The Hunt

He handed Vierhaus a sheet of typing paper. There were two columns of names and addresses on it.

“These are forty-eight people who are related to Wolffson. That includes three generations up to fourth cousins and nephews. I have similar lists on Weber and Gebhart in the folder.”

Vierhaus was impressed. “That is a remarkable report, Adler.” He turned back to the list of names and ran his forefinger down each one. “You did this in a month?”

“Three weeks actually.”

“Remarkable indeed. The Gestapo has been investigating this for months with no success.”

“They are not Jews,” Adler said, almost in a whisper.

“Very true, Herman. It takes one to catch one, eh?” He smiled at Adler, who began to relax. The jeweler wiped sweat off the back of his neck. “If you can find him, sir, I think I can produce enough proof to

“I do not care about proof,” Vierhaus said, waving his hand as he scanned the list. “Give me names and addresses and I will get confessions from these schoolboys. I don’t need proof.”

Vierhaus started to say something else and then stopped. His finger was poised over one of the names.

“This is his sister? Jennifer Gould?’

“Half-sister, Herr Professor. Her mother married the Jew, Wolffson. She is a Catholic, I believe.”

“You have no address on her?”

“Nein. She moved about three months ago and dropped out of sight.”

“Hmm,” said Vierhaus. “We seem t have an epidemic of vanishing .

Vierhaus looked up suddenly, his eyes squinting into a dark corner of the room, and then he slapped his hands together. Adler was startled by the sharp sound in the quiet room.

“I know where she is!” Vierhaus said. He pulled open a desk drawer and clawed through file folders. He pulled one, out. Inside were copies of the weekly reports of military spies in half a dozen major European cities, including von Meister in Paris. Vierhaus licked his thumb and flipped through the pages, then stopped. “Yes, of course. Keegan”

Vierhaus leaned back and smiled, proud of himself not only for reading these dull reports every week but for remembering the brief reference to Keegan and the Gould woman.

“She’s a singer,” he sneered. “She sings American nigger jazz. And she is a friend of that American liar, Rudman.” He looked at Adler and smiled. “Perhaps she knows where Wolffson is. Perhaps she is the Kettenglied to the Black Lily. And she is in Paris.”

Adler scurried down the street toward a small delicatessen with his satchel still clutched to his chest. It had started to rain, a persistent mist that slowly collected on hair, skin and clothing. He hunched his shoulders up. He needed to take a pill. His heart was racing with excitement. A shop, he thought. And a decent place to live, possibly even an Aryan IIJ card. It was all very dizzying.

As he passed a sedan parked at the curb, a hoarse voice said from behind him: “Herman Adler.” He started to turn but as he did two muscular arms encircled his, clamping them to his sides. The satchel fell to the ground.

Adler opened his mouth to speak but before he could get the words out a wad of cotton was jammed against his nose. He smelled the stinging-sweet odor of chloroform a moment before he passed out. As two men shoved him into the car, a small bottle of pills fell out of Adler’s vest pocket and rolled into the gutter.

Vierhaus had a few minutes before he had to leave for his dinner appointment. He leaned back in his chair. He had to move cautiously for the time being, particularly in working with Himmler. A great many Germans were sympathetic to the Jews, particularly the officials and bureaucrats in the provinces. Hitler did not want to jeopardize his power over them. At this point the Fuhrer needed everyone’s support. Vierhaus’s work with mixed bloods and renegades could not become general knowledge, not for a while at least. But there were many who knew and believed in the purification work. Theodor Eicke was one of them.

He snatched up the phone and placed a call to the brutish ex-brownshirt, now a member of the SS and manager of the camp at Dachau. Eicke was known for his inflexible harshness. As a member of the SA he had once beaten a Jew to death with his bare hands. At Dachau he had killed a prisoner with a shovel. Eicke was a man Vierhaus could deal with.

“Teddy, it is Willie Vierhaus,” he said when Eicke’s harsh voice answered.

“Willie! How are things in Berlin?”

“Excellent. Everything goes very well. And with you?”

“Oh, fine. This is a lovely town.”

“And the camp?”

“Running well.”

“No troubles?”

“Nein. The Jews give us very little trouble, it’s the political prisoners who are a problem. But we have it under control. Our only problem is crowding.”

“The new camp at Sachsenhausen ‘will be ready in the spring, that should give you some relief. And they are planning others at Bergen-Belsen and Buchenwald

‘Ja, very good.”

“And Anna? How is she?”

“She complains occasionally. We have had an escape attempt or two and always at night. The wire always gets