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expecting an answer, but Rachel knew better. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat of the Mercedes.
    “I daresay Herr Himmler came across rather stronger than I would have, but Germany’s on the right track. They’ve moved ahead of us in America. We’ll benefit greatly from their studies.”
    She turned away, uncertain which was the culprit that made her feel sick—her headache or her father’s skewed reality.
    “We’ll be leaving for the conference on Tuesday. I’m driving to Hamburg with Major Schlick and Dr. Verschuer, then taking the shipto Scotland. There will be meetings after the conference. Two weeks is a long time on your own.”
    “I prefer it. I’d like to do some shopping while we’re in the city, and I’m eager to see what the local theatres are producing.” She tried to push back the throbbing. “I didn’t know Gerhardt was part of the eugenics conference.”
    “He’s taken an interest. He’s quite the favorite with Dr. Verschuer. Someone worth knowing . . . a rising star in the SS.”
    She felt her father’s eyes upon her, even in the darkness. The thought of Gerhardt Schlick numbered among Germany’s finest made her queasy.
    “The trip would give you opportunity to get to know him better.”
    “I have no desire to know him better. He was beastly tonight—to his wife and to me.”
    “I don’t imagine their marriage will last.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    Now he turned his head away, toward the opposite window. “You saw how things are between them.” He hesitated, but only a moment. “Did you speak with Kristine?”
    “No.” Rachel felt her exasperation rising. “I’d intended to, but we were not sitting near enough during the speeches, and by the end of dinner she was completely cowed by Gerhardt.”
    “She was drunk.”
    “I can see why. He’s horrid to her.”
    “You don’t know what he contends with. You mustn’t judge harshly.”
    “Harshly?”
    “It was a poor match from the start. You could have handled him so much better. You were . . . hasty.”
    Rachel could not believe her ears. Surely her father must have had too much to drink. “What about their daughter? Amelie must be—what—four, by now?”
    But her father dismissed her and the notion of Amelie with a flick of the wrist. Rachel was just as glad to drop the conversation. Perhaps by morning he’d regain his senses.

    Rachel woke to find a note pushed beneath her door. Her father had gone out to an early breakfast meeting with colleagues. He’d apologized that she must eat alone and promised to see her that evening for dinner. They were invited to join the American ambassador and his wife. Rachel knew it was an order.
    She opened the balcony door of her hotel room, glad for the morning sun, glad she would not need to spend the day with her father and his cronies. Rather than call for room service, she decided to go exploring—find an outdoor café specializing in strong ersatz German coffee and good rolls.
    She was nearly out the door when she remembered her room key. Rummaging through her evening bag, she pulled out her comb and lipstick, her compact and passport—but no room key. She turned the bag upside down. Still no key. She massaged the purse all round, could feel the key in the bottom, but couldn’t see it. Taking her bag to the window, she opened it. When it was held up to the light, she saw that a hole had been torn in the lining—a hole she knew was not there before. Rachel wriggled her finger through, felt the errant key . . . and something else.
    She tried to grab hold of the paper, but both slipped away. Retrieving her nail scissors, she snipped the hole a little larger. Out came the key and a slim, rolled paper. Rachel recognized the hastily scrawled handwriting as Kristine’s.

4
    F RIEDERICH TURNED the small block of limewood over, and over again—first this way, and then that. It was the finest piece he owned, with the finest grain. He’d saved it until