silently invade the house.
After ten minutes, the snoring subsided.
He closed the valve, yanked the tubing free, and replaced everything in the bag. Though a small hole remained in the silicon, he wasn't concerned. That minuscule piece of incriminating evidence would soon vanish.
He walked toward the rear yard.
Halfway, he dropped the canvas bag, yanked a wooden access door free from the cement block foundation, and wiggled underneath. An assortment of electrical wires spanned the subfloor. The file showed that Alexander, a confirmed hypochondriac, was also a miser. A few years ago he'd paid a neighbor a few dollars to add an outlet for the bedroom, along with providing a direct line from the breaker box to the outside air compressor.
Nothing had been done to code.
He found the junction box the file noted and unscrewed the cover plate. He then loosened the 220-volt line, breaking the connection and silencing the compressor. He hesitated a few anxious seconds, listening, on the off chance Alexander might have escaped the effects of the gas. But nothing disturbed the night.
From another vest pocket he removed a knife and flayed the insulation protecting the electrical wires to and from the junction box. Whoever had performed the work had not encased the wires-their disintegration would be easily attributable to the lack of a protective conduit-so he was careful not to overdue the shearing.
He replaced the knife.
From another vest pocket he slipped out a plastic bag. Inside was a clay-like material and a ceramic connector. He fastened the connector to the screws inside the junction box. Before reestablishing the circuit, he packed the box with the dough, applying globs down the length of the exposed electrical wires. In its present form the material was harmless, but once heated to the requisite temperature for the requisite amount of time, it would vaporize and melt the remaining insulation. The heat necessary to cause that explosion would come from the ceramic connector. A few minutes would be needed for the current to warm the connector to the right temperature, but that was fine.
He needed time to leave.
He retightened the screws.
The compressor sprang to life.
Deliberately, he left the cover off the junction box, stuffing the faceplate into a vest pocket.
He studied his work. Everything appeared in order. As with magicians' flash paper, once the connector and clay ignited, both would become a scorching gas, producing an intense heat. They were ingenious materials, used by colleagues who specialized more in commercial arson than murder, though sometimes, like tonight, the two could be one and the same.
He wormed out from under the house, replaced the door, and retrieved the canvas bag. He checked the ground and made sure nothing remained that might later betray his presence.
He rounded back to the side window.
Using his penlight, he peered through a dingy screen into the bedroom. An ashtray and cigar lay on the table next to Alexander's bed. Perfect. If 'electrical short' was not enough, 'smoking in bed' could certainly be used to close out any arson investigator's file.
He retraced his steps to the road.
The luminous dial of his watch read 1:35 AM.
He spent a lot of time out at night. A few years ago he'd bought Peterson's guide to the planets and stars and learned about the heavens. It was good to have hobbies. Tonight, he recognized Jupiter shining brightly in the western sky.
Five minutes passed.
A flash spewed from under the house as the connector, then the clay explosive incinerated. He imagined the scene as the flayed wires joined the conspiracy, electrical current now feeding the fire. The wooden-frame house was well over thirty years old and, like kindling under dried logs, the bottom fire quickly spread. Within minutes the entire structure was engulfed in flames.
Zachary Alexander, though, would never know what happened.
His forced sleep would not be interrupted. He'd be asphyxiated long before flames charred his body.
TWENTY-EIGHT
'I married my husband long ago. But, as you can see, both he and his father harbored secrets.'
'Was your husband also a Nazi?'
She shook her head. 'He simply believed that Germany was never the same after the war. I daresay he was right.'
Not answering questions seemed a family trait. She studied him with a calculating gaze and he noticed a tremor that shook her right eye. Her breath came in low wheezes. And only the tick of a clock from somewhere nearby disturbed the intoxicating tranquility.
'Herr Malone, I'm afraid my daughters have not been honest with you.'
'That's the first thing I've heard today that I agree with.'
'Since my husband died, I've been supervising the family wealth. It's an enormous task. Our extensive holdings are wholly owned by the family. Unfortunately, there are no more Oberhausers. My mother-in-law was a hopeless incompetent who, mercifully, died a few years after Hermann. All of the other close relatives either perished in the war or died in the years after. My husband controlled the family when he was alive. He was the last of Hermann's children. Hermann himself lost his mind completely by the mid-1950s. We call it Alzheimer's today, but then it was just senility. Every family wrestles with its succession, and the time has come for my children to take control of this family. Never have Oberhauser assets been divided. Always there have been sons. But my husband and I birthed daughters. Two strong women, each different. To prove themselves, to force them to accept reality, they are on a quest.'
'This is a game?'
The corners of her eyebrows turned down. 'Not at all. It is a search for the truth. My husband, though I loved him dearly, was, like his father, consumed by foolishness. Hitler openly denied Hermann and that rejection, I believe, contributed to his mental downfall. My husband was equally weak. Making decisions proved difficult for him. Sadly, all their lives, my daughters have fought each other. Never were they close. Their father was a source of that friction. Dorothea manipulated his weaknesses, used them. Christl resented them and rebelled. They were both only ten when he died, but their differing relationships with their father seems best how to define them now. Dorothea is practical, grounded, rooted in reality-seeking the complacent man. Christl is the dreamer, a believer-she seeks the strong. They are now engaged in a quest, one neither of them fully comprehends-'
'Thanks to you, I assume.'
She nodded. 'I confess to retaining a certain element of control. But much is at stake here. Literally everything.'
'What's everything?'
'This family owns many manufacturing concerns, an oil refinery, several banks, stocks around the globe. Billions of euros.'
'Two people died today as part of this game.'
'I'm aware of that, but Dorothea wanted the file on Blazek. It's part of that reality she craves. Apparently, though, she decided that you were not a route to her success and abandoned the effort. I suspected that would be the case. So I made sure Christl had the opportunity to speak with you.'
'You sent Christl to the Zugspitze?'
She nodded. 'Ulrich was there to watch over her.'
'What if I don't want any part of this?'
