“You’ve become quite a speaker, Peter.”

“I had a good teacher.” Metzler smiled and put his hand on Graff’s shoulder. “But I’m afraid the long campaign has started to take a toll on his instincts.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Look at those hooligans. Most of them aren’t even Austrian. Half the signs are in English instead of German. Clearly, this little demonstration has been orchestrated by provocateurs from abroad. If I’m fortunate enough to have a confrontation with these people, our lead will be five points by morning.”

“I hadn’t thought of it quite that way.”

“Just tell security to take it easy. It’s important that the protesters come across as the Brownshirts-and not us.”

Peter Metzler opened the door and stepped out. A roar of anger rose from the crowd, and the placards began to flutter.

Nazi pig!

Reichsführer Metzler!

The candidate strode forward as though oblivious to the turmoil around him. A young girl, armed with a rag soaked in red paint, broke free of the restraint. She hurled the rag toward Metzler, who avoided it so deftly that he barely seemed to break stride. The rag struck a Staatspolizei officer, to the delight of the demonstrators. The girl who had thrown it was seized by a pair of officers and hustled away.

Metzler, unruffled, entered the hotel lobby and made his way to the ballroom, where a thousand supporters had been waiting three hours for his arrival. He paused for a moment outside the doors to gather himself, then strode into the room to tumultuous cheers. Graff detached himself and watched his candidate wade into the adoring crowd. The men pressed forward to clutch his hand or slap his back. The women kissed his cheek. Metzler had definitely made it sexy to be a conservative again.

The journey to the head of the room took five minutes. As Metzler mounted the podium, a beautiful girl in a dirndl handed him a huge stein of lager. He raised it overhead and was greeted by a delirious roar of approval. He swallowed some of the beer-not a photo opportunity sip, but a good long Austrian pull-then stepped before the microphone.

“I want to thank all of you for coming here tonight. And I also want to thank our dear friends and supporters for arranging such a warm welcome outside the hotel.” A wave of laughter swept over the room. “What these people don’t seem to understand is that Austria is for Austrians and that we will choose our own future based on Austrian morals and Austrian standards of decency. Outsiders and critics from abroad have no say in the internal affairs of this blessed land of ours. We will forge our own future, an Austrian future, and that future begins three weeks from tonight!”

Pandemonium.

26 BARILOCHE, ARGENTINA

THE RECEPTIONIST AT theBarilocher Tageblatt eyed Gabriel with more than a passing interest as he stepped through the door and strode toward her desk. She had short dark hair and bright blue eyes set off by an attractive suntanned face. “May I help you?” she said in German, hardly surprising, since the Tageblatt, as the name implies, is a German-language newspaper.

Gabriel replied in the same language, though he adroitly concealed the fact that, like the woman, he spoke it fluently. He said he had come to Bariloche to conduct genealogical research. He was looking, he claimed, for a man he believed was his mother’s brother, a man named Otto Krebs. He had reason to believe Herr Krebs died in Bariloche in October 1982. Would it be possible for him to search the archives of the newspaper for a death notice or an obituary?

The receptionist smiled at him, revealing two rows of bright, even teeth, then picked up her telephone and dialed a three-digit extension. Gabriel’s request was put to a superior in rapid German. The woman was silent for a few seconds, then she hung up the phone and stood.

“Follow me.”

She led him across a small newsroom, her heels clicking loudly over the faded linoleum floor. A half-dozen employees were lounging in their shirtsleeves in various states of relaxation, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. No one seemed to take notice of the visitor. The door to the archives room was ajar. The receptionist switched on the lights.

“We’re computerized now, so all the articles are stored automatically in a searchable database. I’m afraid that goes back only as far as 1998. When did you say this man died?”

“I believe it was 1982.”

“You’re lucky. The obituaries are all indexed-by hand, of course, the old-fashioned way.”

She walked over to a table and lifted the cover of a thick, leather-bound ledger book. The ruled pages were filled with tiny handwritten notations.

“What did you say his name was?”

“Otto Krebs.”

“Krebs, Otto,” she said, flipping forward to the K s. “Krebs, Otto… Ah, here it is. According to this, it was November 1983. Still interested in seeing the obituary?”

Gabriel nodded. The woman wrote down a reference number and walked over to a stack of cardboard boxes. She ran a forefinger along the labels and stopped when she arrived at the one she was looking for, then asked Gabriel to remove the boxes stacked on top of it. She lifted the lid, and the smell of dust and decaying paper rose from the contents. The clips were contained in brittle, yellowing file folders. The obituary for Otto Krebs had been torn. She repaired the image with a strip of transparent tape and showed it to Gabriel.

“Is that the man you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

She took the clip back from Gabriel and read it quickly. “It says here that he was an only child.” She looked at Gabriel. “That doesn’t mean much. A lot of them had to erase their pasts to protect their families who were still in Europe. My grandfather was lucky. At least he got to keep his own name.”

She looked at Gabriel, searching his eyes. “He was from Croatia,” she said. There was an air of complicity in her tone. “After the war, the Communists wanted to put him on trial and hang him. Fortunately, Perón was willing to let him come here.”

She carried the clip over to a photocopier and made three duplicates. Then she returned the original to its file and the file to its proper box. She gave the copies to Gabriel. He read while they walked.

“According to the obituary, he was buried in a Catholic cemetery in Puerto Blest.”

The receptionist nodded. “It’s just on the other side of the lake, a few miles from the Chilean border. He managed a large estancia up there. That’s in the obituary, too.”

“How do I get there?”

“Follow the highway west out of Bariloche. It won’t stay a highway for long. I hope you have a good car. Follow the road along the lakeshore, then head north. You’ll go straight into Puerto Blest. If you leave now, you can get there before dark.”

They shook hands in the lobby. She wished him luck.

“I hope he’s the man you’re looking for,” she said. “Or maybe not. I suppose one never knows in situations like these.”

AFTER THE VISITOR was gone, the receptionist picked up her telephone and dialed.

“He just left.”

“How did you handle it?”

“I did what you told me to do. I was very friendly. I showed him what he wanted to see.”

“And what was that?”

She told him.

“How did he react?”

“He asked for directions to Puerto Blest.”

The line went dead. The receptionist slowly replaced the receiver. She felt a sudden hollowness in her stomach. She had no doubt what awaited the man in Puerto Blest. It was the same fate that had befallen others who had come to this corner of northern Patagonia in search of men who did not want to be found. She did not feel sorry for him; indeed, she thought him something of a fool. Did he really think he would fool anyone with that clumsy story about genealogical research? Who did he think he was? It was his own fault. But then, it was always that way with the Jews. Always bringing trouble down on their own heads.