Show and Tell
This story runs concurrently with "Served," "Family," "Destined," and "Eve," and then follows "Lecture" at the January 5 entry.

***September 2023***

Upon arriving home from their book tour, Robert Goren and Alexandra Eames found their nine-year-old ward's possessions finally delivered from France, and it appeared as if the stock of a girls' boutique had appeared from both Olivia's closet at Maison Duplantier and her mother Madeleine Haynes' flat. Despite all they'd seen during their partnership as detectives of the New York City police department, the sheer volume awed them.

It was the latest in a string of surprises begun in October 2021 when Alex Eames, nine months retired from the NYPD, emotionally withdrawn after the loss of the home she'd shared with her late husband, took refuge in a small town in Connecticut, then discovered her former partner Bobby Goren, ten years after they'd parted ways, renting a tiny house a few miles south in the village of Milbury, still working for the FBI but also hosting a pub quiz at a restaurant co-owned by the son of their former ADA Ron Carver. Two days after their reunion, Alex had moved in with him; they wed a month later, and since then, they'd embarked on a series of small adventures (besides the larger one of being married to one another), including rescuing a kidnapped boy, locating Bobby's long-missing nephew, being abducted and left to survive in the woods, re-encountering their longtime nemesis Nicole Wallace (under the alias Madeleine Haynes), and each of them having a book published.

But the most significant surprise had come five months earlier when they were summoned to Paris after the death of Wallace and her married lover in a car crash, to discover that Nicole had requested their guardianship of their daughter Mignon. Her lover's wife, an influential French business executive, had brokered a deal with the State Department of the United States to swap her husband's bastard child for trade secrets. A stunned Alex and Bobby had returned home with the girl, who'd asked to be called by her middle name, where adoption proceedings were progressing. The book tour proved an opportunity to bond, and they loved her dearly, but often she remained bewildering: a child with a nature like quicksilver, gregarious, lovable, active, intellectually curious, two grades ahead of her peers.

Faced with a seemingly Denali-sized tower of clothes, many resembling the elaborate outfit that had given the pair pause when they met her eighteen months earlier, Olivia appeared embarrassed rather than delighted, especially after having spent most of the summer in tank tops, shorts, and sandals.

"Maybe Maman never had dolls when she was a little girl," she ventured, "and dressed me up instead? What shall I do with all of this?"

Practical Alex had thoroughly weeded out her wardrobe when she retired, keeping basics along with well-chosen dress items, like the winter-blue wedding gown that she considered her dancing dress, but said simply, "If it were me, I would just keep my favorites, maybe a few that were special memories of your maman, then perhaps anything she bought you to grow into. But these are your clothes. We could make room for clothes storage in the basement."

Olivia's purge was more extensive than expected, so it took a full day, even with Bobby's help at the end packaging so many dresses, blouses, slacks, and other items for donation to Big Brothers/Big Sisters, leaving Olivia with a solid wardrobe of favorite outfits for all weathers. Some larger-size clothing was set aside for the future, including a classic silk dress with a full skirt suitable for a teen. "I think Maman picked that for my commencement," Olivia said, gently stroking the rich blue folds of fabric.

St. Gregory's guidelines stated that students could wear appropriate dress clothing for the first and last day of school, plus other days to be specified. Otherwise, the uniform was de rigueur: navy blue skirt or slacks, black or navy blue walking shoes, white blouse/shirt in both long and short sleeves with academy patch on the left pocket, and the school blazer with the patch on the pocket for cold weather. For Alex, blazers were like a second skin, and she ensured that Olivia's fit properly.

Since the weather was still warm, for her first day, Olivia chose a ruffled pale purple blouse over a violet-and-blue tartan skirt, lilac ankle socks, and comfortable school shoes nothing like the stiff Oxfords required in the past. Bobby packed leftover chicken cacciatore in a crusty bun, fruit, and favorite snacks for her lunch, milk to be purchased at school, and they'd tucked her into bed, hoping she'd fall asleep quickly.

Privately, they had wagered she probably wouldn't.

Accordingly, Bobby's internal radar detected movement in the living room around midnight; he found Olivia sitting on the stairs as she had done when she first came home. Sam, their big laid-back tricolor collie, was beside her, his head resting on her lap.

"Tough being the new kid on the first day of school," he said quietly.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Papa, you don't need to get up whenever I can't sleep. I just wanted to think," she said in a low voice to keep from waking Bandit the budgie. She stroked Sam's head. "Sam helps me think."

Bobby leaned against the newel post, using the same muted voice. "I know. It's just anxious new-parent syndrome. But it strikes me that Alex and I were selfish, wanting to keep you here with us. We never considered sending you back to Creatwood."

"It would have been nice," Olivia confessed wistfully, "since I know the teachers, and Renata would be there..." but then she tilted her head upward. "But...I like it here. And if I went away, I'd only see you and Mama at Christmas and next summer hols. I'd miss you. And Ana and Carlos..."

"And Noah?" Bobby added with amusement, and she stifled a giggle. "You know I do that to tease you, don't you, Papa?"

"I know. Standard ten-year-old behavior, saying things to make the adults wig out."

"I'm not ten until Wednesday," she objected.

"Close enough," observed Alex as she slipped into the living room to lean against Bobby, smiling when Olivia rolled her eyes.

"And I'd miss how you look at each other," Olivia added with a wistful smile. "I suppose I'd miss everyone. Mr. Volpe is like my grandfather now, and Mrs. Perrino is like a grandmother. And there's Aunt Lizzie, Uncle Jack, and the rest—Shard and TJ and everyone at the Crystal—of course Mr. Jenkins and the kids.

"Especially Donna...she's like a big sister," she finished, yawning. She patted Sam, sent him back to his bed, then rose, hugging them in turn. "I can manage being 'the new kid' if it means staying here. I never wanted to go to Creatwood anyway, but Papa Marcel insisted all well-educated children went to boarding school, and then Maman insisted it had to be a British school because they were academically superior."

You learn something every day, his look said to Alex, as slow revelations since her homecoming had shown that Olivia had not led the fairy-tale life it seemed initially.

Alex tucked her in again, and by habit, she gathered up Captain, the stuffed fox Bobby had bought for her at Aéroport Charles de Gaulle in April.

"See you later, alligator," Bobby teased, and she responded, as Donna had taught her, "In a while, crocodile."

"Now I know how my mother felt when I went to kindergarten!" Alex breathed in exasperation.

Monday had commonly been her "chill-out day"; after a weekend of occasional Friday rail trips into New York City, trivia on Saturday, and various amusements on Sunday, it had been a catch-up time: laundry, obedience work with Sam, for those months before her book's publication work on her manuscript, while Bobby devoted most of the day to his consulting work. On that first day of school, he'd adhered to the latter doggedly all morning, and Alex had washed this and tidied that, caught up on e-mail, plus taken an extra run after lunch between rain showers, and the hours had crawled by. At noon, Bobby had come downstairs to eat and betrayed his wandering thoughts when he asked her how long she thought it would take them to drive to St. Gregory's, although they had driven Olivia to school less than five hours earlier.

He finally surrendered, locked away his work around 2:15 p.m., then popped into the bedroom after overhearing Alex's comment about her mother to find her already changing clothes. Five minutes later, he wore a polo shirt, jeans, and the inevitable Doc Martens. Sam was waiting at the back door, dancing, but when Bobby let him outside, he wasn't interested in anointing the grass but instead headed directly to the gate to the driveway, pawing at the chain link fence.

"Why not?" was Alex's cryptic suggestion, to which Bobby offered, "My car?" so they joined the school pickup queue, along with the ecstatic collie, in the Camaro. Knowing the line would remain stationary until the bell rang at three, other parents emerged from their SUVs to chat about the vintage car, and Sam greeted them with happy woofs. One parent had squinted at their St. Gregory's hangtag and asked if they were the grandparents of a child, to which Alex suppressed a sigh—this had already happened several times on the book tour—and they politely explained.

The bell shrilled at three, at which the last man still talking quipped, "Gentlemen, start your engines!" then bade them farewell and loped for his vehicle. Sam now stuck his head out the passenger side window beside Alex, his nose twitching, his nearsighted eyes peering toward the stone structure as a noisy parade of children burst out the big front double wooden doors, some hurrying toward the buses, some heading for the pickup line. Sister Mark Anthony, tall, square-shouldered, and commanding in dark blue, intermittently blew a police whistle to keep them in line. Then Sam barked, his tail beating a wild tattoo against the rear seat.

"I'm coming, Sam, I'm coming!" and Olivia appeared from behind "Sister Marksy" as they would discover the kids called her, an overstuffed backpack anchoring her right arm, and a sheaf of papers clutched in her left hand, navigating the rain-damp sidewalk with an older girl at her side, her backpack riding comfortably between her shoulder blades. "Mama, Papa! This is Cerise, my 'homeroom buddy'!"

Bobby arched an eyebrow at Alex as they said hello to Cerise, who was slender and angular, with a self-possessed expression that would have been at home on an Egyptian frieze, and Alex shot him a glance—we needn't have worried. Cerise helped Olivia get her things in the back seat while Bobby held Sam's collar so he wouldn't lick her face while she was trying to fasten her seat belt.

"See you tomorrow!" Cerise called as they drove away.

Olivia talked nonstop on the way home: there were two new children in seventh grade besides herself, and each had a homeroom buddy (a volunteer, she stressed, not because Sister Bridget appointed one): a girl from California named Bronwen ("She's standoffish," Olivia said, "but maybe it's not because she's snooty.") and "a dreadfully cute boy named Jacob, who used to live in the city" (they were amused that she had picked up their habit of saying "the city" as if The Big Apple was the only one that counted). Once home, she showed them her class schedule and schoolbooks—she had no homework but had brought the books home to read.

A routine soon developed: Alex took her to school, and Bobby picked her up (both came on Wednesdays); by the second week, she had after-school activities on Monday and Wednesday. She mourned not seeing Ana at Big Brothers any longer (unlike the public school, St. Gregory's had no early release day); but Mrs. Perrino would bring Ana with her after school on Thursdays or Fridays when she ran errands for Bruno Volpe next door, and on those days the girls did their homework at the kitchen table as they talked. Tuesday and Saturday nights were still trivia nights, although on Tuesday Olivia more often did her homework in a corner while TJ spoiled her with appetizers. Saturday mornings and early afternoons were reserved for chores or fun; Sunday was a happy family day driving anywhere from "Papa's favorite bookstore" to museum attendance to visiting attractions within the state or next-door Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Alas, while Bronwen did turn out to be "snooty," Cerise and Jacob began to turn up regularly in conversation.

Additionally, Olivia had weekly therapy sessions, regular visits from DCF representative Ruth Dunbar, and the occasional unscheduled event, like Hannah Love's inspection in October, yet she happily thrived throughout. Bobby and Alex recalled Dr. Chaudry's tale of her parents' remark that her birth late in their lives had kept them young; often both felt like they'd been transported backward in time. Still, they cherished any downtime during the week.

A week after the Veterans Day holiday, Olivia slid into the car next to Alex, who was chauffeur du jour because Bobby was closing out a case, and blurted out before saying hello, "Where's Papa Marcel's watch?"

Alex had nearly forgotten the gift Madame Pepin had dropped into Olivia's hands before they departed Paris, accompanied by a supposedly sincere apology: a vintage, substantial silver pocket watch, dark with tarnish, with a platinum chain made with thick flat links, fastened to a worn leather fob. Engraved on the front of the watch case within a scrolled design were the initials "M. T. P," Marcel Pepin's grandfather, Marcel Thibault Pepin, who had carried the timepiece during the First World War. "Bobby put it in the safe, I'm sure. If not, it's in the safe deposit box. Why?"

"It's for school!" Olivia said, then veered into a different story about tennis practice.

Bobby confirmed that it was indeed in the safe; he left the beef stew simmering and mounted the stairs two at a time to return with the timepiece cupped in his left hand, spilling it beside her on the kitchen table as Olivia opened her math book and scowled at her homework. "Thank you, Papa," she murmured, then set the watch aside to get her hated algebra problems out of the way. Life bustled around her: Alex disappeared into the living room to text Viola Perrino about the upcoming fundraiser for Big Brothers/Big Sisters, Bobby tended the stew while perusing a catalog of criminology books, and Sam wandered in and out, toenails clicking sharply on linoleum, seeking attention. She took a break only when Bandit flew into the kitchen, perching on her head. She brought the mostly white bird with his striped black "mask" down to table level and scratched under his chin when he fluffed up for her.

Algebra out of the way, she went on to a reading assignment (7th grade AP Language Arts current book was Watership Down) and finished with her history homework. Her face tensed as she completed the quiz at the end of the chapter. Having kept subconscious track of her American history progress, Bobby asked sympathetically, "Andrew Jackson? Indian Removal Act?"

"Yes," she said shortly.

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You'll find history like that all over the world, Min," using the nickname her old schoolmate Renata had given her. "One civilization overruns another and declares moral superiority. It's a sad fact of life. We can't change past offenses, but we can keep them from happening again."

"Keep what from happening again?" Alex asked, emerging from the living room.

"Trail of Tears," Olivia responded.

"Nineteenth-century racist bullshit," her mother said firmly. "And too many people are resurrecting it. When will they learn?

"I will," the little girl said stoutly, prompting Alex to kiss her. Finished, Olivia cleared the table and set it for dinner. As they sat down to beef stew with a side salad of cucumber and tomato, Bobby asked casually, "So what's the deal with the watch?"

"Oh," Olivia said, "Tommy Connally started it...as always." She enjoyed a forkful of beef and potato, then performed her now-familiar eye-roll. "He was whinging in history class; said he didn't know why we had to learn about dead people. Brother Ambrose told Tommy we're all history; just that only a few people ever get written up in books. He asked if anyone in the class had things at home that might be historically interesting. Of course I thought of Papa Marcel's watch. Jacob said he was wearing his, and Brother Ambrose asked if he would tell us about it."

"What was he wearing?" Alex asked, curious.

"His yarmulke!" Olivia said animatedly. "It originally belonged to his great-grandfather, who survived a concentration camp. Jacob was named after him and met him before he died, when he was five. Brother Ambrose hopes we'll bring in things that illustrate our family history. He says they don't have to be from an important event, just everyday life. Sonia has a dress her grandmother wore in the 1930s, made from...a grain bag, if you can believe that! She was a farm girl. I thought about the middy dress I wear as Trot, but that's Mrs. Perrino's, not mine."

"I don't think Viola would object to you talking about her mother's old dress so long as Brother Ambrose doesn't mind you talking about someone else's family. Why not ask tomorrow? It sounds to me as if Brother Ambrose wants to do a history class version of Show and Tell," observed Alex.

"What's that?"

"I don't know if schools still do it, but when Bobby and I were kids it was popular in the lower grades. You brought something from home to show to the class and talked about it: a favorite toy or a souvenir of a trip, or maybe a gift you received. It was supposed to put you at ease with talking to your classmates, and tell them about your interests."

Bobby's eyes were distant as she explained the concept, and Alex realized his mind was elsewhere. Olivia glanced at her mother questioningly.

"Bobby–" Alex touched his shoulder and only that gesture brought him back to earth.

"Sorry," he responded self-consciously, "it reminded me of something from when I was a kid." Instead of explaining further, he picked up the watch case and cradled it in his hand. "Look at the craftsmanship in those days. Are you taking it in tomorrow?"

"No history class again until Monday," she reminded him, confirming his preoccupation since he knew her schedule by heart.

Only later, in the privacy of the bedroom, Alex asked him what had happened.

"Do you remember," he said slowly, "that day after we were reinstated at work when I blew up about the gifts from 'Uncle Mark'?"

She could hardly forget the event because it had followed one of his mandatory therapy sessions with Dr. Gyson, the final year they had worked Major Case together.

He'd returned to the office huffing angrily and spent the rest of the afternoon doing paperwork in forbidding silence. When Alex asked him out for a drink at day's end, he'd surprisingly obliged, only to start with a double bourbon, followed by a second.

He wasn't drunk when he unburdened himself, and she sharply cut him off from yet a third serving, but he had growled that Gyson had asked him about his father that day.

"Today of all days," he'd said sullenly, and she understood because that morning, she had listened to him negotiate in agitation on the phone with a creditor. She didn't dare, as she had when they were both unemployed, offer to loan him money. He'd turned crimson with embarrassment, which she'd only made worse by joking that he was the one person she trusted to lend money to. Months later, only after he'd left Major Case, she discovered that he'd sold his beloved Mustang to pay those bills.

"Good old Dad," he'd told her bitterly, "even bled me out of what I could have used to get me out of this mess."

And he'd repeated the story about the incident before his mother died when he had shown his brother Frank a photo of "Uncle Mark," a character he had forgotten from childhood but who Frank remembered vividly.

"He used to bring you things," Frank had told him, astonished that Bobby had no recall of that fascinating visitor. "Autographed baseballs, hockey pucks–"

She'd known by then that "Uncle Mark" was not a family member but Mark Ford Brady, the once-imprisoned serial killer who had "kept company" with Frances Goren while her husband vanished on extended "sales trips,' and who was Bobby's "sperm donor," as Bobby had come to scornfully refer to him after his pathetic attempts to use his son's expertise to get him a stay of execution.

"I saw my dad selling that stuff when I was older," Bobby had finished with resentment. "A puck from a 60s Boston Bruins game with Bobby Orr's autograph and another one from a Blackhawks game with Phil Esposito's. A baseball with Yogi Berra's autograph, and another with Mickey Mantle's. I never realized they were mine. My damned bloodstained biological patrimony could have at least paid off my debts. Instead, my dad sold them to pay off his own and fund his whores."

"Her talking about this history class thing," he sighed, "reminded me I was aware of at least one of Brady's gifts way back. I took it to school for Show and Tell in second grade: the baseball with Yogi Berra's autograph. Frank told me if I lost it he would brain me. I walked home for lunch that day just to put it back in a box under my bed to keep Frank from hassling me. I guess after my mom got sick, little things like that...just slipped my mind."

"For a little boy you had a lot on your plate," Alex said quietly, resting her forehead against his.

On Friday morning, Bobby apologized to Olivia for zoning out on her, but she was already used to his introspective disappearances and merely said, "It's fine, Papa." When he asked if he could look at the watch later that day, she'd nodded acceptance solemnly, but he swiftly added, "It's yours, and I think parents should ask permission to touch things that are special to their children." Alex quirked her mouth while thinking of the previous night, a gesture Olivia interpreted as something she might ask her mother about later.

They had no chance to check the timepiece on Friday because Bobby became so absorbed in his work that afternoon that they'd eaten a late supper; it slipped everyone's mind completely after Tony Fessiden appeared on their doorstep with welcome news of the adoption court date.

So they were in an exuberant mood Saturday morning after breakfast when he asked after the watch again; Olivia fished the item from her night table where Alex had transferred it for safekeeping, then waited as he turned it over in his supple fingers. "This looks as if it were a special gift. Perhaps your great-grandfather gave it to your grandfather just before he left for the trenches. Have you ever opened it?"

Olivia shook her head. "I wasn't allowed. Papa Marcel always took it out so I could hold it."

Alex took a seat next to him. "It's like a treasure hunt."

He pressed the tiny button that opened the watch case so that it spread apart like concave butterfly wings; inside was nestled the timepiece itself, its face yellowed with time, the hands frozen at 11:51. The numerals were in cursive from one to twelve, then numbered in red inside the circle of black numbers from thirteen to zero for use as a 24-hour clock. There was a long sweep second hand in black, with the watch hands themselves pewter-colored. Bobby cupped it in his right hand while gently twisting the stem forward and back. When the second hand remained immobile, he made a further attempt to wind it with no success.

"The mainspring may be broken," he said regretfully, "but we could find a watch repair shop somewhere in the city and get it into shape again: a new crystal and a good cleaning might be all it needs."

Alex tapped the interior of the case. "Check out the back panel, Bobby—here, that tiny curve at the bottom. Does it have a false back?"

He exchanged the watch for the case, examining it with a smile. "Looks like it, Eames. Can you pry a fingernail underneath?—my mitts are too big."

She smiled in anticipation and gently wedged her thumbnail into the tiny indented crescent and tugged gently, and the curved, thin metal shell parted from the back of the watch case. "How about that? Maybe Grandpa Marcel had a photo of his sweethear–"

"What's that?" Olivia interrupted, leaning over her shoulder to stare into the watch case, adding automatically, "Excuse me, Mama," then noticed that both adults seemed dumbfounded. Bobby stirred first. "Min, go to the bathroom and get the tweezers, please."

"What–"

"Just go," he repeated, and she hopped from her seat.

"Can that be what I think it is?" Alex squinted at the miniature paper-thin square brown wafer with two pinpoint whitish discolorations at one edge stored in the hidden compartment of the watch case.

"I 've only seen one in a museum–"

"The spy museum in D.C.," she finished.

Olivia handed him the tweezers and a tissue. "Good thinking. Thank you," he said with a grin, laid the tissue down, moved to extract the wafer, and then paused as his instincts kicked in. "Alex, grab one of our phones first. Take a shot of how we found this." Then he grinned because he noticed she already had her cell phone waiting.

She replaced the false back, then snapped several photographs from different angles with the compartment cover on and off. Next, Bobby carefully plied the tweezer to remove the square wafer from the watch case and laid it gingerly on the tissue. Olivia sat back down, staring at it. "Someone say something!"

"I am pretty certain this is a piece of microfilm," Bobby declared.

"What's that?"

"You know cameras weren't always digital, right?" Alex asked. "Before digital cameras, a camera had film in it."

Bobby added, "Negative images were saved on the film, which you brought to a photo center or a drugstore to have developed as prints unless you knew how to do it yourself. Professional photographers took pride in developing their own film because they could manipulate the resulting print."

Olivia nodded. "I read about camera film in one of my books, but I didn't know it looked like that."

"Camera film was a long reel," and Bobby made a stretching motion with his hands. "This is...where's your ruler?"

Olivia produced one from her desk and found that the wafer measured 17 millimeters square.

"Look, we'll find a book..." Bobby continued, "...or a YouTube video...a camera museum maybe. This is just a single frame. It looks like microfilm. Have you ever seen any spy movies?"

"Like James Bond?" Olivia asked, confused. "I watched a couple with Maman last year. She said they were dreadfully sexist, but that Sean Connery was nice to look at."

Alex chuckled briefly. "They were sexist, but he was. Did you understand what the spies were doing?"

"One country...wanted something secret from another country," Olivia said after several seconds, "and so they sent a man...the spy...into the other country to get it."

Bobby still had eyes on the item but flashed a grin. "In a nutshell. The photos would be reduced to microfilm to be hidden. This piece, for instance, would easily fit into a U.S. quarter or an equivalent-size foreign coin that had been hollowed out."

"But why would it be in Papa Marcel's grandfather's watch?"

"That's what we have to find out." Bobby unfolded himself from the kitchen chair and disappeared into the bedroom.

"The game's afoot," Alex said mischievously, having seen his eyes brighten.

He emerged already on his cell phone. "–Agent Goren and I need to speak with Marcus Thuringer."

"Oh, Bobby, give Marc a break. It's Saturday morning."

"Are you kidding? Marc gets off on things like this." And he set the phone down and turned on the speaker.

To his surprise, the director of the Hartford field office answered the phone with a slight growl. "Who is this?"

"Marc? Are you okay?"

"It's the middle...well, all right, it's nine-thirty, but Jesus, Bob–" Thuringer paused. "Are you okay?"

"Not trapped in the woods this time, no. Late night?"

"Rachel's youngest brother got engaged. We were partying kind of late."

"Damn. Sorry." Bobby did his best to sound contrite. "It's just that we came upon something odd...does your office by any chance still have anything that will enlarge microfilm?"

There was silence at the end of the line, then Thuringer returned in a slightly dazed voice, "Microfilm? Did I suddenly wander into an Ian Fleming novel?"

Bobby chuckled. "We were just talking about James Bond. Yes, a nice little square of it, hidden in a watch case."

"Watch…case?" Thuringer seemed to perk slightly.

"Vintage World War I pocket watch. From Marcel Pepin's family."

Olivia's face was alight now because Bobby looked about twelve years old, his face animated. When she glanced at her mother, Alex grinned and said, "Spy nerds."

"I heard that!" Thuringer protested.

"All Bobby needs right now," she said tartly, "is his secret decoder ring." But she was almost absurdly happy to see him smiling after Evangeline Pepin's subtle threats earlier in the month to waylay Olivia's adoption.

"Not us, but Boston does."

"We need to call Matt Hogarth," said Bobby instantly, then added, "Hey—got so wrapped up in this...we got our court date yesterday."

"Outstanding!" Thuringer responded. "When?"

"December 22 at ten sharp."

"What a great Christmas gift! Congratulations!"

"Thanks, Marc," said Alex.

Now came a sleepy woman's voice asking, "Marc, why are you shouting? And who is that at this hour?"

"Rache, it's almost ten o'clock."

"And we got in at four–"

"Hold on, hon—Bobby, I'll contact Matt and get back to you–" Thuringer hurriedly hung up, presumably to mollify his partner.

Bobby enfolded the microfilm wafer in the tissue, and Alex tucked the morsel under her mother's pearls in her jewelry box. After walking Sam in combination with Alex's morning run, they made a quick trip to the Nutmeg Hill Farmer's Market and had just put away their purchases when Bobby's cell rang. They knew it was Thuringer by the ringtone: Johnny Horton's "Secret Agent Man."

"You busy tomorrow?" Thuringer asked.

"We hadn't anything planned, but–"

"Put me on speaker." And then he queried so all three could hear, "Olivia, have you ever flown in a small plane?"

"We went on a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon," Olivia responded. "It was fun!"

"So you wouldn't be afraid?"

"I don't believe so."

"How'd you like to fly to Boston in a Cessna?"

A look of sheer joy crossed the girl's face. "Like Molly's mother's plane?"

"I don't know who Molly is, but it's a Cessna 180 4-seater."

Alex explained merrily, "Molly as in of Denali. It's an animated show on PBS. Molly's mother is a bush pilot."

"I can't claim to be a bush pilot, but I've got a flight plan booked through to Hanscom Field and a car reserved to get to Brookline."

"We can just drive–" Alex pointed out, to which Olivia almost wailed a protest until Thuringer wheedled, "I haven't taken the plane up in months, and Olivia will enjoy it."

The youngster mouthed, please! to them, and Bobby began, "So we–"

"Drive to the office. I'll get a tag to park your car, and we'll take mine to Windsor Locks. How early can you be here?"

More silent eye conversation, Olivia noticed. "We can do ten."

"Perfect. See you then."

Alex pulled the CRV to the curb of the Hartford FBI field office just at ten; Thuringer was already waiting on the sidewalk bundled in a jacket, holding a hang tag, and accompanied by a trainee who looked all of sixteen to the two adults. Olivia, her stuffed fox under her arm ("just in case," she'd said), burst from the car instantly, disappointed in the nondescript building.

The trainee smiled, nodded a businesslike acknowledgment, politely took the keys, and drove away with Alex's car as Bobby commented wryly, "Tell me my seminar subjects in January will be older."

"Yours will be more seasoned, I promise," Thuringer grinned. He was a short, muscled man whom Mike Logan had once described as looking like a squat bullet, with dark curly hair, deep brown eyes, and an olive complexion. "Navir's twenty-two and a whiz with languages—invaluable in-house, but I wouldn't put them out in the field." His car, a dark hybrid sedan, was parked at the curb; once they were inside, he said, "May I see it?"

Alex teased, "You two are like a couple of kids."

"How often do I get to see something out of John Le Carré?" protested Thuringer.

Bobby briefly revealed the precious wafer now sandwiched between two sheets of parchment paper; Thuringer cupped it in his palm with an almost greedy expression before Bobby tucked it away again. Soon after the Gorens recounted the watch's origins and discovery of the microfilm inside, they had arrived at Windsor Locks. A soft but chill breeze kept Alex busy brushing her hair away from her eyes, but both Bobby and Olivia were wired, and she had to work to keep up with them as they strode toward a sleek white four-seater aircraft with its single wing on top. A red and a blue stripe ran the length of the aircraft body, then combined into an interlocked dental pattern on the tail; the passenger side door was open with a rolling stair set up beside it.

"So this is what you flew to Scranton in to rescue us?" Alex asked with a grin.

"Yes. This is my other lady," Thuringer said proudly, then excused himself to speak to the ground staff employee approaching them. "Go on, hop in. Sorry, Bobby has to sit up front because he won't fit anywhere else."

Thuringer had plotted his flight plan to parallel the Massachusetts Turnpike for much of the journey, and they kept him busy pointing out landmarks below. In the air, he seemed to be an entirely different person, quick-moving rather than deliberate, voice chipper in tower communications, in his element in the sky. The November landscape was nearly leafless, so details popped from the ground below, keeping Olivia enthralled. Once Bobby alerted her to what looked like a quaint centuries-past community. "Check that out, Min."

"Cows!" Olivia said, astonished. "And a flock of sheep, and dirt lanes!"

"It's Old Sturbridge Village," Alex told her. "It recreates a town in the early 1800s."

"We should go in the spring," Bobby said reflectively, "when the lambs and calves are born."

All too soon, they were circling, then landing at Hanscom Field, which shared runways with Hanscom Air Force Base; Thuringer pointed out the different jets between his communication with the tower. A driver met them to hand over a black sedan with government plates, and once on the road, Olivia saw the signposts for Lexington and Concord. She said wide-eyed, "Lexington! Is that where Rab was shot?"

Startled, Thuringer blurted out, "Who was shot?"

"Rab! In Johnny Tremain."

"Yes, that's the way to Lexington Green," Bobby replied.

"Can't we go see?" she begged.

"Not in a government car, sweetie," Alex said. "It's against the rules. Marc would get in trouble. We'll come back. Louisa May Alcott's house is nearby, too, where she wrote Little Women."

Olivia had been less impressed by Little Women than by Johnny Tremain, but she nodded and watched wistfully backward as they drove south. However, as they approached Matthew Hogarth's two-story Dutch Colonial house, her inquisitive demeanor returned.

The clapboard house, with its cap-like gambrel roofline, had recently been painted royal blue with white trim. Marc navigated the Toyota Camry parallel to the left side of the dwelling, up a slight slope on the narrow, old-fashioned driveway consisting of two strips of concrete placed at tire width within now-dormant grass. At the rear, a separate two-story building about the size of a three-car garage was separated from the house by a screened-in breezeway; Bobby and Alex surmised this was "the granny flat" where Hogarth's son Charles Saltonstall lived. Beyond the granny flat was a shingled garage with barn-door type openings instead of roll-up doors; within the half-lit expanse, they could see Hogarth's car, a CRV like Alex's but green, and shadowy outlines of old tools.

"What a beautiful house!" Alex exclaimed as they emerged from the car.

"Built 1910, and the addition postwar 1940s, due to the housing shortage," Hogarth called from the breezeway, holding open the vintage wood-framed screen door with its scrollwork; he was bundled in a thick-knit green sweater, a tall, slender Black man, with soft silver-and-snow white hair and flecked eyebrows in contrast to his russet-toned skin and dark eyes. He served as the director of the Boston field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; Olivia knew him best as the father of her tutor on the book tour, Donna Hogarth, and Bobby and Alex as the former husband of Bobby's FBI supervisor Penelope Saltonstall. He grinned. "And trust me, it was a lot cheaper when Penny and I bought it forty years ago. Come on in."

"I'll bet." Bobby checked out the surrounding oaks and maples, locusts and elms, which in summer would blanket the house with shade, then the neighboring homes, before entering the warm kitchen with its faint scent of fresh paint. "Any problems with the neighbors?"

"Loan company mostly saw Penny," Hogarth said blandly, understanding Bobby's implication. "I created a stir when we first moved in—some people thought I was the chauffeur who lived in the backhouse. Luckily there were other mixed families, like the Fourniers, in the neighborhood, so there wasn't too much of a fuss. Only two families moved away."

Olivia, standing amid a kitchen partially draped with drop cloths, was confused. "Why would they move away?"

"Because he was Black, sweetie," Alex sighed.

Olivia grimaced but asked, "May I see what the rest looks like?"

"Sure, hon, go ahead," and the little girl scampered past Thuringer toward the front of the house.

"She's studied the Trail of Tears in school and couldn't understand that, either," Bobby said wryly.

"God knows why any of them should have to cope with the shit we did," Hogarth returned bitterly, "yet we still have the racial purity brigades coming out of the woodwork." Then he smiled and gestured. "What do you think?"

Hogarth had already painted two kitchen walls a pale mint green instead of the worn yellow of the previous job. "Once I get done, I'm going to rub down the cabinets with Murphy's Oil Soap till the grain comes out on them again."

Alex brushed the surface of the warm walnut-finished natural wood cabinets. "They'll be beautiful."

"Prepping for your bride?" Bobby teased, only to have the older man look abashed. Hogarth was retiring at the end of December, as was Saltonstall, and Bobby knew she had agreed to come back to her old home to live. Then Hogarth laid sympathetic eyes on Thuringer, who was pacing the front hall lined with family photos. "Why don't we put Marc out of his misery? Sit while I grab some tools."

When Olivia padded downstairs fifteen minutes later, she found them surrounding the vintage Formica-topped "boomerang" design chrome-legged table with matching mint-green vinyl-upholstered chairs, viewing the square of microfilm through a lightbox with a magnifying tool mounted on an adjustable stand; Thuringer was currently manipulating the magnifier up and down. The child moved between her parents and whispered, "I found Donna's old room!"

"That obvious, is it?" Bobby responded, amused.

"A poster of watermelon stones, lots of pink and green, and stuffed unicorns," Olivia told them.

Hogarth interjected, "I'm not touching anything else until Penny gets here, just redoing the kitchen. We had both liked it this way already, even though we bought the 50s stuff originally because it was all we could afford. Hell, the table was from Goodwill! It was cheap back then; no one wanted it—now I 've been told we have collectors' items, especially that Glenwood range." He tapped the Formica. "We had the top restored, but that was about it. After the first of the year, we'll discuss what else we want to update, especially the children's old rooms."

"Did you find anything?" Olivia asked, edging closer to Thuringer to peer at the microfilm.

"No," Hogarth admitted. "It will need to be enlarged professionally at my office. All we can make out is that there appear to be ten documents, not counting the two white spots."

"May I see?"

Thuringer slid his chair over. "Feel free."

Olivia took a turn squinting and adjusting the magnifier. Finally, she said, "Hou la, I didn't know they could do things like this in the olden days."

"Shall I smack her with my cane?" Hogarth chuckled, and when Olivia looked surprised, he apologized. "I'm sorry, Olivia. That was my attempt at a joke. I meant you made me feel old."

"I didn't mean it."

"I know. It was a terrible joke." He took her hands. "You remind me so much of my 'unicorn.'"

"Thank you," and Olivia's eyes glowed, knowing he referred to his daughter Donna.

Hogarth continued, "Thing is, Bob, I'm not sure when we'll have the time for this. Marc and I  have already started the turnover process so he can hit the ground running on January 1. I've got several things outstanding and may have to put the microfilm in my safe until the end of the year."

"Need any help?" asked Bobby with arched eyebrows.

"Can't pay you."

"I know. Keep the microfilm—it will be safer with you. We're heading to Michigan this week anyway, and then there's the Christkindlmarkt fundraiser for Big Brothers," Bobby said, then cocked his head at Olivia. "Of course, it was in your watch—I should ask you."

"I  want to know what's on it, too," Olivia said. "You can keep it, Mr. Hogarth."

"I promise if Matt can't get to it next month, I will in January," Thuringer told her. "I'm eager to investigate it further."

"What about your turnover, Bob?" Hogarth asked. "You already in progress?"

Alex glanced at her husband because Bobby had suddenly flushed, but he answered quietly, "I'm cleaning up my docket gradually. I have a few more things to get to Penelope in December."

His host said quietly, "She was sorry she had to do it."

Bobby shrugged. "Not her fault."

Alex's hand reached out to squeeze his knee under the table, but Olivia said serenely, "Papa's already preparing his lecture materials. Ana said he's...'going to blow 'em out of the water.'"

"Tell Ana thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You can tell her yourself, Papa. We have Thanksgiving tomorrow at the Crystal, remember?"

What remained of November passed swiftly. St. Gregory's dismissed for Thanksgiving week. Shard's second annual "Friendsgiving" took place on Monday, then on Tuesday, the five of them, Bandit happily chirping during most of the two-day trip in Alex's CRV with a Tetris-puzzle trunkful of luggage, traveled to Bobby's aunt's farm near Lansing, Michigan, for Thanksgiving and the day following. They were home late Sunday afternoon to prep for another week of school.

Christmas items on store shelves in September had astonished Olivia; once Halloween passed, she was awed by the holiday juggernaut. While she'd seen American Christmas films and specials in France while reveling in Parisian festivities—from skating on the Eiffel Tower amid twinkling "fairy lights," as she called them, to le réveillon on Christmas Eve, to shopping among rainbow glitter and sparkle at Bon Marché and Galeries Lafayette—unlike an American child who from babyhood was well acquainted with Christmas uproar, Olivia was thrust in headfirst.

Her peers initiated her into raucous films like Elf and Christmas Vacation in tandem with small-screen classics involving Rudolph, Charlie Brown, and their animated ilk. Shopping soundscapes became an endless stream of Christmas tunes from Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra to Taylor Swift and K-pop. She flitted happily among vast choices of Yuletide crafts and traditional foods from all nations. But she was a thoughtful child by nature and also came to appreciate gentler traditions her parents loved: soft jazz Christmas carols, whimsical films like Bobby's favorite The Bishop's Wife or Alex's vintage choices, warm gingerbread and cocoa in place of overdone desserts, candlelight and evergreen wreaths.

Die Hard as a Christmas film she wasn't quite sure about.

The Christmas Market fundraiser swallowed the first weekend of December. Then came holiday parties at Big Brothers and the Dark Crystal. On the ninth, Abril Diaz, Ana, and Carlos rode with Viola Perrino to the farmer's market for a Christmas tree, while Bruno Volpe came with the Gorens. Olivia and Ana escorted the geriatric man carefully among the stalls filled with savory farm foods and holiday treats as well as homemade gifts; the shelves dripped with miniature lights and multicolor tinsel garland, and the air was redolent with cedar and fir, mulling spices, apple, and peppermint. The girls even persuaded Bruno to buy a tree: a three-foot fir in a festive red pot. They volunteered to help him decorate it, but he demurred; later that night, the little tree stood proudly in the left front window of Bruno's venerable Colonial home, brightly lit and trimmed with a few ornaments.

Mid-month, Matthew Hogarth phoned at lunchtime. They were immediately captivated by his words. "Say, Bobby, I have a microfilm expert who wants to look into that piece you brought me. I showed it to him today and he was mighty intrigued. He asked if he could take it to his forensics lab."

"Another agent?" Bobby asked warily.

"Former Bureau, now with Homeland Security. He's worked with the British and French police as a microfilm expert, too."

Now Bobby was curious. "What's the name?"

"Adan Ciervo."

Bobby straightened in his seat. "'One Shot' Ciervo?"

"Ah, his reputation proceeds him, I see."

"Everyone in Albany knew Ciervo. He's a Rensselaer native. Sharpshooter, among other things—sniper training—which is where he got his nickname. Matt, was there anything he could tell you now?"

"He thinks, except for the two little white spots, that the film itself is post-war vintage."

"World War II?" Bobby was astounded.

"Yes. He's thinking 1946-1948. Something to do with the type of film."

"So, sorry, no Cold War secrets?" Alex teased, but even she felt slightly disappointed.

"Not the stuff I remember. Not the Cuban Missile Crisis, duck and cover drills, or threats of nuclear annihilation."

"I suppose I was lucky," Alex said dryly. "All I remember are convention riots on television, Nixon getting elected, and Watergate." She and Bobby exchanged glances, then the latter spoke. "Go ahead, let him take it."

"I'll call back when I hear more," Hogarth promised, but Christmas would pass before their discovery saw the light of day again.

***January 5, 2024***

"Bobby! Bob, wait up!"

Alex had treated them to lunch for the first day of Bobby's new gig on what she called "the FBI  lecture circuit." The trio, already wearing coats and hats as they readied to leave, was emerging from the cafeteria on the lowest level of the Boston field office. Darting between confused personnel heading in multiple directions, Marc Thuringer was jogging their way like a compact running back.

"You could have phoned, you know," Bobby pointed out as Thuringer reached them.

"All my calls are monitored," Thuringer said in a confidential voice, catching his breath. He gave Olivia a half-hearted smile. "I hear you made a successful debut today, young lady."

"Something to make up for the Christmas hols being finished already," she responded ruefully.

"And how was your Christmas?"

Olivia responded animatedly, "It was brill! Aunt Agnes and all her family came from Michigan...but you know, you were at Nochebuena! We had Christmas dinner at Aunt Lizzie's—a buffet because Aunt Liz and Uncle Steve's kitchen is almost as small as ours. After dinner, we went to Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas decorations. Boxing Day we were here in Boston to walk the Freedom Trail with the family. There was a big New Year's Eve party at The Dark Crystal and I stayed up until midnight for the first time! Oh, and look at my big pressie for Christmas!" She pulled out an inexpensive smartphone. "It comes with bare rules and Papa and Mama said if I get caught mucking with it in class they'll take it away, but it's mine, and the camera is good so I can blog anywhere. But here's my best gift..." She fished around her neck, withdrawing a gold locket.

"It sounds like a fine holiday," Thuringer said with a smile after admiring the pendant, but his eyes were still grave, causing Alex to exchange a worried look with Bobby.

"I was telling Bobby that the lecture room hallway must be the final way you weed out the agents from the wannabes," she offered tongue-in-cheek to break the underlying tension, "what with the great J. Edgar glowering over everyone who passes. If they don't turn back then, they never will."

Instead of smiling, Thuringer only managed to look grimmer. "Believe me, the Director wouldn't have liked what I have to tell you. Button up and come out to the courtyard."

"Where's your coat?" Alex objected as he chivvied them toward the ground-floor entrance to the central courtyard. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows revealed concrete paving surrounding an open green space with grass, trees, bushes, and picnic tables, which, in warmer weather, would serve as a luncheon spot. "It's freezing outside."

"Trust me, Alex. If I'm cold right now, it's not from the temps."

"Bleak midwinter" slapped them in the face as they entered the courtyard; although the day was sunny, the lush space the employees enjoyed in summer was monochrome with browned grass and the dead heads of plants frosted over. Small areas of frozen mud remained from the previous weekend's rain. Alex tucked her head in her parka hood like a turtle while pulling off her scarf. "Here, at least take this." Bobby took pity on him also, fishing a spare watch cap from his overcoat pocket and handing it over.

Thuringer took advantage of both items while Olivia parked herself in front of Bobby, who had his back to the wind wuthering inside the long, bleak rectangle.

"Do I make a good windbreak, Min?" he asked whimsically; she looked up and nodded, her cheeks rosy with cold despite being bundled in a pink down parka and white fleece-lined pompom hat. "What's going on, Marc?"

Thuringer glanced warily at Olivia, then said, "Adan Ciervo called this morning—actually, he called Matt directly, who then referred him to me. He was so intrigued by that square of microfilm that he worked on it through the holidays." He took a deep breath. "I need you to understand that everything I'm about to tell you requires confirmation, is that clear? Nothing will happen until confirmation is complete, because if the documents are authentic, it's figurative dynamite."

Alex asked, wary, "Should I take Olivia back inside?"

Thuringer paused. "That depends. This may affect her."

When Bobby barked, "The adoption's a done deal," Olivia shifted nervously.

"I wasn't speaking about that. I meant...emotionally."

A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold overtook Olivia. "Someone's not going to die, are they?"

"No," Thuringer said, but hesitated as if having to consider it.

Bobby asked bluntly, "What's Ciervo found out?"

"Penelope told me she had a dossier printed for you before your trip to Paris."

"We needed some light reading," was Alex's dry response.

"Do you remember the Duplantix history?"

Bobby paused for two beats, then answered, "Founded in 1902 by Maximiliano Duplantier as Duplantier Travaux Énergétiques. Coal production provided the first profits, followed by growing investments in petroleum. Managed to stay solvent during the First World War due to the need for coal, however scarce it became. The company was then headed by Stéphan Duplantier, whose brightest idea was to transfer most of the company holdings to Swiss banks in the 1930s. Before the Nazis invaded France, the Duplantiers fled to Switzerland. There was some hostility following the war because they hadn't suffered with their fellow French, but postwar the company boomed using the money that Stéphan had squirreled away with the Swiss. By this time Madame's father, Yves Arnaud, who had served as his father's apprentice during the war, had taken over the reins. He turned DTE, as they were known then, into Duplantix, Ltd. in the 1970s, about the time of the first energy crisis. He assembled the first 'think tank' to brainstorm alternative energy sources."

"Jesus, Bobby, did you memorize it?"

"Practically," Alex commented lightly, but kept her attention on Thuringer with growing dismay.

"The documents on the microfilm allege that the 'standard history' of the between-wars years is company propaganda, not the truth," Thuringer advised. "That's why it's imperative that the remainder of the documents referenced on one of the microfilm documents are tracked down, and that every single one is authenticated. If they indicate what we think they do, given the political climate and the social media feeding frenzy, the State Department may need to do damage control."

Bobby held up his hands in a placating manner. "Marc, you'll need to stop and rewind." Thuringer was chafing his hands so hard that Bobby pulled off his gloves and handed them to him.

"Bobby's right. I'm lost." Alex stepped up to him. "Slowly...what's going on?"

"The documents on the microfilm are in both French and German," said Thuringer reluctantly. "Two are fiscal analyses which state that while Duplantix did have funds in Swiss accounts, they accounted for less than a third of the capital the company used to rebuild after World War II. The hidden documents referenced by the microfilm paperwork allegedly hold indisputable proof that...nearly three-quarters of Duplantix's profits claimed to be from 1946 forward were accrued during the war itself."

"Well, that can't be," Alex began. "France was occupied–" She halted as Bobby's face went cold. "No–"

"The microfilm documents also allege there is proof that...forced labor was used in the Duplantix coal mines and refineries, including–" Here Thuringer glanced at Olivia and chose his words carefully. "–occupants of work camps and people from Ukraine, among others." He hunched in his suit jacket to warm himself. "Ciervo has contacts in the Police Nationale. As soon as he read the microfilm documents, he passed them on to the French. This morning the Police Nationale—hence me running you down—is obtaining warrants to search the address at which the supporting documents are supposedly hidden: a hundred-year-old apartment building—classic Hausmann architecture, they told me—called Appartements Les Pignons–"

"Appartements Les Pignons?" Olivia squeaked. "On the Rue du Léopard?"

Bobby squatted to her level. She was breathing hard, but not from the cold. "Min, what's wrong?"

Alex asked, "You know this place, sweetie?" but Olivia only stared at Thuringer. "4016 Rue du Léopard? Appartement 6?"

Now Thuringer was crouched at her level, too. "Yes, that's the very address Ciervo mentioned. How do you know this, Olivia?"

She said slowly, "It's my...it was my home." Her eyes were wide with shock. "It was our flat, Maman's and mine. And Luisa."

Bobby mouthed soundlessly to Alex: Nicole.

Thuringer asked urgently, "Olivia, do you remember, was there a safe on the premises—in the apartment?"

The child looked bewildered. "Maybe. Maman had some fine jewelry. She left it to me, and Mama and Papa have put it in a...a safe deposit box at the bank. But if there was a safe in our flat, I don't know where it was; she never showed it to me. It wasn't in a wall behind a painting like in the films." Her voice faltered. "I don't understand. What does it mean?"

Bobby hugged her tightly. "We'll explain on the way home. Marc, we have a train to catch. You need to call me the moment you hear anything. I don't care if it's the middle of the night."

Alex was also abruptly in a hurry to be elsewhere. "We need to get moving."

Thuringer handed over their wraps as soon as they were back inside. "The minute I get word. But the translation of the documents, and especially the authentication will take a while. Ciervo told me everything would be triple-checked and no information released until everything was corroborated."

"I wouldn't expect it any other way," Bobby said, moving toward the door in unison with Alex and Olivia, then suddenly pivoted and came back in quick, long strides to face Thuringer as Alex and Olivia hurried toward the front doors, saying tightly, "This is Nicole Wallace we're talking about. You may need to have that apartment stripped down to the bones; she could have the documents concealed in a ceiling joist for all I know. I don't know if the Police Nationale will be able to do that with a new tenant–"

"Then we're all in luck: there is no new tenant. The Police Nationale have never been satisfied about the accident at Chamonix, and they've been holding Wallace's apartment for evidence since last April. Madame Pepin has been furious because it's part of Marcel's holdings and she wants to sell it."

"Then she's possibly stripped it–"

"I spoke to someone in Paris when I got off the line with Ciervo. Appartement 6 has been under surveillance for months. The only things removed from the flat were the child's clothing, the books, and the jewelry, and that was done under the supervision of the police—unless Madame Pepin has a mole there. Each book was examined before it was allowed to be packed, as was the clothing. You've seen the jewelry already if you have it in your safe deposit box."

"Bobby!" urged Alex.

"Call me!" Bobby repeated, then broke into a lope for the door.

Alex led the way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd at South Station to the Amtrak car with their reserved, paired seats that faced each other. Friday rush hour usually began in the early afternoon; this one was particularly heavy due to a storm forecast for the weekend, so the human throng was inevitable, and the rail car reeked of coffee and doughnuts purchased before boarding, with lesser scents of wet wool, perfume, and notes of camphor. Once seated and facing Olivia, Alex wished she was anywhere but on a train about to explain something so unsettling to a small child.

When they had settled, Bobby flicked a hand into his overcoat pocket as if working one of his magic tricks. What emerged was a Dunkin Donuts bag: Olivia's favorite, the chocolate-frosted doughnut, was handed out first, then Alex's iced blueberry doughnut, and finally his own, the basic old-fashioned. "Sinkers," Alex remembered her dad calling them, always eaten with coffee at hand to dunk into. She would have been happy at the recollection had not Bobby's face been a grim study instead of the relaxed expression he'd worn not two hours earlier over the success of his first lecture.

Olivia accepted the chocolate-frosted confection with its accompanying napkin, savoring it in little nibbles, her attentive eyes on her father's troubled face. He took a large bite, chewed deliberately, and then began, voice pitched only for the three of them, "Human beings have always been tribal. My group lives by the river, yours by the woods. We cherish our lifestyle, you cherish yours. Sometimes the tribes collaborated to hunt or track a dangerous animal. Other times they became rivals. There could be a push by certain elders of each tribe to keep the two apart, due to ideological differences or simple jealousies. 'Our life is better than theirs. Our gods are better than their gods. Our men more manly, better hunters, our women more chaste...or more fertile.'"

She nodded. As she had learned in the past nine months, most of Bobby's stories had a prelude, to which there was a point that eventually revealed itself.

"Eventually 'the others' may get demonized, especially when unknowns happen: plague, epizoötic, crop failures. Someone gets blamed. Scapegoats, we call them."

"Like witches," Olivia supplied, having learned of the infamous "witch trials" during an early October trip to Salem, Massachusetts.

He nodded. "Those 'witches' supposedly had 'unholy knowledge' to be feared. Other scapegoats were the travelers who arrived in their colorful wagons with their predilection for horses."

"The Roma," answered Olivia. "Maman said they used to be called 'gypsies.'"

"And those followers of Abraham and Moses who refused to convert, scapegoats for generations. In medieval times there was a continual vicious rumor that Jewish people would kidnap Christian babies and drink their blood."

Olivia replied fiercely, "That's a lie."

"Of course it is. But here we are 600-700 years later, and in some neighborhoods in the United States inflammatory leaflets are still being found on lawns—vicious screeds that blame Jewish people for everything from pornography to homosexuality, corruption in government to genetically modified foods, 'the collapse of decent society,'" Bobby's face was stormy. "Similar messages are spread in European countries and South America—so many lies."

Olivia finished her doughnut, wiped her face, and crumpled her napkin, making a fist around it. "But why?"

"Because it's easy," Alex interjected. "Because it's simpler to point a finger at a group and proclaim 'It's their fault!' and not take responsibility."

Olivia nodded, surprised by her mother's ferocity. "And this is what the microfilm is about?"

"Historians have studied..." Bobby stopped to draw breath because Alex was giving him a pointed look. "Sorry, Min, I didn't intend to deliver two lectures today. When we visited Compiègne, you told us you knew about concentration camps. You asked about reading Anne Frank. And when you talked about Jacob's grandfather, you knew."

Olivia nodded, and then Bobby swallowed, still watching Alex. She reached her hand across to him to squeeze his hand briefly. "Adolf Hitler thought Jews were vermin, like rats or mice. To him, and his followers, wiping them out would create a world where a German would be proud to live, untouched by their repulsive presence." He scowled in contempt. "Not just Jews—all the so-called 'undesirables' of humanity: homosexuals, gypsies, Communists, political rivals, dissidents, the mentally and physically unfit—Down syndrome children, youngsters in leg braces from polio. Once the extermination was complete, what was left—Hitler's famed 'Aryan race'—would be perfect humanity. And Hitler...the Nazis...the German people...they weren't the only ones who believed it. People in America, England, France–"

Alex was eyeing him. It's time, Bobby.

He continued with a sigh, "Min, you know Hitler invaded France...marched into Paris...during World War II?"

"Yes, Papa. Monsieur Lefevre, the history master, showed us the photo of the man from Marseilles crying. He told us how the French people had little to eat and were cold in winter, had their homes con...confiscated...the smallest wrong word and they would be arrested. The Germans ran one part of France, and then there was the Vichy government, run by the French but overseen by Germans. He called it 'a puppet government.'"

Bobby continued, rubbing his knees nervously, "As a French citizen under martial rule, you could do three things: the safest was to submit to your German masters, obey rules, and keep your head down. This might keep you and your family safe, even as you shivered, cold and ill-fed, since they held your sons as hostages and regarded your older daughters as ripe for assault." Alex flickered warning eyes upon him. "Or you could join the Free French–"

"The Resistance!" interrupted Olivia eagerly. "Monsieur Lefevre told us about them, too. They were brave. Both men and women—even boys and girls—risked their lives spying on Nazi officers and committing sabotage—I'm not sure what that was, but they did it. If they were caught, they were...executed."

Bobby went on, voice now tight, "The third kind wanted to keep their lifestyle at all costs. 'I  still want my coffee and pastries in the morning, my pretty dresses or my handsome suits, to walk the street without fear of reprisal. Welcome into my home, we will help you,' they said, and they indeed kept their privileges. Many of them agreed with the Nazis that Jews, not to mention those other 'inferiors,' were always troublesome. Those people were called 'collaborators' and they danced to the Germans' tune without remorse—informed on Jews and 'undesirables.' Betrayed those who helped the 'undesirables.' Reported neighbors for the tiniest infraction or who just 'looked suspicious.'"

Bobby finished, "They walked the streets well fed and well clothed, looking with disdain upon their starving countrymen."

Now he lowered his head, staring at the floor for so long Olivia said softly, "I like the history lesson, Papa, but you don't have to go 'round Robin Hood's barn. Tell me the truth."

He sighed. "Min, the documents on the microfilm...and other documents, the ones Marc talked about being hidden somewhere in Appartements Les Pignons...if the documents are true and not a false tale told by a competitor as a smear campaign against Madame's family...these documents say the Duplantiers earned much of their fortune during World War II."

Olivia nodded solemnly, so Alex reached out her hands to take her daughter's. "Olivia, the only way that could have happened is if the Duplantier family collaborated with the Nazis."

The child's face paled, then she squeezed Alex's hand so hard that her mother flinched. "Did..." and the child swallowed, "did...Papa Marcel know when he married Madame?"

Of course, she would think of Marcel first! Alex was relieved when she saw Bobby relax slightly. "I am almost certain he didn't. I've read a good deal about your Papa Marcel...most of his life he was a good, fair man. I think the Duplantiers covered up their misdeeds so well that he believed the new history they wove around themselves, as did everyone else. He wouldn't have known his father-in-law's secret."

Olivia sighed in relief and shivered, so that when Bobby opened his arms to her, she gladly rose to hug him. Alex took the opportunity to lift the armrest between Olivia's seat and Bobby's and occupy the position; for the rest of the trip, the girl remained cocooned between them, leaning her head against Alex. Bobby extended his left arm around them both, and when a pair of standing passengers asked if they could use the remaining two seats, he nodded assent with a smile.

As they sat in bed reading that night, Bobby's eyes more often drifted to the wall than concentrated on his book. Alex finally asked, "Did you mean that about Marcel Pepin?"

He nodded. "Stupid to have married her, maybe, but his deliberately marrying a Nazi...I don't think so."

"You're tired, Bobby," she said with a wan grin. "Yves Arnaud Duplantier and his father were the Nazis."

"Maybe I'm just tired or too cynical, instead of thinking what I do." He laid his book down in his lap, then rubbed his eyes. "But maybe I'm not. Remember the conversation I overheard in the hallway the night of Marcel's tribute dinner? Madame arguing with Laurent?"

"Sure. What about it?"

"Her criticism of his 'useless friend from "Charlie Hebdo–"'"

"That being Sébastien Anouilh," Alex nodded.

"And how said 'useless friend' introduced him to the young lady he so obviously preferred to 'the beautiful and accomplished Philomène'? Her name was Noémie. Anouilh and Noémie have something in common, Eames. If I tell you her last name is 'Auerbach,' now what's your conclusion?"

Her book slipped from her hands. "Oh, no." She paused, then added, "Laurent doesn't know, does he?"

"That his mother's virulently anti-Semitic? Not a clue, I think. She's hidden it well over the years. Instilled into her via Yves Arnaud. She was his favored child, his protégé, after all. Her mother died when she was sixteen, so she became his hostess. Of the three siblings she was the one most devoted; her father dismissed his alcoholic son as a simpleton and married off his frivolous daughter, then taught his most faithful child all there was to know about the business."

"But why have noted Jewish artists in her collection?"

"The Chagall and the Lucian Freud? That art is her pride and joy after Duplantix. She's willing to overlook the connection because the pieces add value and prestige to what she's collected. She's an opportunistic hypocrite—to add to her other sins. I don't think Madame cares for her children as much as she does for that art." He looked at her. "If this blows up, Alex...we'll have to figure some way to save Laurent. He doesn't deserve this."

Olivia returned to school on Monday with a two-hour delay due to snow; the next afternoon, while Bobby worked on the material for his upcoming lecture in Albany, Thuringer's Zoom ringtone pried him out of a brown study.

Thuringer asked, tongue in cheek, when he connected. "Is there a reason you have a parakeet gnawing on your hair?"

"It's his happy place," Bobby said wryly, looking sideways at Bandit, who had his eyes half closed as he chewed. "Too cold upstairs to work even with a space heater and it's a mess outside. So happy St. Gregory's called a remote learning day. I'm not sure even Alex's car would have managed rain on snow. What's up?"

"A pity your Ms. Wallace didn't work for us," Thuringer answered.

Bobby replied in irritation, "She's not m-my Ms. Wallace and never was. What's the word?"

"Ciervo said the Police Nationale searched the place 'with a fine-toothed comb.' Or so they told him. When they turned up nothing after two days he called a contact at Interpol. One of their operatives searched yesterday and she had it found in less than four hours. There was a five-and -one-quarter inch gap between the wall of a hallway and Olivia's old bedroom that was covered with a perfectly fitted piece of molding that looked like it was original to the apartment, painted the same color as the rest of the molding. The Interpol op noticed that the brads that held the molding had slightly different heads than the others."

"And?"

"Inside was jammed what Sherlock's Dr. Watson might call 'an old tin despatch box,'" Thuringer answered, "padlocked. Grey, battered, and rust stained. Ciervo said his contact told him the box practically popped open once the padlock was removed because it was crammed so full. We have vague dating of early 1950s on the box—the documents in the box all date from 1946 or earlier. Ciervo said that just from eyeballing them, the different kinds of paper match the era: typewriter bond, onionskin—when was the last time anyone saw onionskin, Bobby?—A4 sheets, faded carbon copies, most watermarked with French or German stationers' names, some long out of business. Plus you remember how the typeslugs would make indentations in the paper—those indentations are also present...and there are no documents with proportional fonts as in those so-called 'authentic Presidential papers' a few years back. Ciervo's contact knows they could all be elaborate fakes, and they're already at the Interpol labs–"

"That's quick, isn't it?" Bobby detected movement and saw Alex appear in the archway to the living room bundled in a turtleneck sweater and fleece pants, crossing her arms and tilting her head curiously.

"The moment the Interpol operative saw that it concerned war crimes they confiscated the box. The French weren't going to squawk; they're under growing pressure about flourishing far-right groups as it is."

"And so we wait. You'll give me fair warning...before anything goes down?"

"I can't speak for the French government, Bobby, but I'll give you what I can." He glanced sideways out his window. "Stay dry."

"Bobby," Alex said as she gingerly shut the door to their bedroom, "she's asked again. And she's more upset this time."

"So we need to get to the bottom of this," he responded, troubled. "All right."

When Bobby had initially mentioned his presentation in Albany, the first of a half dozen where he would stay overnight, then return the next day, Olivia's response had only made them smile. "Where will I stay," she asked brightly, "while you and Mama are away? Maybe I could stay with Shard and TJ? I so love their flat! I promise I'll be good. May I have wings for dinner?"

Alex had responded cheerfully, "Where did you get the idea we were both going? I'll be staying right here, and we'll have a fun girls' night: make pizza—or order some of TJ's wings—then watch a film just for us. Have you ever seen Legally Blonde? It's very funny. Or maybe a musical? We could invite Ana for a sleepover. You could do your homework together and if she brings all her school things and clothes, I can drop her off at Rochambeau after I drop you off at St. Greg's."

Olivia had gone very still. "You won't be going with Papa?"

Bobby made a joke of it. "This is for work, not fun, Min. I'll board the train in Meridien, change trains in Springfield, go on to Albany either polishing my lecture or working on trivia questions during the ride. Someone will meet me in Albany, check me into my hotel—after dinner, I'll go to bed; the next morning I get picked up, deliver the lecture, take questions, come home the opposite way. Your mother would be on her own for most of the trip. It's only overnight and I'll be home in time for dinner."

"Oh," Olivia had said blankly.

Alex continued in low tones while he turned the doorknob, "Now she just told me, 'You really should go with Papa, Mama. It will be fun, and you can talk on the train and have dinner together, and be alone that night. It's okay. Maybe I could stay at Mrs. Perrino's flat. I won't be any bother. I'll just do my homework. I promise I'll be good.' She's so intense about it."

Olivia's door was open; she was cross-legged on her bed in her nightgown with a closed book on her lap, staring at it while she held Captain, her stuffed fox, in a tight embrace.

"May we come in?" Bobby asked from the doorway.

"Yes, sir," she returned but looked at Alex reproachfully.

"Olivia...don't," Alex said gently, hurt, then stepped forward and stroked her hair.

Bobby snagged a chair from the kitchen and sat on it backward with his arms crossed over the back. "You've left us a mystery to solve, Min. We don't understand why you're so insistent that we go away together, but we want to. Will you help us?"

Alex sat beside her, curving her arm around her, but Olivia remained stiff.

"You should have time alone together," she finally reiterated, as if by rote, "to have some privacy. You're supposed to, or...or–"

"Or...something bad will happen?" Alex asked, voice low.

The breath Olivia took had a sniffle in it. "You'll fight, and then maybe one of you will go away–"

"No one's leaving, Olivia," Bobby assured her. He paused, then asked, "Have you considered all the empirical evidence?"

Olivia tilted her head as an inquisitive bird might. "I ...don't know."

"Well, let's go over it." Bobby ticked off his fingers to emphasize his points. "Your Papa Marcel held an essential position in the government and spent much of his time at it. And, of course, he had to stay at Maison Duplantier, if just for appearance's sake. So it would follow that when he visited your flat, he and your maman wanted some time alone, just for themselves. Is that correct so far?"

Olivia nodded, swallowing.

"So, with that as your evidence, I can see where you might get the idea Alex and I need that 'alone time' as well." He tipped her chin upward with his left hand, continuing earnestly, "We appreciate your being so considerate. But my job is mostly performed here. So is anything your mother does. We have time to ourselves while you're at school, even if it's just washing dishes together. Of course, I'll miss you on my overnight trips—I'll miss you both—but I'll be back the next day." He paused. "Do you remember when, before the tour bus pulled away, Ana and Carlos showed up with the container of pastelillos, and Carlos said it was so we'd remember them when we ate? And I said there was no need to worry, that he and Ana and Mrs. Diaz lived in our hearts. I can't lose you or your mother, Olivia, not ever." He put his fist over his chest and confided softly, "Because you're in here, in the deepest part."

Now Olivia's body relaxed so that Alex could gather the little girl in her arms as she shivered and tears escaped. "No one's leaving, Olivia. Not deliberately. Not ever."

On January 18, Bobby stayed overnight in Albany. He called at bedtime to find that after school they had taken a long walk in the snow, supper had been homemade pizza, and then Olivia asked to see Sneakers, one of their favorite films. She didn't say much on the phone, only that she missed him. "She wanted to see Sneakers because it involved spies like we talked about," Alex texted later. "She loved the ending, where Whistler asks for peace on earth and goodwill toward men."

Saturday night, after they had retreated to the supply closet at The Dark Crystal to change outfits after trivia and had just zipped their coats for the cold walk home, "Secret Agent Man" began tweedling from Bobby's pocket.

Alex watched his face. "Should we go on?"

"Hold on." Bobby answered the phone and activated the speaker. "Marc?"

"The French government still takes World War II seriously," Thuringer told him without preamble. "Interpol and the Police Nationale have been working on this full time."

"Have you seen any of the results?"

"Ciervo has copies and sent me scans of the originals with translations. One letter dated April 1943 has Yves Arnaud discussing production lines with a man named Reinhardt Sauer. My research showed he was an SS-Brigadeführer–"

Bobby scrubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. "Dammit, I was h-hoping it wasn't that bad."

"Oh, it gets worse."

"We're going outside, Bobby," Alex said firmly, voice raised, pulling up Olivia's hood and taking her hand.

"But Mama–"

"Now, Olivia. Please," and Alex had her out the door as Bobby returned the phone to his ear.

Thuringer continued once the door slammed, "There's a 1944 roster of 'guest labor' in the Duplantier coal mines. Almost all of the names were either of Jewish heritage or Ostarbeiter—forced labor—from Ukraine. Interpol's cross-checking the names with the database of those who died in concentration camps, and already have five hits. Also, there's a effusive thank you note from Yves Arnaud to a Colonel Schiller concerning a birthday gift. It was...'liberated' from a wealthy Jewish banking family in Austria, a 'striking still life of a wine bottle, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese against a blue tapestry tablecloth'–"

"Son of a bitch!" Bobby said bitterly. "I know just where it is, too: in the dining room at Maison Duplantier. Did any of the family survive?"

"All died at Dachau."

Bobby was silent, then said abruptly, "Marc, I need to contact Laurent Pepin."

"Well, you know where he works," was Thuringer's terse response, and Bobby could tell that the revelations had shaken him.

"The only contacts I have for Laurent are at Duplantix," returned Bobby patiently, "and I  wouldn't put it past Madame to have every phone line and e-mail in the place monitored. Marc, I'm certain Laurent has no part in this—he's just another chess piece for Madame to move around the board. He's been in love with a Jewish woman for most of his adult life, a match Madame objects to, although he doesn't realize why. She's always been critical of his friendship with–" He stopped, then said urgently, "Sébastien Anouilh. Laurent's best friend. That's who Ishould speak to. He'll know how to contact Laurent safely. Yesterday, if possible."

"I'll get you that information," his associate said quietly and ended the call.

Alex and Olivia were waiting at the rear of The Dark Crystal under the floodlights Shard had installed for his staff's safety, the girl restlessly scuffling her feet in the salt and sand spread on the icy pavement. His face was like a thundercloud waiting to burst, and Olivia asked the inevitable question: "It's bad, isn't it, Papa?"

"Yes," he said heavily, then looked grimly at Alex, "and one of the pieces of evidence was right under our noses at the dinner party, across from the Chagall."

"If...Madame has done something wrong and is disgraced...what will happen to Laurent?" inquired Olivia.

He squatted to her level. "Your mother and I will do our best to see nothing happens to him. I promise, Min."

Robert Goren was standing in the last place he expected to be on one of the closing days of January 2024, in the lobby of New York City's famed Plaza Hotel, under the painting of Kay Thompson's fictional "Eloise." Bundled in his long black overcoat and a dark grey fedora with a black hatband and looking much like hundreds of other older businessmen in the streets that day, he carried a brown leather briefcase; before he'd left the house, he'd asked Alex, "How do I look?"

"Like something out of The Man from UNCLE," she'd answered crisply, prinking his collar and smoothing the shoulders of his coat. Then she looked him straight in the eye. "Be careful, Napoleon Solo."

"You have my word, April Dancer," he'd promised her gravely.

Marc Thuringer had told them via phone the day before, "Bobby, you're the luckiest sunovabitch in the world. Guess where Mr. Anouilh is: back in your old stomping grounds. He's working with the New York Times international division for the winter." Then he paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was grave. "Buddy, remember, you're doing this on your own recognizance–"

"–and if I'm 'caught or killed the IMF will disavow any knowledge of my actions'?" Bobby had responded. "Yes, sir, I get the drift."

"Don't risk your pension, Bobby, or your rep." Thuringer finished with a deep sigh.

::Mr. Anouilh, we met at Marcel Pepin's memorial dinner: Robert Goren. I need to meet with you—preferably with minimal fuss and much discretion. It's a matter of some importance.:: Bobby had texted via the cell number Thuringer passed on.

::I remember you, Monsieur Goren. Where would you like to meet?::

After Bobby gave him instructions about where to meet and how to identify him, he followed with instructions for Anouilh's appearance, so specifically that the Frenchman seemed amused. ::This is very cloak-and-dagger, Monsieur Goren.::

::We need to be as inconspicuous as possible.:: Bobby had texted, but he thought, If only he knew.

And there, if he wasn't mistaken, was Anouilh now, in a warm, nondescript dark Navy-style peacoat and a brimmed hat as instructed, but instead of it pulled over his face, the Frenchman wore it pushed back as if he was a pugnacious 1930s newspaper reporter straight out of Hecht and MacArthur's The Front Page, auburn hair vivid in the chilly afternoon sunlight. A nondescript black laptop case dangled from his left hand.

Now Anouilh smiled at him, a humorous expression on his round face with its improbably green eyes behind square wire-rimmed eyeglasses. "Bonjour, Monsieur Goren."

"Hello, Mr. Anouilh. Your hat, please."

The other man looked surprised. "You were not joking then..." He obligingly adjusted the hat so the brim shaded his face. "It is better now?"

"Yes. Walk with me."

They strolled out of the front door of the Plaza side by side into a crowd of almost identically dressed older men and younger ones in more informal clothing, women in everything from austere business dress and long coats to puffy jackets and too-short skirts for the weather, and the usual complement of tourists blocking the sidewalks as they craned eyes upward to the overcast sky, taking in the city. Bobby himself could not resist quickly looking up and around at the familiar skyline that, for much of his life, had signified "home." He could almost wander the streets blindfolded from his location, he mused: Bergdorf's that way, Dior the other, and to his left, Frederick Law Olmstead's legacy to generations of New Yorkers, Central Park. He took a deep breath of the familiar—acrid car exhaust, cold steel, frosty stonework, metal-scented warm air steaming through metal grates from the subway tunnels, the faint, mouthwatering scent of a hot pretzel cart.

Had Eames felt this way as well? No wonder during her nine months' "exile" in Southbury, Alex had fled each Friday to its familiar chaos!

"You are homesick?" Anouilh asked, shrewdly observing him as they continued walking.

Both men had equally long strides, so they were already well into the confines of Central Park when Bobby responded, "I spent the first fifty years of my life here. It's hard not to feel a pang or two when I come back."

Anouilh agreed. "I travel many places but I am always homesick for Paris."

They walked on, Bobby making small talk about the park and pointing with his hand as if showing Anouilh the sights, Anouilh nodding as if taking it all in. Although it was not bitterly cold, with the damp and cloudiness it was no surprise that the first bench they encountered was empty. Here Bobby halted, brushing off the seat with a gloved hand, then tucking his long legs under the seat.

"We look like we're having an assignation," Anouilh said mischievously.

Bobby grinned finally. "I'm flattered, but I'd have to turn you down."

"No surprise. Madame Goren is très jolie." Anouilh paused, then said with a grave face, "According to your instructions, we should not be seen here together for so long, so you should get to the point."

Bobby flickered eyes on him. "Mr. Anouilh, I'd read some of your work before Laurent introduced us, and more afterward. I had the impression that you were a seeker of the truth. Or am I mistaken and you are more a seeker of what we call 'a scoop'?"

Anouilh was quiet for a few seconds, then acknowledged soberly, "I am a journalist, Monsieur Goren, and 'the scoop' is my bread and butter, because the more revelatory the news, the higher I am paid. However, 'a scoop' without true...ingredients is a tainted dish...'fake news' as you call it. I do not serve 'fake news' to my readers. My inspiration has always been your Mr. Murrow, not the infamous Monsieur Murdoch."

Bobby tilted his head, catching the green of Anouilh's eyes with glints of silver-grey, then he laid the briefcase on his lap and extracted half a dozen copies of redacted documents from it, handing them to the journalist. Anouilh began reading at once, Bobby watching his eyes widen, his breath quicken.

After the second sheet, he queried, hushed, "These are true?"

"They're verified by Interpol. However, several in a similar vein found along with those are still to be authenticated."

Anouilh read two more, then looked up. "This corporation so thoroughly redacted...this is Duplantix, no?"

"That was a quick guess. Is that due to some prejudice against...well, a certain 'Madame Defarge'?" Bobby smiled, remembering the intelligence Saltonstall had received from Harry Cavanaugh.

Anouilh smiled, too, tinged with grimness. "Did you ever have a mentor, Monsieur Goren?"

Now Bobby winced in recall of Declan Gage. "I did. But he ended up killing someone, driving his daughter insane, and died in a prison psych ward."

Anouilh's eyebrows lifted in astonishment, but he recovered. "Mine was not quite so...colorful. Joseph Devillier. A 'journalist's journalist,' he was called, a devotee of your Mr. Murrow, Mr. Cronkite, and Mr. White, whom he quoted like Scripture. He was in his mid-seventies when I met him as a callow uni student, but he was a small boy during the Occupation and remembered the hunger and the cold. He started work at his first newspaper in 1957, and for most of his career, he has been the lone voice crying in the wilderness about the Duplantiers. He distrusted Yves Arnaud even when he was being lauded in the 1970s for his progressive views. The one time Joseph tried to check Duplantix, some ten years back, Yves Pepin stepped in and made him look a fool. It broke his career."

"Odd then that you're such friends with Laurent," Bobby parried.

"An accident of fate, you might say. We met at university, before Devillier, and by the time I  met Joseph, I knew Laurent was not like his relatives," Anouilh recounted. "The poor little rich boy and the scholarship student. Of course, his maman misinterpreted our relationship–"

"She would…for more than one reason," Bobby commented with arched eyebrows.

Anouilh stared at him a moment before comprehension dawned on his face. "Oh-ho, this explains Noémie. As for Madame, for far too many years, she has convinced Laurent—no, more than that, 'brainwashed' him, as you say—that he is nothing without her. I was pleased to hear that it was he who forced her to enter into the partnership with your government, especially since she has jealously guarded those energy patents for years."

"He-?" Bobby realized this was their proof that Laurent had persuaded Evangeline Pepin to halt her opposition to Olivia's adoption. "Mr. Anouilh–"

"My friends call me 'Sébe,' Monsieur Goren—and I do believe we are going to be friends."

"Then it's 'Bob.' Sébe, I owe Laurent a large debt." He indicated the papers in Anouilh's hands. "When the rest of those are definitively confirmed, I can see all hell breaking loose against the Duplantier family. I'd like to save Laurent from the direct line of fire. He was kind to my little girl when, if he went by his mother's tenets, he could have scorned her as his brother and sister did."

"He was never like the other two in so many respects—not even looking so much like his father."

"Perhaps," Bobby said dryly, "because you are looking at the wrong man."

Anouilh's eyes popped open for a few seconds, and then he sat back on the bench hard. "You–"

"That was Alex's catch, not mine. Of course, the moment she mentioned it, I saw everything she did, and wondered how I'd been so blind."

"So...what happens next?"

"Nothing can go forward until every document is authenticated. The Police Nationale pulled in Interpol from the start, and I was informed this morning that the Bundespolizei's forensics team was enlisted to assist two weeks ago."

"If they've pulled in les Allemands, it's serious. And, believe me, the Germans will not allow this to lie dormant. If they could wipe every Nazi off the face of this earth, they would."

"The story could be yours when everything is confirmed—I would have to ask," Bobby told him, "but it's Laurent I'm concerned about. I'd like his involvement minimized. It would be best if he divorced himself from his mother's influence before the revelations about the Duplantiers and the events at Duplantix became public knowledge. I know little about his work. Could he...find a position elsewhere?"

"Certainly," Anouilh said with slight resentment. "It's only his mother who makes him think his life depends on remaining with the family business. He wasn't an honors student by any means, but he did well enough, and has worked at Duplantix for over seven years now. Plus he does have a trust set up for him, something Pepin arranged years ago when the economy was flush. The money would support him as he searched for new employment."

"He also has a home Pepin willed him in Quebec," Bobby recalled. "Is there a way I can contact him without going through Duplantix or Maison Duplantier?"

"Monsieur Goren...Bob...will you now trust me?" Anouilh asked after a moment. "Let me do this."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want it to affect your friendship, and if things go sour between myself and Laurent, I have really nothing to lose–"

"If our friendship has become that weak," replied Anouilh with a troubled voice, "then it does not deserve to survive. In addition, I have what you would call 'an ace in the hold.'"

"'Hole,'" Bobby corrected with a spontaneous grin.

Anouilh chuckled. "Ace in the hole, then. I shall bring Noémie with me. Laurent has loved her for years and the feeling is mutual. All these years she has worked by her father's side, waiting patiently for Laurent to see the light." He waved the papers at Bobby. "I may take these?"

"And these," Bobby said, handing him another dozen. "Do not lose them or show them to anyone else but Laurent. And then destroy them thoroughly."

Anouilh folded and placed the documents already read into the interior pocket of his coat. "It will be a long, consuming blaze, my friend, to warm both myself and my friend. And you will call me if possible...when the story is to break?"

"I promise to do what I can," and they shook hands.

"I suppose we should part in different directions at different times?" Anouilh said, amused.

"I'm heading to the Village," Bobby said, rising.

"And I to Rockefeller Center," the Frenchman smiled. "As they say here—incessantly, may I  note—'Enjoy the rest of your day.'"

Bobby returned in the direction he had come, leaving Anouilh still sitting on the bench, reading. He emerged on Fifth Avenue, hailed a taxi, and asked the driver to take him to the Strand, where he set a timer reluctantly on his phone, knowing his weakness for bookstores and that he had to make the 3:40 train.

He was only browsing for himself and had not chosen anything until he passed a clearance table on his way to the cashier's station. For Olivia, he had found a book about kitsune; for Alex, he had picked up the newest Abby Holtzer thriller—and then he saw a markdown book that had seen better days tagged at $2.50. The cover attracted him immediately: a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge and the title Inside the Broken Metropolis: New York City Postcards of the 1970s.

He picked up the limp volume and riffled through it: this was "home," the New York of his formative years, the bleak 70s when visitors stayed away due to news reports of drug users and panhandlers everywhere, an era when the soaring price for gold and silver led to gold chains yanked from tourists' necks, graffiti marred subway trains, and crime was off the charts, the NYPD beleaguered and sullen. In the postcards, the renowned and the infamous among the 70s ruins lived again: the Twin Towers under construction and then completed, the Dakota before John Lennon's death, Scribners and Doubleday, Gimbels and Korvettes, the Wonder Wheel at Coney, the now-razed Hotel Pennsylvania made famous by the Glenn Miller song (under its late 1970s name of the Statler-Hilton). He added it to his tiny stack of books with a nostalgic smile.

Within two hours, his train pulled into New Haven with winter's dark already fallen. He emerged from the train buffeted by commuters, then traveled the long escalator up into the vintage expanse of Union Station. Through the tangle of the crowd, he saw Alex's eyes sparkle; her smile called to him like the beacon of a lighthouse, and he knew he was home.

Next, he was set upon by a small whirlwind. "Papa!"

He hugged Olivia then and there, unmindful of the crowd, and when she saw the bag he was carrying, she asked, "Did you bring me a book?"

"Would I not?" he asked in a droll voice that made her laugh. Then Alex stepped forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek, knowing from his tired eyes that it had been a long day.

"We should get out of the way of humanity," she suggested with a grin as a woman jostled Bobby with a resentful grunt. "I parked the car...want to go to Frank Pepe's for dinner?" She explained to Olivia, "Oldest pizzeria in New Haven...supposedly in the United States. From 1925."

Olivia said with a straight face, "The chefs must be very experienced by now," and they both laughed.

En route, Alex asked him quietly, "Is the fix in?"

"I lit the fuse," he said with hope.

***February 1, 2024***

"Eames!" he shouted down the stairs an hour after they'd eaten lunch.

She was, as always, working cross-legged on the sofa with Bandit sleeping on her shoulder, intent on crafting her portion of the presentation at the ARWSOA conference in April. "Deux secondes!" she called back, imitating Olivia.

"It's Anouilh–"

Her laptop set aside, the budgie scratched and returned to his cage, she took the stairs two at a time.

The journalist was seated at a desk that appeared to be in his bedroom, leaning forward and supporting himself on crossed arms, bluish stains sketched under his eyes as if he hadn't slept the night before. "The deed is done," he said heavily.

"Was he...angry with you?" Bobby asked.

"No. It seemed to confirm something he'd already believed about a different event. He told me his mother all but admitted that Marcel Pepin's motor accident was no accident. That a man named Jules Defreine was involved. I had a police friend of mine do some research on Monsieur Defreine. He had taken possession of a little villa, right after the crash in Chamonix, a home previously a Duplantix rental investment in Spain. It appears...he died about six months later. Alcohol poisoning."

"How convenient," Alex said dryly.

"Something positive did come of the meeting, however. I did bring Noémie with me. I cannot even describe their faces. She was still there when I left. And now it is up to him...or them."

"Sébe, I wanted to ask you something. You mentioned Joseph Devillier as 'the lone voice crying in the wilderness' against the Duplantiers. Did he have concrete evidence against them?"

"Yes, he'd been amassing documents for years; the source being Madame's brother is my belief—he told me they had been collected mostly from someone within the family—but when he approached the newspapers and the media outlets, none of them wanted to touch it. Les lâches! The Duplantiers had allies and attorneys everywhere." He tapped clasped fingers against his lips. "Then a woman contacted him about the material right before he died—he was aged 88 and weak from stomach cancer; it was a blessing—he died a year ago—January 30—of heart failure. He was very excited to speak with her—she was writing a magazine piece about France's wealthiest families and something about the Duplantiers seemed...'off' to her. He told me he was surprised at her interest in a story so Eurocentric because she was Australian—first name Elspeth...no, Elizabeth, I remember now. An odd last name to go along with it, too–"

"Hitchens?" Bobby supplied tentatively.

"Yes, that was it. Do you know her?"

Alex let out a breath. "Only by reputation."

"What about this evidence? Did you ever see it?"

"No. He kept it locked up." Anouilh smiled in recollection. "He knew I was a Sherlock Holmes fan, and he would tease me about it. 'All my secrets are in a battered old tin despatch box,' he said, 'just like the one in which Watson kept his records of Holmes' adventures.'"

Alvin Danielson, his lean, leathery face bent over his work, was in his front yard repairing the latch on his front gate when Bobby walked by the next morning. Alex, on her morning run, was already out of sight with Sam loping beside her.

"Did you catch the financial news, Bob?" he called out cheerfully, stopping to chafe his hands against the February cold. "Looks like that woman who was trying to use your little girl for blackmail purposes has something else to worry about now."

Bobby smiled and waved, happy that the Danielsons were no longer the aloof couple who had disapproved when he moved into the neighborhood but still amused that they kept such close track of the financial market after protesting against capitalism in the 1960s. He halted at the gate to chat, hunching in his coat. "I don't usually listen to the news this early, Alv, even though Morning Edition is usually on," omitting that Alex mostly had the radio on for Bandit.

"Jane had read a few weeks ago that Evangeline Pepin, the Duplantix CEO, had planned to turn over the operations of the family company to her younger son this summer. This morning on France24 they announced that he was leaving the country as well as his position to take over property his father left him in Canada. Now there's a major ripple effect on the French stock market because she never had anyone else in consideration for the role. Jane found this pretty surprising since Ms. Pepin is considered a shrewd business leader and has held her own in a male-dominated field for so long. Online chatter says he's had a falling-out with his mother."

"Thanks for letting me know, Alv. I'll have to check it out when I get back to the house." And although he considered dashing back at once, he took a breath instead and finished his walk, Alex catching up with him on the homeward leg.

"The balloon's going up," he told her cryptically, but she understood. By the time they reached the back door, Alex was back at a jog, beating Sam inside and opening her laptop, which she'd left on the kitchen table.

"Here it is," she said as he filled the doorway. "Top headline on the Financial Times International Section."

She scrolled past the summary, reading aloud, although he was already checking the web browser over her shoulder. "'Laurent Pepin, long considered heir to the CEO position at Duplantix, stated today, "My mother and I have been experiencing certain divisive opinions about the future of Duplantix since 2023. I feel it is in my best interest, and also in the best interest of Duplantix, if I separate myself from the company at this time so my mother can choose a replacement more in line with her vision for the future."'"

A shorter scroll brought them past financial details, then, "'When asked about his current plans, Pepin responded that he would be emigrating to Canada to claim a property he had inherited from his father, the late French foreign minister Marcel Pepin. Accompanying him will...will be his wife, the former Noémie Auerbach, of the grocery giant Auerbach family. Auerbach and Pepin were married yesterday in a quiet civil ceremony in Paris.'"

"Madame must be apoplectic," Bobby said with satisfaction.

"With a capital A." She arched her eyebrows at him. "I'd like to ride along when you pick up Olivia tonight."

***February 17, 2024***

"It's way past two o'clock," Olivia complained, her nose pressed against the big front window, watching snow flurries drift by and settle on top of the light snow that had fallen during the night.

Alex moved behind her. "It's exactly three minutes past two o'clock." Then she put her hands on the child's shoulders. "They said they would be here about two, sweetie."

Olivia was now so impatient she was doing a creditable imitation of Bobby's fidgeting.

"Remember, it's a six-hour drive and they had to stop for inspection at the border. And for lunch."

"We'll have hardly any time to talk and show them Milbury before trivia–"

"And they will be here tomorrow." Alex put her arms around Olivia and rocked her back and forth. "There's plenty of time. And now that Laurent and Noémie live in Quebec there will be more visits."

Olivia finally tore her attention from the window. Bandit was in his cage dozing, but she didn't see the collie. "Where's Sam?"

"Upstairs with Bobby, I guess," Alex said casually, although she knew exactly where the empathic dog was; he had sensed Bobby had been troubled for days and that the problem was coming to a head.

It had been over two weeks since the Duplantix uproar. Laurent and Noémie had departed France two days after the news had broken; a week earlier, Laurent had phoned and wondered, since he and Noémie were finally settled into their new home, if it would be possible to visit the Gorens. Although the answer was a resounding 'yes,' even Olivia noticed Bobby withdrawing into himself more each day.

"I want to know what's wrong with Papa, please," Olivia questioned as if reading Alex's mind.

Her instincts were too good, and Alex would not prevaricate. She settled on the sofa and took Olivia's hands. "I've told you before that despite how smart he is, and that he knows we love him, and all the good that he's done, sometimes your father has a little voice inside him that tells him he's not good enough, that he'll never be good enough, that he doesn't deserve good things to happen to him. I've told him it's not true, so has Dr. Chaudry, and any number of our friends. And he knows it in his heart. But there's always that tiny demon inside him, poking him with a pitchfork." Alex reached up to smooth her hair. "Laurent is your half-brother after all, and you love him, and he cares for you. And both he and Noémie are young–"

"I told Papa in California it wasn't true!" Olivia said hotly. "You aren't old. You've...you've just lived longer than some people." The child pivoted to look toward the stairs, allowing Alex to bite back a smile, then turned back to meet her mother's eyes. "I took an oath...in court. To Judge Carver! And I meant it. But Papa thinks...that since Laurent comes to visit, I might want to leave with him?"

Before Alex could respond, she released her mother's hands and pulled back, squaring her shoulders, eyes stormy, and crossed the living room so noisily that a startled Bandit flapped his wings, then clutched at the bars of his cage, staring at her with big eyes. Alex only thought: If you won't listen to the rest of us, Bobby Goren, will you listen to her?

"I'm sorry, Bandit, but it has to be done," Olivia told the bird, then raced up the stairs and rapped on the door sharply. Bobby opened it a few moments later, with Sam at his side, looking bemused. "Yes, Ms. Olivia?"

She demanded, arms crossed in front of her in obvious imitation of Alex when she was angry, "I know you remember when Mama said 'No one's leaving. Not deliberately. Not ever.'"

Bobby said, eyes grave, "Yes, Ms. Olivia, very clearly."

"Well, I'm not leaving," she said firmly. "Not ever. You're going to have to throw me out if you want me to leave."

She stared at him with such a mutinous face that he responded by squatting down to her level with an amused glint in his eyes, "Not even for a big bedroom with enough room for more books, a longer skiing season, and maybe a pony?"

She paused, then set her jaw. "Not even for Mr. Thuringer's airplane and a trip to Alaska!"

He laughed, pulling her into his arms for a hug.

"Besides," she added, "I'm the wrong size for them anyway: they'll want a baby, like Donna and Zes." And now she smiled, "But I'm just the right fit for you and Mama."

"You would be the right fit for us," he told her gently, then tapped the tip of her nose with his forefinger, "no matter what."

Her eyes were shiny as she pulled away, pleading, "Now that that's settled, Papa, won't you please come downstairs and wait with us? It's no fun for Mama and me without you. And it's eight minutes after two and Laurent and Noémie aren't here yet."

"They will be," Bobby assured, just as Sam pushed his bulk past both of them to clatter down the stairs, barking.

"If you two are done negotiating," Alex called, amused, "you might be interested to know that a car with Quebec license plates just pulled into the driveway."

"Trop bien!" Olivia squealed.

Laurent had brought one of several choice bottles of wine he'd smuggled from his father's extensive cellar under his mother's nose, and they had retreated upstairs to the library after finally settling Olivia in bed. Doubtless, the beverage would have tasted better in goblets, but the company was good enough that clear plastic cups on a wooden fold-out tray sufficed. With the space heater running, it was a warm, convivial place for a combination reunion and introduction.

"...then Sébe did this very l'espion maneuver—he waited for me the entire day outside the Duplantix business office. When he saw me leave at the end of the day, he sent a teenage boy he'd recruited for 20 euros a day to me with a message: 'Meet Sébe behind the Exchange'—you see, Duplantix is across from the old bourse des valeurs. I'm sure the boy thought we were having a rendezvous." Noémie chuckled, at which Alex smiled. The younger woman was nearly as tall as her new husband, with a round face reminding them of Penelope Saltonstall and brown eyes the same shade as Alex's, framed with dark curling hair that spilled to her shoulders and down her back, tamed with a narrow scarf studded with white snowflakes on a blue ground. "Et bien, I follow instructions, and there is Sébastien. He handed me a hat—you know, one like Frank Sinatra–"

"A fedora," Alex supplied, watching Bobby trying to keep a straight face. Anouilh had evidently enjoyed Bobby's New York subterfuge so much that he had worked his own accordingly.

"Yes," Laurent said soberly. "We walked to a bench in the center of a nearby park, and we sat, and he said très mécontent, "Monsieur Goren is sorry to be the bearer of bad news, and handed me some papers."

He lowered his head now, embarrassed.

"When I was a boy, a teen, Papà would sometimes take one of us to work. He wanted us to know what he did, and how the government functioned. There I often met some very old, very...traditional men...mostly white men who used terms that today we would consider...inappropriée. I recall how I accompanied him once while he spoke to a Austrian financier—a crabbed man in his eighties—and an Algerian diplomat. When the latter left the room, I remember the old man referring to him using...well, what you call 'the n-word.' My father was, as always, the very soul of diplomacy and said nothing to offend the Austrian, but when the man departed, Papà told me that if I ever used such language I would lose my privileges for a week, second time for a month. Who would have thought Maman..." and he trailed off.

"You couldn't have known–" Bobby began.

"It was not the beginning of my discontent," Laurent admitted as Noémie laid a comforting hand on his arm. "I was already désolé by the time you both arrived. I thought that it was my destiny that I take my place at Duplantix although I disliked my position, Maman kept pushing me toward Philomène—and she was a good woman, just not the woman I loved–" And here he squeezed Noémie's hand. "I had begun drinking even before Papà's death, just to alleviate the boredom, but just small bits, at luncheon. But after you took Mignon...Olivia...away, things...deteriorated. Those papers became la goutte d'eau—the last straw. So now I have come away to start again." He smiled at Noémie. "Luckily Sébe brought a miracle along. She decided to cast her lot with me."

Bobby smiled at Alex, then held his plastic cup of wine out to him in a toast. "Here's to the women in our lives, Laurent. We're lucky men to have them."

***February 20, 2024***

Bobby's side of the bed was empty.

Alex drowsily patted the bed, thinking he was in the bathroom. Or...wait, was Olivia out of bed? She sat straight up, listening. Granted, it was a rare occurrence now, but she still had episodes of sleepwalking or insomnia. So Alex rose, thrust feet into her slippers, pulled on a plaid flannel robe, and padded into the hall. The bathroom was empty, and she slowly pushed Olivia's door open to see a curled-up form under blankets, then closed it again.

Wait. What time is it? She twisted her wrist to make her Fitbit glow: 1:46 a.m. "Midnight GMT plus two," echoed a voice in her head as Alex padded up the stairs.

Bobby was seated at his desk, wrapped in a worn but thick brown flannel bathrobe, staring at his laptop, arms crossed over his chest.

"Hey," she said softly, padding up to him. "You figure there's a live feed?"

He said thoughtfully, "I don't know. This is a big story to us; perhaps it's just a blip in a newsday for the BBC. War atrocities of the past up against those of the present- I just couldn't sleep."

She pulled up the worn ladderback chair that used to be in his bedroom to abut his office chair, checking out the computer screen. "BBC Live Feed?"

"Just in case..."

She leaned her head against his left arm, sleepily allowing her mind to drift back thirteen hours...

Once again, lunchtime was interrupted by "Secret Agent Man." Bobby had taken Sam outside, so Alex picked up his phone. "Eames," she said briskly, as if back at work.

"Hi, Alex," replied Thuringer casually.

"Is it time?"

"C'mon, Captain Eames, you know I can't release that information to you."

"Spoilsport." The back door swung open; she thrust Bobby's phone at him. "It's...Mr. Waverly."

Bobby shooed Sam ahead of him. "Just put it on speaker."

She tapped the screen; he'd said, "What's up?"

"Tomorrow morning. I was told our time will be 'midnight GMT plus two.' Sorry, my Parisian contact is into dramatics."

"Not today?"

"They need final warrants, which they'll obtain today."

"Marc...I promised Anouilh an 'in'—if I could."

"Hell, Bobby, why?" Thuringer groaned.

"Because he helped me contact Laurent, and Laurent helped us with Olivia. Because Anouilh's mentor was the one who collected all those documents the Police Nationale, Bundespolizei, and Interpol have used to make their case. It will give him closure."

They had been colleagues too long. "This goes back to Declan Gage, doesn't it?" Thuringer murmured.

Bobby's eyes were reflective for a moment. "I idolized him, then I hated him, finally I pitied him. But for one short time before Alex, Declan made me whole."

"If you're that certain of Anouilh, call him," sighed Thuringer.

"So how will it go down?"

"The Police Nationale and Interpol will arrive at Maison Duplantier at eight Central European Time with their warrants. Madame Pepin will be asked to accompany them to Paris police headquarters. They'll present her with the warrants up front and request that she make a statement when she arrives."

"Is that normal protocol?" asked Alex.

"No. It's why we had the day's delay. The move is designed to waylay her before she gives orders to have anything destroyed. Simple. She'll be home in less than two hours while the files are located and removed for investigation."

"I wonder if she'll go quietly."

"From what I heard from the French, several of them would love if she resisted arrest. Madame has no friends at the Police Nationale."

. . . . .

Alex's eyes popped open. "Oh, crap."

Bobby jerked awake. "I didn't feel sleepy."

It was now 2:28 a.m., and the website looked unchanged until Alex tapped F5 to reload the browser. A "breaking news" scroll appeared at the top, which Bobby clicked on; it took him to a live feed with a sober-faced woman sitting before a stock photo of Maison Duplantier.

"–particularly unfortunate coming after last year's rumors of financial insolvency," she was concluding in a clipped Oxonian accent.

The scene cut to the BBC Paris bureau newsroom, where a florid-faced, fair-haired man seated at a curved perspex desk intoned, "To recap for those just joining us, twenty-five minutes ago a joint task force comprised of the Police Nationale and representatives of Interpol converged upon Duplantier House in Bouilloire just northwest of Paris. Home to the Duplantier family for the past nine decades, they are the dynasty behind energy giant Duplantix." A summary of the company's history followed ("Yours was better," Alex murmured) before the action cut back to Maison Duplantier as the presenter intoned, "BBC Paris correspondent Lucien Gagnier is on site. Lucien, are there any updates to the situation?"

"That's him," Bobby murmured.

Alex had been surprised when Bobby passed on the news that Anouilh had told him he would not be breaking the story himself.

"I considered it and realized it would be a terrible thing to do to my friend," Anouilh had told him reflectively. "I have a colleague at the Paris bureau of the BBC who will do an excellent job, and he promised me that Devilliers will get his due."

A tall, tanned, dark-haired man in a waterproof coat worn open over a charcoal grey suit with a white shirt, his scarlet tie lending a pop of color, stood before the dignified frontage of Maison Duplantier and its sweeping driveway, where several police cars and two businesslike unmarked white vans had converged. Bubble lights still flashed on two police vehicles, lending an eerie continuous flicker to his face. He spoke English with a slight French accent. "Not at this time, Lionel. Madame Pepin's earlier outburst took everyone by surprise."

"Can you recap the events of the past few hours, Lucien?"

"Istill lack the complete story," Gagnier glanced to his left briefly before continuing, "and some information is being withheld by the authorities, but these are the facts as they stand: late last year, a vintage piece of microfilm was found by a private citizen of the United States, who promptly turned it over to the American Federal Bureau of Investigation. Ten documents, some written in French, some in German, were discovered on this microfilm. The moment the documents were translated, the Police Nationale in Paris were called in. The contents prompted search warrants to be issued for an unoccupied private residence in the northeastern part of the city; during that investigation, Interpol was summoned. An Interpol operative discovered a cache of World War II-era documents hidden there. These were returned to Interpol headquarters in Lyon and the German Federal Police forensics team were called in to authenticate them. A week ago it was confirmed that the documents were a dossier of legitimate 1940s-era files collected by the late Joseph Devilliers, the award-winning journalist."

"And those files revealed what?" the presenter prompted.

Gagnier's face twitched as if annoyed to be interrupted. However, he nodded obligingly and continued, "For some years now, Monsieur Devilliers had advised the government that the Duplantier family held secrets about their activities during World War II. He was consistently rebuffed despite obtaining additional documentation from other sources. It has been suggested that the family had enough power politically to refute such accusations. The documents allegedly prove that the Duplantier family willingly collaborated with the Nazi regime and that much of their fortune was amassed during the war due to the use of forced labor in the Duplantier coalfields and refineries. The Police Nationale and Interpol arrived here at eight o'clock CET to escort Madame Evangeline Pepin, owner, President, and CEO of Duplantix Ltd, to Paris police headquarters to make a statement while search warrants for Duplantix files were carried out. However, as our viewers witnessed, much more happened."

The presenter nodded. "Here is a replay of earlier events. Please be advised this film is uncensored and language used may be offensive."

Alex and Bobby exchanged puzzled glances. A red scrolled "REPLAY" at the bottom of the screen did not distract from video from one of the two official vans showing a line of police vehicles entering the gates of Duplantier House and progressing up the driveway. The officials in the van exchanged terse sentences over the radio, coordinating their arrival. Sunrise, obscured by cloudy skies, had occurred only minutes earlier, so murky gloom draped the vehicles as they moved through the trees and finally halted in front of the house.

What appeared to be the BBC van camera feed now cut in, with a different, panning shot of the official cars and vans lined up before Duplantier House. There was a flash of movement to the left: viewers could see a BBC cameraman in a waxed jacket and brimmed cap approaching the front doors with his handheld camera and attached boom mic. The handheld camera continued video coverage as a dark-haired man with striking silver streaks at his temples, gold epaulets dripping from each navy-blue shoulder of his uniform, emerged from the lead car, donning a brimmed cap, along with two women who appeared to be in their mid-thirties in more understated uniforms; the three of them approached the double front doors and the taller of the two women rang the bell. The camera view now framed the doorway.

One of the servants, expectedly, answered the door.

"Delphine!" said Alex instantly.

The young woman with the Creole accent looked saucer-eyed at the callers, then at the crowded driveway before she curtsied. "Oui, Monsieur?"

"If you please, Mademoiselle," the man with the epaulets said formally in French while an English translation flashed at the bottom of the screen, "could you please summon Evangeline Pepin? We must speak with her immediately."

Delphine stammered. "It is T-Tuesday, sir. She is always in conference with Maître Achard at this time on Tuesday mornings."

Alex murmured, "I wonder what type of conference that is."

The lead investigator straightened like an Army officer. "This is probably a good thing, Mademoiselle. She may wish her attorney to be present when we speak with her."

"Yes, sir!" Delphine said in a nervous voice and vanished.

The POV switched to the van camera, giving the viewers a wide-angle view of the area.

"Check right," Bobby pointed. "He's not reporting the story, but he's still there. What does he expect, I wonder?"

Alex nodded, recognizing Sébastien Anouilh standing a few feet behind Lucien Gagnier, hunched in a tan trenchcoat.

The cameraman's feed resumed as a more composed Delphine returned to the door; she told the officer serenely, "Madame will be a few minutes."

The epauleted officer said something almost inaudible to viewers, which appeared in the closed captions as "Immediately, please, mademoiselle!"

Delphine scurried from view with a look of alarm. They observed the lead officer turn his head to the left. A moment later, seemingly unruffled, Madame Pepin appeared, wearing a rose-pink silken quilted bathrobe with her hair bound in a rose-and-leaf green wrap with a bow at the front. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Good morning, Madame," the officer greeted her, bowing. "I am Sergeant Claude Marigny. We have been asked to escort you to police headquarters to make an official statement. You will be free to go once that statement is complete. You shall accompany us as soon as you dress."

Madame Pepin looked slightly perplexed. "Sergeant Marigny, you are aware of the time? I have scarcely finished breakfast, and I was in the midst of a conference when you so rudely arrived at my doorstep."

"Check her face," Bobby murmured.

"Stress," Alex observed softly. "Laurent's defection?"

Marigny said politely, "I'm sorry if Madame interprets our arrival as rude. We simply have orders to transport you to police headquarters for a routine inquiry while our warrants are carried out."

"Longer term than that." Bobby focused all his attention on her body language.

Théodore Achard appeared from the shadows, collected in his dark suit and the black-rimmed glasses that made him look like a schoolteacher. "May I see the written authorization for this action, Sergeant Marigny, as well as the warrants?"

"Of course, Maítre Achard, you had only to ask," Marigny responded with a perfunctory bow, then handed a sheaf of papers to Madame Pepin, who eyed them disdainfully before passing them to Achard, who examined them with an expressionless face. His evident swallow and shift of his shoulders told a different story.

Bobby added, "Harry said in December that there were rumors she was 'off her game.'"

Achard exchanged a look with Madame Pepin and said rigidly, "Very well, Sergeant. Madame will dress and I will transport her to the police station when she is ready."

Alex mused, "She's lost weight, too."

Marigny adopted the same stiff features. "I'm sorry, Maítre, but Madame is required to come immediately. You may certainly follow in your vehicle to Rue Louis Blanc." He turned to the two women beside him. "Officers Thibault and Clément will escort her whilst she dresses."

Bobby's voice was dry. "Laurent turned against her after we left. It's been eating at her for months."

Something flickered in Madame Pepin's eyes. "My goodness, Sergeant, you must think I am some sort of…what do the Americans call it?...desperado."

"Of course," Alex said immediately. "Her obedient little boy–"

"–now a man suddenly thinking for himself," Bobby finished.

Marigny said stonily, "That is not my place, Madame. I am here only to collect you."

Bobby eyed Achard briefly. "Nor will her lover's presence make up for their son's defection."

Madame Pepin gazed at him coolly. "Very well." And here she cast supercilious eyes on the line of four police cars and two vans, regarding them with obvious contempt. "You certainly have gone to a lot of trouble for the likes of someone my size–"

Had she completed that thought and returned inside with Thibault and Clément, the morning's events would have concluded quietly and the BBC would have mentioned she had made her statement in a single newsbyte. But then her eyes rested on the BBC News van, Lucien Gagnier, and…

"Him!" she said through her teeth.

Bobby saw the change in her instantly and came alert.

"Madame?" Marigny responded, genuinely puzzled.

"Him!" With eyes blazing, Madame Pepin swept an open hand toward Sébastien Anouilh. "It is he that should be questioned. He is a liar and a thief!"

Marigny looked over his shoulder curiously, seeing only Anouilh's patient, sorrowful face. "A thief, Madame? May I ask what was stolen?"

"My son's affections!" she exploded. "He told Laurent any number of lies, probably goaded by those Americans, and drove him away from me. But then what can you expect from the likes of him?"

Alex asked sarcastically, "I wonder which 'Americans' those were?" but Bobby did not respond. He leaned forward in his chair, attention solely on Madame Pepin.

"Madame…" Achard said calmly, laying a steadying hand on her left arm. "The arrival of the police can be upsetting. You are simply being asked to make a statement to the authorities. Let us settle down, comply with this request, answer their questions, and quickly amend this little mistake." He smiled pleasantly toward the camera.

"Upsetting!" Madame said sharply. "My son was my life! I did everything for him, and that unnatural 'man' turned him against me. Ruined his future so carefully–"

"Madame," Marigny said gently, "this is untoward. Let Officer Clément assist you."

The taller woman smiled respectfully and extended her hand as if to greet her. "Indeed, Madame, I shan't hinder–"

Madame Pepin whirled on her. "Do not touch me!"

"Evangeline!" Achard warned again, then, more softly, "Please. Just do as they say."

"Don't you care that that uncouth liar drove Laurent away?" Madame asked him angrily. "This was our son."

"What did she say?" they heard the startled cameraman hiss into his microphone.

Gagnier muttered, "Ah, la vache!"

Alex was appalled. "Bobby, she's outed herself on international television."

Bobby murmured, "I was afraid of this. She's stepped too close to the edge. Don't do it, Madame–"

"Vangie!" Achard protested, alarmed.

"Madame," Marigny said sternly. "Please collect yourself–"

When Officer Thibault attempted to take her arm, Madame Pepin defiantly shouted, "Of course, he is a liar. They are all liars, sale juifs! You are all–"

"Everyone has their breaking point–" Bobby breathed, then was silent.

BBC News abruptly cut the replay and returned to Lucien Gagnier live. They noticed the captioning did not attempt to translate two words but replaced them with asterisks. Gagnier said formally, "On behalf of BBC Paris, we would like to apologize to those viewers who watched this live and uncensored this morning. Madame Pepin was subsequently arrested for assaulting law enforcement officers and transported to police headquarters."

Under the announcer's words, Bobby's cell phone pinged once, then twice, then successive pings followed in a barrage of sound.

"And now the news has hit social media. In an hour, everyone around the globe will know she called Anouilh a 'dirty Jew.' No more secrets." With a sigh, he put the phone on "do not disturb," then headed for the door, saying defeatedly, "Please shut it down, Alex. I can't watch anymore."

A few clicks darkened the screen, but the afterimage would linger for weeks.

***February 23, 2024***

"You'll never guess who called me today," said Penelope Saltonstall when Bobby picked up the phone.

He immediately switched to speakerphone so that Alex, tapping at her laptop, could hear, then considered the tone of her voice.

"Helen Harcourt from the State Department," he said finally.

"You're right, Alex, that is unsettling," Penelope said, keeping her voice light, and Alex chuckled.

"How are things in Brookline today?" Bobby asked, changing the subject.

"My husband and I are up to our elbows in drop cloths and paint," she answered. "We're working on the main bedroom first. Of course, he wanted it grey and I wanted it smoke blue–"

"It's smoke blue, of course," Alex interjected.

"Of course," was the satisfied reply.

"Don't you mean 'ex-husband'?" Bobby asked, biting off a smile.

"You should know me by now. I only say what I mean," Penelope responded mildly.

"And you didn't even let us know," he reprimanded.

"It was just Matthew and me and the JP. Not even the children."

"And when?" Alex continued the interrogation.

"Valentine's Day, of course."

"Softie," teased Alex.

Penelope was briefly quiet, "Don't you care to hear what Ms. Harcourt had to say, Bobby?"

Sometimes Bobby missed her calling him "Robert," but he didn't mention it. "Frankly, no. I  know what she probably said." He rose from his chair, pacing the living room. "That now the State Department has to 'tread carefully' since Duplantix has revealed Nazi collaborators in their past, something that's exploded on social media for the past three days, combined with vicious criticism about State having gone with the partnership at all." He finished bitterly, "Let her stew. State made their bed. We have Olivia and I don't give a damn."

Alex was curious enough to ask, "So what happens to Duplantix? It still survives, I expect..."

"As does Bayer, Volkswagen, Zeiss Optical, Mercedes Benz, Siemens, IBM, and more," Penelope said wryly.

Bobby interjected cynically, "Not to mention the Ford Motor Company and the House of Chanel."

The older woman continued, "The business is still necessary; they employ thousands, and the problem of cleaner energy is still a going concern. The board of directors has already assumed control. Several of the older executives and anyone of a dubious political bent will be shuffled off into early retirement. Younger, more diverse blood will be funneled in. The Duplantiers themselves will be open to civil suits. More than a few of Madame's prized art pieces will be going to new homes."

Bobby added darkly, "Not to mention the ones that were never hers to begin with. But there was one unintended casualty." Alex glanced up at him, curious. "Laurent texted me an hour ago. Stéphanie's partner Agathe walked out on her; she said she couldn't live with someone whose great-grandfather and grandfather had done such evil things, even though Stéphanie never knew her true family history. Stéphanie has gone to Nice to mourn; Yves and Morgane have retreated to Chamonix after members of a reported anti-Nazi activist group spray-painted swastikas on their Paris townhome." He ran his left hand across his face, finishing in weary tones, "All Madame had to do was accompany the officers and then lie through her teeth. How many times has she done that before? She lied to Eames and me easily enough! If asked, she and Achard could have sworn that she knew nothing of her father's politics, or that she knew and chose to act otherwise and not conform to her father's prejudices. If asked about the art, she could claim she knew nothing of its provenance except for what Yves Arnaud told her, his loyal daughter to the last. She might have simply taken criticism for being clueless, but instead, she revealed her bigotry to the public and destroyed her family."

Habit was too strong. "You couldn't have known, Robert."

He replied, his voice shaken, "I know. And we were able to get Laurent out in time. But somehow it doesn't make me feel any better." He paused and crossed his arms in front of him. "I canceled my Twitter account an hour ago. I don't have the stomach at the moment for political show and tell. It's too destructive."

***February 25, 2024***

Marc Thuringer called that evening after Olivia's bedtime. "I don't suppose you two could hop a train up here tomorrow morning? I've got something of interest for you."

They exchanged glances and shrugged. Olivia had after-school activities until 4:30, and Alex had long ago given up Monday as a chill-out day. "What's up?" asked Bobby.

"The missing piece of the puzzle."

It was all Thuringer would reveal, and this intrigued them enough that after they dropped Olivia at school, they decided to drive to Cambridge, where they would leave the car in a garage and take the T into downtown Boston, deciding not to mention the trip to her until they found out what Thuringer was providing.

"If it's something we can't reveal," was Alex's practical response, "it's better to tell her we took a little 'alone time,' which should please her. Taking the car will give us time for lunch at Quincy Market–"

"–and an hour or so at the Harvard Book Store?"

"Yes, my bookaholic."

"We can drop in at Sephora as well," he said with a sideways glance that made her smile.

Next day, they sat in Marc's newly redecorated office, its walls filled with photographs of small aircraft in flight, watching the young agents bustle past the glass doors. Several of them raised a hand when they recognized Bobby from his lectures. Finally, the inner office door opened.

"What's this?" Bobby asked when Thuringer entered with two sheets of printer paper in his hand along with a wry expression.

"Remember the two tiny white pinpricks on the microfilm? They turned out to be two letters. Modern notes. This typed one is for both of you." He handed the top sheet to Bobby. "The handwritten one is just for Alex, but I'll hang onto it for a bit."

Bobby stared at the document, recognizing the signature at once. Thuringer gave him an odd smile. "Ms. Wallace was a clever lady. She converted two sheets of writing paper to microdots."

"More hidden talents from Nicole," Alex commented dryly. "How sweet."

"Dear 'Greatest Detectives in the World,'" Bobby read aloud, and Alex snorted. "She never could let that go."

"If you're reading this, it means I have foolishly allowed my heart to guide my head and let my guard down for the final time. I suppose that's what happens when you have a child—it softens your heart but ruins your head—but I wouldn't have traded Mignon for anything.

"I knew Madame despised me, of course, a very understandable thing when you're 'the other woman'—or perhaps it's something only another woman would understand. You might ask Alex."

Alex cleared her throat noncommittally, then leaned against Bobby, tapping one foot as he read aloud.

"Accordingly, for the past several years I have been watching my back. Luisa was recruited to help me from the first, since she has cared for Mignon since she was an infant; she always presented herself to Madame as being a simple country girl from the Brabant, only interested in domestic and childcare pursuits and the salary commensurate with those, so she has heard things that perhaps would not have been said in her presence if they had known otherwise.

"Several 'accidents' happened during those years that I realized quite soon were not 'accidents' at all. The last occurred the summer before Mignon turned eight; my car veered off the road, and we were both slightly injured. You might have noticed a faint scar on her right shoulder; it's barely visible any longer—children heal so well. I declined to tell Marcel about it, but I had the car inspected by a professional, one you might say I found by questionable means—the brake line had been severed very cleverly, so it appeared to be brake line wear instead. So when Marcel suggested boarding school for Mignon, I realized it was an opportunity to get her 'out of the line of fire,' as you Americans say. She's probably told you I insisted on an English boarding school because they were academically superior. That was only partially true.

"I missed her very much, but it was safer that way.

"In the autumn of 2021, when I began to hear those rumors about Marcel, I hoped they were untrue because he had foolishly never believed anything said about me. But I had to consider Mignon's safety as well. Alex asked why I came to the States when I knew there was...what? Why not call it 'a price on my head' since it sounds so much more exciting, like the 'sparkle' I added to stories for Mignon's enjoyment? For the first time in my life, Bobby, I was grasping at straws, and you were the only other person I trusted. You always dared look me in the eye to tell me the truth about myself. But instead, I found myself the one who had to endure 'the other woman.' Shoe on the other foot, and all that.

"I magine my shock when, amidst our verbal sparring match in your back garden that spring, I discovered Alex liked my girl. Didn't hold my past against her. Wished she had a daughter like her.

"So after our respite in Nice, Mignon and I went home, escorted by the terrible Miss Cornetto and her eagle eye. But the danger hadn't ended—on my first day home, Luisa whispered to me that she had proof that Madame had been planning some mischief. So I went to Marcel's attorney right under the great Sofia's nose and had that will drawn up. I suppose it came as a great shock to both of you, but I counted on the fact that you couldn't turn her away, Bobby—not the way you felt about children—and I was required to play my cards in the hope that Alex hadn't changed her mind about Mignon. But Alex has always been very straightforward in her own way. Like it or not, I could trust her."

Alex muttered, "If that's her way of saying I was honest about how I felt about her, that's true."

"Then I returned Mignon to Creatwood as quickly as possible.

"I nourished a fancy Madame would pursue only me, but just in case she dragged Marcel into her plans, I made sure she'd pay for him. I inadvertently discovered her dirty little secret whilst looking into her past—I expected some little scandal and instead came upon the windfall of all time, dished out by her own brother. At first, I thought I must be mistaken—not the mighty Madame after all; wasn't she simply a cold fish and I Marcel's tonic?—her having evil antecedents seemed too good to be true. But when I probed further, especially all that potent material gathered so carefully by poor, ignored, suffering Monsieur Devillier—I suppose you'll be disappointed that I resorted to some of my old tricks to assemble it all, but I felt I had no choice. So perhaps it's fitting I've received my punishment at last.

"And Marcel's watch was the perfect vehicle for the Duplantiers' goosestepping secret, as I knew he had left it to Mignon in his will and the two of you would check it out immediately, then give it to Bobby's little playmates at the FBI to decode. I hope the information has stuck in Madame's throat as her house of cards collapsed on her."

"I don't recall Marcel's watch being in his will," Alex commented.

"I can see Madame inveigling Maître Achard to deliberate omit the bequest at the reading so that it would look like a gracious gift when we departed," Bobby replied cynically.

"One thing: I hope you have found some way to keep Laurent out of the uproar this revelation will cause. He's a bit of a lazy bludger, but then he's a poor spoilt boy favored by his mum because he looks so much like her lover—something I foolishly only realized after I had the man draw up my will. I'm sure you've figured out the who of that as well. He nor his stodgy siblings know nothing of their repulsive maternal legacy—although I'm sure it's sorely puzzled him why "Maman" would not favor the well-off, well-educated, beautiful, and well-mannered Noémie Auerbach. Could it be her nasty "Jewish blood"? Certainly it could! He was the only one who treated Mignon with civility, so I shall speak up for him. If you feel this is an odd request coming from me, I can only claim it as a further weakness born of my love for Mignon.

"I wish I had done the same for Hannah, but...no way to change it now.

"Well, Special Agent Robert Goren, this concludes my debriefing of the little mystery I left you and the estimable Captain Alexandra Eames...just in time, since this is all the space remaining. Take care of Mignon, or I shall find a way to haunt you forever.

"It was a pleasure to be your adversary, even if you were both a bit overmatched.

"Nicole Wallace"

"Overmatched!" Alex exclaimed indignantly, then sighed ruefully, "Still pushing my buttons after death. Typical."

Bobby shook his head. "Nicole to the last." He folded the epistle neatly in half, then turned to Alex as Thuringer handed her the second sheet of paper. "Don't keep me in suspense, Eames. What was your cheeky farewell message?"

Alex scanned it, then pursed her lips, "She had to have the last word." She huffed slightly. "Trouble is, she's not wrong." Then, imitating Nicole's accent during the salutation and first line, she read aloud:

"Dear Alex,

"For heaven's sake, keep a rein on Bobby. I know him: he'll either keep Mignon in a tower like Rapunzel, guarding her virginity against all comers until she's thirty—or he'll spoil her disgracefully. Probably both. Promise me you'll keep him on an even keel.

"At least I can trust you to keep your head!

"Regards,
"Nicole
"(Give her a final hug and kiss for me? Please?)"

Alex sighed, but a small, reflective smile played on her lips. "I will."