heard the sound of someone trying to close the window… and apparently not succeeding. He froze, waiting.

He should have shut the damn window. Was opening the window even possible from inside the room with those two-by-fours in place? Were the DoD agents figuring that out right about now?

As if confirming his worst fears, he heard one of the men say, very low, “Go check outside.”

Denton felt a moment of panic. He very nearly jumped to his feet and took off across the backyard, even though he knew that the men at the window would see him for sure. But he held his ground, trying to think of another option. Then he heard Anatoli’s voice, thin and wavery: “Can I have some tea?”

“Let go,” came the younger man’s voice, quick, impatient.

“But I need some tea!”

And then an exclamation of utter disgust. “Oh, Jesus H. Christ!”

Denton couldn’t figure out what had happened at first, only that Anatoli was trying to divert the men—and apparently succeeding.

“Davis! Goddamn it! Pick him up and get him to the bathroom, would ya?”

A smell wafted through the window and hit Denton’s nose—acrid and pungent.

Denton grinned, chalking up a couple of points for the old fox. He crept along the side of the wall and around the house where he could make a dash for the trees.

Nate bought a ticket at the gate and entered the large fenced grounds of the Holocaust museum. It was a crisp winter day and the sun was shining. He stood there looking over the original barracks and parade ground, the bare earth frosty in the cold and cleared of anything green. Everything was silent and still. It was a mausoleum that hinted at horrors only because of what one knew had happened here. Otherwise, it was just a bunch of crappy-looking old barracks.

But he did know. And the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Jesus, the human race was just weird to preserve stuff like this.

The man Nate was following, Mr. Smith, was playing tourist. It wasn’t difficult to keep an eye on him as he strolled around the grounds and in and out of barracks. It was a low-key kind of day and there were probably fewer than a dozen tourists around. Nate didn’t seem to attract any more attention from Mr. Smith than the rest of them.

Smith headed into a long building that was the museum proper, and after a couple of minutes Nate idled in after him. He was wearing an old parka and a woolen hat. He tried to keep his face mostly averted, afraid that if Smith got a good look at him he would be recognized. The Mossad guy Nate had conked over the head in Seattle might have described him, and if they’d dug into Jill’s background they might have his picture and his name.

Mr. Smith strolled among the exhibits, giving Nate time to think. Normally, he would have been quite interested in the exhibits, but today he had other things on his mind.

Jill. Damn her for what she was putting him through. He had never been in love before. It was crazy how it opened a hole inside you. All he could think about was wanting a lifetime with her, some place of their own, cozy evenings of talk and hugging, work they both cared about, nights of exploring each other’s bodies with unselfconscious enthusiasm.

It was insane. No wonder so few philosophers tackled the whole mating instinct—it was completely irrational. But man, when it grabbed you… Knowing she was out there, in danger, and not going after her was like holding his hand on a chopping block. It was exactly that hard.

The thing that really worried him was that despite Jill’s claim that Farris wouldn’t hurt her, he was pretty sure she would have gone, danger or no, that she was willing to risk her life because she thought everything was her fault. She’d had that Passover lamb look in her eye. And all he could do was wait to hear if she was alive or dead or what.