unfair.” Tony flung a wadded-up scrap of paper at Ian. Nina bounced the sardine tin off his chest. “Fine. I’ll keep an eye on the daughter.”
“Look at the mother too.” Ian’s notes on the McBride widow were brief, coming from the obituary and the short newspaper article about the deceased antiques dealer and his family, including one Mrs. Anna McBride, born and raised in Boston. “And the shop files—there could be records of the others helped under the table. We know there are more besides die Jägerin.”
“Would they be stupid enough to keep records for something illicit?” Tony kept scribbling.
“You always keep records,” Nina said firmly. “Is not stupid, is something to trade. Someone to throw out of the sleigh for the wolves, if the police come knocking.”
“More Stalinist paranoia . . .”
Despite all the banter, Ian could feel the crackle of energy whipping through the room now that the chase was underway. It was a new office here, a new feeling in the air. In Vienna there had been a separation between work and leisure: in the evening Tony went home to his rented rooms, and Ian retired upstairs to his cot and violin. Here in Boston, there was no separation; they were all underfoot from dawn to dusk. Once they’d exhausted the topic of Herr Kolb and how to proceed, they elbowed the scribbled notes aside and made room for bowls of soup heated up from tins and ate with elbows knocking—and even then, the fierce concentration in the air still hummed. Lorelei Vogt belonged equally to all three of them, and now there was no ocean in the way.
We are going to find her, Ian thought. She is no match for the three of us.
IT WAS NEARLY DAWN, and Nina was up on the roof.
Ian and Tony shared the one bedroom, which had two cots against opposite walls; Nina insisted on the couch under the skylight in the sitting room. “I don’t sleep next to anyone,” she told Ian when he offered her the other bedroom cot, rather hoping they could push them together. Now it was four in the morning, the sitting room was empty, and the skylight was open. Ian climbed onto the arm of the couch. It would be a jump for Nina, but he grabbed the lip of the skylight and levered himself skyward.
The rooftop was a flat barren square with a raised ledge running around at knee height. The sky was still dark overhead, a creeping edge of pink starting to outline the city horizon. Nina lay on her back on the ledge, gazing up at the fading stars. Wearing, Ian saw with amusement, her own patched trousers, one of Tony’s old sweaters, and a pair of Ian’s socks.
“Will you stop collectivizing the laundry?” he demanded, not moving toward her. He wasn’t getting anywhere near the edge; his stomach was already churning at the drop on Nina’s other side.
“You have nicer socks than me.”
“Harrods,” Ian said. “The key to surviving most of the things life throws at you is taking care of your feet. Something I learned tramping around in Spanish mud in the thirties. You’re going to fall off,” he added as she stretched her feet up into the air. Her toes flexed and arched like a bird’s tail fanning.
“No, I won’t.” Nina extended her arms out on either side, moving them dreamily up and down as if on air currents. Ian averted his eyes from the edge. The sounds of morning traffic drifted up: tires on pavement, the occasional shout from a drunk heading home, shouts back from respectable people heading for work. This was a young city, brash and confident, and Ian liked it.
Nina’s eyes were still on the stars above. “Tvoyu mat.” She sighed. “I miss the night sky.”
“From your pilot days?” Getting information out of Nina was like interviewing a porcupine, all prickles and defensively lashing tail, but he couldn’t help probing anyway. The journalist’s urge to ask questions, which hadn’t died along with his urge to write articles. “You haven’t said much about your flying days in the war.”
“Was a navigator. I fly bombing runs in the 588th Night Bomber Regiment. Later known as Forty-Sixth Taman Guards Night Bomber Aviation Regiment.” She sat up, slanting an eyebrow. “You look surprised.”
“I am,” he said honestly.
“What, you think girls don’t fly?”
“I know perfectly well that women fly. I am surprised you were a navigator, because it’s a job that relies on obedience, teamwork, and precision. Not exactly qualities