"As I said, Herr Landau, we're not sure."

Weiss was clearly frustrated by the line of questioning, but Herr Landau, art dealer from Tel Aviv, was not quite finished.

"Is a wound to the knee consistent with other murders carried out by right-wing extremists?"

"I can't say that it is."

"Do you have any suspects?"

"We're questioning a number of different people in connection with the murder. I'm afraid that's all I can say at the moment."

"Have you explored the possibility that his death was somehow linked to his teaching at the university? A disgruntled student, for example?"

The detective managed a smile, but it was clear his patience was being put to the test. "Your brother was much beloved. His students worshipped him. He was also on sabbatical this term." The detective paused and studied Gabriel a moment. "You were aware of that, weren't you, Herr Landau?"

Gabriel decided it was best not to lie. "No, I'm afraid I wasn't. We haven't spoken in some time. Why was he on sabbatical?"

"The chairman of his department told us he was working on a new book." The detective swallowed the last of his coffee. "Shall we have a look at the apartment now?"

"I just have one more question."

"What's that, Herr Landau?"

"How did the killer get into his building?"

"That's one I can answer," Weiss said. "Despite the fact that your brother received regular death threats, he lived in a very insecure

 building. The tenants are very casual about who they let in. If someone presses the intercom and says 'advertisements,' they're routinely buzzed in. A student who lives one floor above Professor Stern is fairly certain she was the one who let the killer into the building. She's still very upset. Apparently, she was very fond of him."

They walked back to the apartment building through a steady rain. The detective pressed a button on the intercom panel. Gabriel took note of the corresponding name. Lillian Ratzinger -- caretaker. A moment later, a small, fierce-looking woman with hunted brown eyes peered at them around the edge of the door. She recognized Weiss and opened the door to them.

"Good afternoon, Frau Ratzinger," the detective said. "This is Benjamin's brother, Ehud Landau. He's here to put Benjamin's affairs in order."

The old woman glanced at Gabriel and nodded. Then she turned away, as if the sight of him made her uneasy.

An acidic odor greeted Gabriel in the lobby. It reminded him of the solvents he used to strip dirty varnish from a canvas. He peered around a corner and saw the cosmetic. A fat woman in the midst of a pedicure looked up at him over a glossy German fashion magazine. Gabriel turned away. Benjamin the eternal student, he thought. Benjamin would be comfortable in a place like this.

On the wall adjacent to the door was a row of metal postboxes. The one corresponding to Benjamin's flat still bore his name. Through the tiny window, Gabriel could see it was empty.

The old woman led them up the dimly lit staircase, a ring of

passkeys tinkling in her hand. She paused outside Benjamin's apartment. Tattered remnants of crime-scene tape hung from the door-jamb, and a mound of dead roses lay on the floor. Taped to the wall was a sign, scrawled in a desperate hand: liebe ist starker als hab--Love is stronger than hate. Something about the idealistic naivety of the slogan angered Gabriel. Then he remembered it was the same thing Leah had said to him before he left for Europe to kill Palestinians for Shamron.

"Love is stronger than hate, Gabriel. Whatever you do, don't hate them. If you hate them, you'll become just life Shamron."

The old woman unlocked the door and left without looking at Gabriel. He wondered about the source of her anxiety. Perhaps it was her age. Perhaps she was of a generation still uncomfortable in the presence of Jews.

Weiss led Gabriel into the front room overlooking the Adalbertstrasse. The afternoon shadows were heavy. The detective illuminated the room by turning on the lamp on Benjamin's desk. Gabriel glanced down, then quickly took a step back. The floor was coated with Benjamin's blood. He looked up at the wall and saw the graffiti for the first time. Detective Weiss pointed to the first symbol, a diamond resting on a pedestal that resembled an inverted V.

"This one is known as the Odin Rune," Weiss said. "It's an ancient Norse symbol that expresses faith in the pagan religion called Odinism."

"And the second one?" Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already.

Weiss looked at it a moment before responding. Three numeral sevens, linked at their bases, surrounded by a sea of red.

"It's called the Three Sevens or the Three-Bladed Swastika,"

 the German said. "It symbolizes supremacy over the devil as represented by the numbers 666."

Gabriel took a step forward and tilted his head to one side, as though he were inspecting a canvas in need of restoration. To his well-trained eye it seemed the artist was an imitator rather than a believer. Something else struck him. The symbols of hatred were probably sprayed onto the wall in the moments after Benjamin's murder, yet the lines were straight and perfectly executed, revealing no signs of stress or anxiety. A man used to killing, thought Gabriel. A man comfortable around the dead.

He walked over to the desk. "Was Benjamin's computer taken as evidence?"

Weiss shook his head. "Stolen."

Gabriel looked down at the safe, which was open and empty.

"Stolen as well," the detective said, anticipating the next question.

Gabriel removed a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. The policeman sat heavily on the couch, as if he had been walking a beat all day.

"I have to remain in the flat with you while you conduct your inventory. I'm sorry, but those are the rules." He loosened his tie. "Take as much time as you need, Herr Landau. And whatever you do, don't try to take anything, eh? Those are the rules too."

Gabriel could do only so much in the presence of the detective. He started in the bedroom. The bed was unmade, and on the cracked leather armchair was a stack of freshly laundered clothing, still bound in brown paper and string. On the bedside table was a black mask and a pair of foam-rubber earplugs. Benjamin, Gabriel remembered, was a notoriously light sleeper. The curtains were heavy and dark, the kind usually kept by someone who works at night and sleeps during the day. When Gabriel drew them, the air was suddenly filled with dust.

He spent the next thirty minutes carefully going through the contents of the closet, the dresser, and the bedside table. He made copious notes in his leather-bound notebook, just in case Detective Weiss wanted to have a look at his inventory. In truth, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He entered the second bedroom. The walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. Obviously, Benjamin had turned it into a storage room. It looked as though a bomb had exploded nearby. The floor was strewn with books, and the file drawers were flung open. Gabriel wondered who was responsible, the Munich police or Benjamin's killer.

His search lasted nearly an hour. He flipped through the contents of every file and the pages of every book. Weiss appeared once in the doorway to check on his progress, then yawned and wandered back to the sitting room. Again, Gabriel made abundant notes for the benefit of the detective but found nothing linking Benjamin to the Office--and nothing that might explain why he was murdered.

He walked back to the sitting room. Weiss was watching the evening news on Benjamin's television. He switched it off as Gabriel entered. "Finished?"

"Did Benjamin have a storage room in the building?"

The detective nodded. "German law requires landlords to provide tenants with one."

Gabriel held out his hand. "May I have the key?"