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    The Quest for Anna Klein: A Novel
    The Quest for Anna Klein: A Novel
    The Quest for Anna Klein: A Novel
    Ebook424 pages6 hours

    The Quest for Anna Klein: A Novel

    By Thomas H. Cook

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    About this ebook

    On the eve of WWII, an international plot leads to a deadly obsession: “Nobody tells a story better than Thomas H. Cook” (Michael Connelly, New York Times–bestselling author of Two Kinds of Truth).
     
    It’s 1939 and the world is on the brink of war, but Thomas Danforth is in New York City living a fortunate life. The well-traveled son of a wealthy importer, he’s in his twenties and running the family business, looking forward to a bright future. Then, during a snowy evening walk along Gramercy Park, a friend makes a fateful request—and involves Thomas in a dangerous idea that could change the fates of millions.
     
    Thomas is to provide access to his secluded Connecticut mansion, where a mysterious woman will receive training in firearms and explosives. Thus begins an international plot carried out by the strange and alluring Anna Klein—a plot that will ensnare Thomas in more ways than one. When it all goes wrong and Anna disappears, he will travel far from home once again, but this time, into a war-torn world that is far more dangerous, in this story by an Edgar Award–winning author known for his “piercing thrillers” (New York Daily News).
     
    “No other suspense writer takes readers as deeply into the heart of darkness as Thomas H. Cook.” —Chicago Tribune

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateJun 21, 2011
    ISBN9780547549224
    The Quest for Anna Klein: A Novel
    Author

    Thomas H. Cook

    Thomas H. Cook is the author of twenty-three books, including The Chatham School Affair, which won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for best novel, and, most recently, The Last Talk with Lola Faye.

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      Book preview

      The Quest for Anna Klein - Thomas H. Cook

      title page

      Contents

      Title Page

      Contents

      Dedication

      Copyright

      Epigraph

      Part I

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Delmonico’s, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Old Town Bar, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Old Town Bar, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Pulitzer Fountain, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Dugout Bar, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Danforth Imports, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Winterset, Connecticut, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Part II

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Winterset, Connecticut, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Winterset, Connecticut, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Oak Bar, Plaza Hotel, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      New York Public Library, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      214 West Ninety-fifth Street, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Winterset, Connecticut, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Century Club, New York City, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      New Brunswick, Connecticut, 1939

      Part III

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Jardin des Tuileries, Paris, France, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Paris, France, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      The Savoy, London, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Paris, France, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Orléans, France, 1939

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Part IV

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      Orléans, France, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Orléans, France, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Berlin, Germany, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Berlin, Germany, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Part V

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Berlin, Germany, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Munich, Germany, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Munich, Germany, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Munich, Germany, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Part VI

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      London, England, 1939

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Southern France, 1942

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Nuremberg, Germany, 1946

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Lemberg, Ukraine, 1951

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Moscow, Soviet Union, 1952

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Part VII

      Blue Bar, New York City, 2001

      Kolyma, Soviet Union, 1964

      Lexington Avenue, New York City, 2001

      Washington Square Park, New York City, 1974

      Lexington Avenue, New York City, 2001

      Baku, Azerbaijan, 1981

      Lexington Avenue, New York City, 2001

      Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1983

      Munich, Germany, 1939

      Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1983

      Lexington Avenue, New York City, 2001

      Magadan, Russia, 1986

      Lexington Avenue, New York City, 2001

      Erzinghan, Turkey, 1915

      Lexington Avenue, New York City, 2001

      About the Author

      Connect with HMH

      For Susan M. Terner, first reader, editor extraordinaire, and in all ways, my secret weapon

      Copyright © 2011 by Thomas H. Cook

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

      For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

      hmhco.com

      The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

      Cook, Thomas H.

      The quest for Anna Klein / Thomas H. Cook.

      p. cm.

      An Otto Penzler book.

      ISBN 978-0-547-36464-3

      1. Quests (Expeditions)—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction.

      I. Title.

      PS3553.O55465Q47 2011

      813'.54—dc22 2010042696

      eISBN 978-0-547-54922-4

      v2.0518

      And hence one master passion in the breast,

      Like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up the rest.

      —ALEXANDER POPE

      Part I

      The Slenderness of Bones

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      The question was never whether she would live or die, for that had been decided long ago.

      Danforth had said this flatly at one point deep in our conversation, a conclusion he’d evidently come to by way of a painful journey.

      It had taken time for him to reach this particular remark. As I’d learned by then, he was a man who kept to his own measured pace. After our initial greeting, for example, he’d taken an agonizingly slow sip from his scotch and offered a quiet, grandfatherly smile. People in their clubs, he said softly. Isn’t that how Fitzgerald put it? People in their clubs who set down their drinks and recalled their old best dreams. I must seem that way to you. An old man with a head full of woolly memories. His smile was like an arrow launched from a great distance. But even old men can be dangerous.

      I’d come to New York from Washington, traveled from one stricken city to another, it seemed, a novice member of the think tank that had recently hired me. My older colleagues had manned the desks of what had once been called Soviet Studies. They’d been very assiduous in these studies. There’d hardly been a ruble spent on missiles or manure that they hadn’t recorded and scrutinized. But for all that, not one of them had foreseen the abrupt collapse of the Soviet Union, how it would simply dissolve into the liquefying fat of its own simmering corruption. That stunning failure in forecasting had shaken their confidence to the core and sent them scrambling for an explanation. They’d still been searching for it years later when the attack had come even more staggeringly out of nowhere. That had been a far graver failure to understand the enemy at our gates, and it had sharply, and quite conveniently for me, changed their focus. Now I, the youngest of their number, their latest hire, had been dispatched to interview Thomas Jefferson Danforth, a man I’d never heard of but who’d written to tell me that he had experience that might prove useful, as he’d put it, to policymakers such as myself, especially now. The interview was not a prospect I relished, and I knew it to be the sort of task doled out to freshman colleagues more or less as a training exercise, but it was better than standing guard at the copying machine or fetching great stacks of research materials from the bowels of various government agencies.

      I remember that line of Fitzgerald’s, I told Danforth, just to let him know that, although a mere wisp of a boy by his lights, I was well educated, perhaps even a tad worldly. It was about Lindbergh. How ‘people set down their glasses in country clubs,’ struck by what he’d done.

      A solo flight across the Atlantic that reminded them of what they’d once been or had hoped to be, Danforth added. Now his smile suddenly seemed deeply weighted, like a bet against the odds. Youth is a country with closed borders, he said. All that’s valuable must be smuggled in.

      I assumed this remark was rhetorical and found it somewhat condescending, but our conversation had just begun and so I let it pass.

      Danforth winced as he shifted in his chair. Old bones, he explained. So, what is your mission, Mr. Crane? The grand one, I mean.

      Our country’s good, I answered. Is that grand enough?

      What remained of Danforth’s smile vanished. I was young like you. His voice was even, his tone cautionary, as if he regarded my youth as an animal that could easily turn on me. Clever and self-confident. It was a very good feeling, as I recall.

      He’d been described to me as reticent, distant, somber, and his experience in what my senior associates still called the great game had been brief and long ago. For these reasons, I’d concluded that in all likelihood he could offer little of value to the present situation. But in the still-settling dust of the Towers’ collapse, every corner was being searched, every source, no matter how remote and seemingly irrelevant, gleaned for information. The gyroscope at the center of our expertise had been struck by those planes—so the thinking went—and it had wobbled, and now all its movements had to be recalibrated.

      And so, after reading Danforth’s letter, Dr. Carlson had decided that Danforth might have something to add to our intelligence. He’d told me that Danforth did not give interviews, so it was quite surprising that I’d been singled out for this audience.

      Have you ever met the old buzzard? he asked.

      I shook my head.

      Then why you, Paul?

      I don’t know, I answered. "Maybe he saw that little piece I wrote in Policy Options."

      Oh, well, Dr. Carlson said. At least you’ll get to see the Century Club.

      Which was indeed something of a treat, I had to admit, as I glanced about the room in which Danforth and I now faced each other, its bookshelves lined with works written by the club’s members.

      A very impressive place, I said.

      If one is easily impressed, Danforth replied with a slight smile. I read your article on the current crisis. You seem very certain, I must say, in regard to what should be done.

      I shrugged. It’s not really a very prestigious publication, I told him with slightly feigned modesty. More of an opinion sampler where graduate students attempt to get noticed. Which I did, evidently. By you.

      Your father was a professor of foreign affairs, Danforth said.

      My father’s position at a rather modest little college had been mentioned in the brief biography that accompanied my article, so I wasn’t surprised that Danforth was aware of it. Still, there was an air of clandestine knowledge in his tone; he seemed to carry, almost like a mark upon his brow, the faded brand of a spy.

      Yes, he was, I told him. He never made policy, of course . . .

      Which is clearly what you hope to do?

      Yes.

      Hmm, Danforth said. He drew a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and read: ‘Our response should flow from passion as much as policy, and should bear with it a hint of the paranoid.’ He looked at me quite seriously. So there should be no irrationality gap between ourselves and our enemies.

      His remark held no mockery, it seemed to me; Danforth truly appeared to be considering what I’d written.

      My point is that now is not a time for half measures, I replied. Not in the face of these medievalists.

      The target is all, Danforth said. Picking it and destroying it. Which is where true intelligence comes in.

      Comfortably seated amid the old-fashioned opulence of the Century Club, Danforth looked very much the worldly intelligence officer who’d once sipped cognac and smoked cigars with the sort of characters one might find in Graham Greene or Somerset Maugham. His suit had passed its prime, and his tie was unstylishly wide, but I could imagine him as a figure from a bygone age, a handsome young man in a white dinner jacket, lounging on some tropical veranda, watching a steamer move out of the harbor. There would be riotously colored birds in the long green fronds of the nearby trees, and on that ship, a woman in a satin dress would be standing with a champagne glass in her long white fingers, lifting it to him silently, Adieu, mon amour. He was part of a vanished time, I thought, a lost world, and because of that, my current mission seemed even more a matter of giving the new boy something to do.

      You’re an Ivy Leaguer, Danforth said. Columbia. His gaze softened, and I saw the wound we shared. A fellow New Yorker.

      A familiar wave of kill-them-all rage passed over me at the barbarity that had been inflicted upon what had always seemed the most American of cities, but I tamped it down with a crisp Yes.

      Even so, it was clear that Danforth had seen the flame that briefly lit my eyes.

      Hatred is a very legitimate emotion, he said. Believe me, I’ve known it well, and certainly at this moment we have a right to our ire.

      This was a different position from the self-loathing justifications for the attack that had lately wafted up from various quarters, and I was relieved to hear it.

      Anyway, Danforth said, I’m sure the best think tanks are bloated with boys like you.

      I didn’t like the term bloated but nodded anyway, now a little impatient to get on with the interview, write up my report, and head back to Washington. So? I said hastily. Shall we go on?

      Danforth noted my impatience. You are a very focused young man. His expression was quite gentle, perhaps even a bit indulgent. I might almost have called it Socratic.

      Crane, he said. An English name.

      Yes, but I’m really of German stock, I answered. At least, for the most part.

      So a name must have been changed along the way, Danforth said. What was it before?

      I don’t know, I answered. My grandfather changed it during the war. I offered a quick smile. I suppose he didn’t want to be blamed for things he hadn’t done.

      Danforth nodded. Quite understandable. No one would have wanted to be accused of things like that.

      And which he couldn’t have done because he left Germany before the war, I added.

      Danforth smiled. Do you speak German?

      Not since high school.

      That’s a pity, Danforth said. "Certain words in that language often come to mind. Rache, for example. It has a rough sound, don’t you think? Kind of a snarl. It sounds like what it means: ‘vengeance.’ But others don’t sound anything like what they mean, of course. For example, Verrat doesn’t sound like what it means at all."

      "What does Verrat mean?"

      ‘Betrayal.’

      Before I could respond to this, Danforth turned toward the window, beyond which a gentle snow was falling. There was a lot of fear after the Crash of Twenty-nine, he said. People were desperate. His gaze turned searching. I’m sure you’ve read about it in your history books.

      Of course, I answered.

      In fact, I’d read a great deal about that instability: streets filled with the angry dispossessed. Rallies, protests, mobs that surged and withdrew in enormous, roaring waves. Communists gaining influence. Fascists too. Those had been interesting times, no doubt, but Danforth’s backward drift smacked of the mental viscosity common to people of his age, and I simply had no time for it.

      Your activity before the war, I said. How did you—

      We called it the Project, Danforth corrected firmly. "I later came to believe that the name lacked resonance, that it gave no sense of what had actually been involved. Not like Nacht und Nebel, certainly. Which sounds pretty scary and said what it was."

      I looked at him quizzically.

      ‘Night and Fog,’ Danforth translated. The German policy of sending prisoners to camps where they would disappear into, as it were, night and fog. He smiled in a way that suggested not only that my understanding of the Project might be less than accurate but also that he would not be rushed into his discussion of it. "And do forgive me for drifting into modal verbs. Would this and would that. It’s a habit I have, reflecting on things while I talk about him. He laughed softly. I also tend to drift into asides."

      Asides?

      For example, there’s a castle in Vincennes, on the outskirts of Paris, he said quietly. Diderot was imprisoned there. So was the Marquis de Sade. Just think of it, Mr. Crane—

      Paul, I said, to establish a slightly less formal mood. Please, call me Paul.

      Very well, just think of it, Paul, Danforth went on. The two poles of human thought within a few yards of each other. The reasoning of a philosopher and the ravings of a psychopath.

      Why did you happen to think of this aside just now? I asked.

      I suppose because the castle was used for executions as well as a prison, he answered.

      He went on to discuss the various times he’d been to the chateau at Vincennes, what he would have felt on his first visit had he known of the ones to come, what he would have made certain to see and recall, because these small things would speak to him eloquently and with great poignancy at a later time.

      We act in the present tense and recall in the past tense, he said at one point. But we reflect in the conditional and regret in the subjunctive.

      I’m aware that you are a very gifted student of languages, I told him, in case he’d been laboring to impress me with that point. I drew a notebook and pen from my jacket pocket and pretended that his answer to my next question was worth recording. What languages do you speak?

      He spoke quite a few, as it turned out, and as he listed them, I took the opportunity to look him over as I’d been trained to do, evaluate and assess his fitness as a source.

      Thomas Jefferson Danforth was ninety-one years old, but his eyes were sharp, and, save for the occasional wince of discomfort, there was little of the creakiness of age in the way he shifted his body or reached for his glass. His mind was obviously quite clear, and his voice never faltered. He might go off the beaten track, but so far his asides had remained tangentially connected to the topic of discussion.

      You mentioned Vincennes, I reminded him when he reached the last of his languages.

      Mata Hari was executed at Vincennes, Danforth said with deliberation, the way an etymologist might turn a phrase over in his mind, review the origin of each word, ponder its many facets and vagaries. And the Germans executed thirty people there in 1944. I once went through the list.

      Why?

      Looking for a name, Danforth said. And do you know, Paul, the feel of a murder site changes when you know someone who was murdered there.

      You knew someone who was killed at Vincennes?

      Danforth shook his head. No, but I thought I might have, he answered almost casually. At Vincennes, I was just looking. I did a lot of that after the war.

      After the war, I said coaxingly. So that had nothing to do with the Project?

      Not all things end abruptly, Danforth said matter-of-factly. And some things never do. Acts of war, for example. They ripple on forever.

      This line of talk seemed not at all germane, and so I said, You were in the army, I believe?

      Working in London, Danforth said. Translating intelligence reports from all over Europe. He appeared to scan those years for a relevant memory. I remember a particular contact. A priest, as it happened. His communiqués about Drancy were quite heartbreaking. What happened to the children there, I mean. He claimed to have heard their cries from the steps of Sacré Coeur.

      But that wouldn’t have been possible, I said in a rather too obvious effort to show that, for all my youth and limited travel, I was at least familiar with Paris and its environs. The distance would have been too great.

      Danforth’s smile seemed indulgent, a worldly old man educating an unworldly youthful one. No distance is too far for guilt to travel. He shrugged. But yes, the priest was no doubt speaking metaphorically.

      Despite his faintly pedagogical, didactic air, I had to admit that a certain gravity emanated from Danforth, an intense centeredness; reason enough, I decided, to play it his way a few minutes longer, go at things a little less directly than I’d planned, allow him the occasional digression. Such mental wandering was typical of advanced age, after all, and besides, it was always possible that some little jewel of useful information might be gleaned along the way.

      Still, I wanted to hoe a more or less straight row, which is why I made my next statement. They all spoke several languages. The people recruited for the . . . Project.

      How do you know that?

      Robert Clayton’s report to the State Department, I answered. I have to say it makes for rather interesting reading, all that cloak-and-dagger business.

      How old are you, Paul? Something in Danforth’s voice was at once hard and tender, both the scar and the flesh beneath it.

      Twenty-four.

      Danforth nodded. At around your age, I was a callow young man, running the family business. Picture me, if you can. He seemed to disappear down the long tunnel of his own past. A young man with plenty of money and a lovely fiancée, dressed to the nines, having dinner at Delmonico’s.

      Delmonico’s, New York City, 1939

      A burst of flame swept up from the pan as the tableside chef splashed brandy onto the steak, and the people at the surrounding tables joined them in laughter and applause that seemed to circle ’round the dining room and linger in the drapery, lending yet more sparkle to the light.

      That’s the show, Clayton said happily, and in response they all lifted their glasses, Clayton and Caroline, his wife of six months, Danforth and Cecilia Linnartz, his fiancée, blond, with dazzling blue eyes, who seemed still not quite used to the glint of her engagement ring.

      Confusion to the French, Clayton said as a toast.

      Danforth looked at him, puzzled.

      It’s an old Anglo-Saxon toast, Clayton explained. My oh-so-English uncle taught it to me.

      They’d driven to Beaver Street in Clayton’s spanking-new car, a gift from his father on his most recent birthday, and during the trip they’d cruised past the remnants of a late-afternoon riot. There’d been a few overturned cars, a couple of them set on fire and still smoldering, and the streets had been strewn with placards. Caroline had looked unsettled by the scene, but she was a nervous girl, Danforth knew, and he liked the way Cecilia, calm and cool, had quickly soothed Caroline’s rattled nerves.

      Once they arrived at Delmonico’s, the incident had fled their minds, and for the past few minutes they’d looked very much the happy foursome they were, Clayton talking at full tilt, stopping only to sip his six-olive martini.

      The marble portal out front, did you know it came from Pompeii? he asked.

      That’s the story that went out, Danforth said. But my father doubts it.

      Why? Clayton asked.

      Because it would have been very hard to get it out of Italy, Danforth answered. Even out of Naples, corrupt though that city is.

      Clayton laughed. Then it must be a fraud, he said. But Danforth Imports can get anything out of anywhere, right, Tom?

      Right, Danforth said confidently.

      Something sparked in Clayton’s eyes. A great skill, that, he said. A very great skill. You must have many secret devices for spiriting objects of great value in and out of exotic ports of call.

      That’s a rather grand way of putting it, Danforth said, but yes, we do.

      The dinner progressed as it usually did, though it struck Danforth that Clayton often returned to the subject of the family business, the contacts Danforth Imports had throughout Europe, particularly in France and Poland but also in the Balkans, where, as Danforth rightly informed him, order could be found only after one understood the structure of disorder.

      They went through the courses and finished off the meal with yet another fiery display, this time baked Alaska. It was ten o’clock before they piled back into Clayton’s car for the drive uptown, where, some fifteen minutes later, Danforth and Cecilia at last found themselves alone in the lobby of Cecilia’s building.

      Caroline’s frightened of everything, Cecilia said. I can’t imagine what Clayton sees in her.

      Danforth shrugged. Men like Clayton often marry women like Caroline. I don’t know why. He laughed. Stanley did, you know. The great explorer. His wife rarely left London, and she seemed mostly interested in hats.

      Cecilia said nothing in reply to this, but Danforth could see that she was turning it over in her mind, a thoughtfulness he liked in her and that he considered important in the life they would live together. Had he been asked at that moment if he loved her, he would have said that he did, and he would have believed this to be true. Many years later, as he searched through old papers and followed distant clues, alone in rooms so spartan nothing hung from their walls, he would recall that once he had loved a woman named Cecilia and that if it weren’t for a single, decisive choice, he would have married her and lived his life with her. She would have been the full measure of what he knew of love, their life together a glass that—because he knew no other—he would forever have taken to be full.

      Finally, as if something about him had troubled her, she said, You’re happy with me, aren’t you, Tom?

      Of course I am, Danforth assured her.

      A few minutes later, in a taxi going home, he recalled that moment, and it returned him to his earlier life: how he and his father had traveled over the wildest terrains, eaten things that could scarcely be imagined, part of his training to run the family business. The actual running of it had eased him into a far more comfortable world, however, and now those earlier times were like dreams from childhood or stories he’d read in a boys’ adventure book. Lately he’d begun to wonder if everything had been experienced too early, absorbed by a mind too immature to provide much resonance to the man he later became. In fact, on those occasions when he couldn’t prevent a certain uneasiness from creeping over him, he suspected that time was slowly dissolving all save the most harrowing episodes of those dramatic years—the stormy ferry ride to Cozumel, the wind that had nearly blown him off the Cliffs of Moher—and that since his youth he’d added nothing to his ever-dwindling store.

      He felt a familiar discontent and turned to work, his no less familiar route of escape. He’d brought the usual briefcase of papers home with him earlier that day, and he now set about going through them.

      He’d completed about half the evening’s tasks when the phone rang.

      It was Clayton.

      Do me a favor, Tom. Go to your front window and look to the right, the northwest corner of Madison and Sixty-fifth.

      What? Danforth asked with a faint laugh.

      Come on, just do it.

      Danforth put down the phone, walked to his front window, drew back the drapes, and looked out. The streets were deserted at that hour; he saw only a single figure, a man wearing a dark hat pulled down low, slouching against the corner of the building at Madison and Sixty-fifth.

      All right, I looked, Danforth said.

      And saw a man, right? Leaning against the corner building.

      Yes, Danforth said warily. How did you know?

      I know because I’m in the bar across the street from that corner. I can see him very clearly.

      Danforth looked at the clock across the room. That bar closed an hour ago, Robert.

      Clayton’s laugh was entirely relaxed. I thought you’d know that. It’s good to be aware of your surroundings.

      I have no idea what you’re talking about, Danforth told him.

      A steely seriousness came into Clayton’s voice. How about we meet at the Old Town Bar tomorrow evening? he said. Say, seven thirty?

      Century Club, New York City, 2001

      So, Clayton was looking for certain characteristics in you, I said, a banal question, I knew, designed merely to keep Danforth talking, since I would never return to my bosses in Washington without completing an assignment, even one as ultimately unenlightening as I expected this interview to be. That you were a man who observed his surroundings.

      A penetrating glimpse into the obvious, Paul, Danforth said.

      I gave Danforth no indication that his penetrating glimpse into the obvious remark offended me, though it did. Still, I could see that the real purpose of this statement had been to warn me against indulging him with even the most glancing flattery.

      He was evaluating you though, wasn’t he? I asked. I once again positioned pen and paper in a way that gave the impression that Danforth’s answers were important. Your strengths, I mean.

      Danforth shook his head. No. He was looking for my weaknesses. Not of character, however. He was looking for cracks in me, little places he could enter. He already knew what he wanted me to do. He just didn’t know if I would do it. That’s what that little trick with the man on the corner was all about. It was like a scent he released in the air.

      A scent of what?

      Mystery, what else? Danforth answered. He wanted me to know that he had something on his mind. He wanted me to be curious about what it was. It’s the simplest way to draw someone into a plot. You make them want to know what you know. He shrugged. Anyway, Clayton was just working a bit of a shell game with that guy on the corner. A touch of legerdemain.

      Did it work? I asked. Did you meet him at the Old Town Bar?

      Danforth nodded. Of course I did, he said. I thought I could hear whatever was on his mind and not be in the least seduced by it. His smile emerged like a tiny ray from the belly of a cave. But I wasn’t prepared for what happened there.

      Old Town Bar, New York City, 1939

      Danforth brushed the snow from the shoulders of his overcoat and slapped it from his hat. The interior of the bar was dark in a way that mirrored the times, at least insofar as he had

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