The Hunt

had to run for it. I don’t know which was worse, the fear or the humiliation, but I think I have a better idea of what freedom is all about now.”

“Is that what happened to her in Germany?”

“That’s what happened to Germany. She got caught in the sweeper. So you don’t need to shed any tears for me, save them for her. She’s locked away for life in a cesspool run by psychopaths.”

“Oh my God. .

She reached up and ran her fingertips lightly down his cheek. Then she wrapped her arms around his waist and held him very tightly and after several moments he reached out, too, and put his arms around her and they stood on the balcony for a long time clutching each other, like two drowning people, each trying desperately to save the other.

They fell into a warm friendship that was shakily platonic. But she did not impose on that part of him. She was happy to be around him, coming to his place, fixing dinner, occasionally dropping by and listening to him and Ned discussing the news of the day. When they went out for dinner they went to offbeat places, usually late at night to avoid old friends. Only Marilyn shared their secret, sometimes spending the evening with them when her husband was tied up at the hospital. Keegan juggled his emotions between past and present. Until suddenly a voice from the past changed everything.

New Year’s Eve, 1939, three A.M.

Keegan was returning from Vanessa’s apartment. He was fumbling for his keys when a voice, thickly European, whispered from the shadows beside the entrance.

“Mr. Keegan?”

Keegan stopped, squinted suspiciously into the darkness. The man moved partly into the light. In silhouette he was an inch or so shorter than Keegan but ten pounds heavier, all of it in his muscled shoulders, chest and arms, which strained the sleeves of his black cloth coat. The bottom of his face was obscured by a thick black beard and he was wearing a black seaman’s cap, pulled low on his forehead.

“Depends on who’s asking,” Keegan said cautiously.

The man moved into the light.

It was Werner Gebhart. Avrum Wolffson’s chief lieutenant in the Black Lily.

“Perhaps you remember me?” he whispered from the shadows. “We met in Berlin.”

Keegan was astounded to see the young German. “My God, Gebhart, of course I remember you,” he said, motioning him into the open. “Come in, come in.”

Gebhart moved quickly. They shook hands as Keegan led him through the private entrance and down the hallway to his private elevator. Gebhart looked frightened, his eyes frantically checking the street as they entered the hallway.

“Is something wrong?” Keegan asked.

“Yes,” Gebhart answered. “I am an illegal.”

“Not here you’re not,” Keegan said with a reassuring smile.

“Mazel tov,” Gebhart said, and there was relief in his voice.

When the elevator doors closed, Gebhart relaxed. Keegan remembered him as being an innocent, slender man-boy, youthfully arrogant and suspicious. He had put on twenty hard pounds and his face was ridged by hard times. He had tortured eyes, half pleading, half angry, the kind that had seen too much suffering, had lost too many friends and had seen the kinds of things that rob the young of their innocence. His black beard was already streaked with gray. How old was he, Keegan wondered? Mid-twenties at best. Looking at the toll the Nazis and Black Lily had taken on Gebhart in four years, Keegan wondered what the years had done to Avrum Wolffson.

“Avrum?” Keegan asked.

“Alive.”

“And well?”

Gebhart nodded. “He has become too hard. It shows.”

“And what of your other friend . . . ?“

“Joachim Weber?” Gebhart answered. “Joachim was murdered by the Nazis.

Keegan’s shoulders sagged. My God, he thought, the madness never ends. “I’m sorry, Werner,” he said.

Gebhart simply nodded.

“When did you get here?” Keegan asked.

“About ten o’clock.”

“You’ve been waiting here for five hours?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been in the country?”

“Since ten o’clock. I came on a steamer from Portugal.”

“Good! You must stay here. It’s perfectly safe and all my people have closed lips.”