lying.” He leaned down to whisper into Nina’s ear, brushing her hair out of the way. “No parent would destroy every photograph of their only child.”
“Mine would,” Nina whispered back. “But he tried to drown me when I was sixteen, so . . .”
Ian barely heard her, pacing down the hall now despite himself. A photograph would be invaluable—they wouldn’t be able to use it in any legal capacity, not if it was acquired through means like today’s, but just for private identification so they weren’t relying solely on Nina’s memory of what their target looked like . . . “There has to be a photograph here somewhere.”
“Isn’t. I scoured.” Nina was pacing too; they brushed past each other shoulder to shoulder and when he saw her look up, he did too.
On the hallway ceiling was a hatch. Very likely to an attic.
“Come on, luchik,” Nina breathed. “Boost me—” But he had already seized his wife around the waist and lifted her toward the ceiling. He heard her fumbling a latch, heard the hatch lift, and then Nina was wriggling up through his arms like a serpent, hoisting herself into the ceiling. You cannot claim even a shred of moral high ground here, Ian thought, and at the moment didn’t greatly care. He was not leaving this house empty-handed.
A quick check at the window. Frau Vogt had tucked the envelope of money away. “I don’t have anything else to tell you—”
“Two minutes,” Ian called low-voiced into the hatch. Tony was rising from his chair, dripping reassurances. “Hear me, Nina?”
Her voice floated down along with the sound of rustling. “Da, tovarische.”
Frau Vogt appeared to be crying, overcome by brandy and memory. Tony was offering handkerchiefs . . .
Nina’s booted legs appeared suddenly from the hatch. “Catch me.”
Ian caught her sturdy little form as she wriggled down from the ceiling, held her up as she bolted the hatch behind her. His grip slipped and he nearly dropped her. “Clumsy,” she snorted, landing cat light.
“You’re not exactly a featherweight, comrade.” He could see something under Nina’s jacket, but there was no time to inquire what. Ian eased the window shut and they descended the stairs, freezing out of sight on the landing as Frau Vogt ushered Tony toward the front door.
“Kind of you to hear an old woman ramble, Herr Krauss,” the voice floated out, definitely tipsy. “I do get very lonely.” Ian and Nina crossed the back hall toward the window. Ian’s heart hadn’t pounded so hard since he’d parachuted out of that bomber in ’45. Standing over the void, waiting to jump . . .
The front door shut. Tony was out of the house; Frau Vogt might be walking back. Nina was wriggling through the open window. Ian hoisted himself after her, feeling his shoes touch grass. The back of his shirt hooked on the casement.
“Tvoyu mat, hurry up,” Nina hissed.
“Stop your goddamned swearing,” Ian said, and ripped loose. Nina eased the casement down. Ian yanked her around the side of the house, where they banged into Tony.
“What the hell, you two? Never mind, let’s get out—” They all set off at a clip considerably quicker than a meander.
“Nina,” Ian said when they reached the river again and collapsed gratefully against its railing, “tell me you found something.”
Nina’s eyes had a wicked gleam. “The Frau may have burned the letters and most pictures, but she kept one album.”
“Did you get—”
“Is not a recent picture, she throws those away. This is most recent one I see.” From inside her jacket Nina produced a photograph clearly pried off an album page: Frau Vogt and a cluster of friends or relatives before church steps, dressed in their best. “Far right.”
Ian’s breath caught. The young woman on the right wore a floral print dress, standing with gloved hands folded. Hardly more than a girl, childhood plumpness clinging to her face and figure, a self-conscious smile. Serious, young, on the verge of beauty and adulthood. But already watchful, her gaze meeting the camera steady and distant. “Die Jägerin?”
Nina made a small sound like a cat pouncing. There was something disturbingly sensual about it, Ian thought, like the cat wasn’t just relishing the pounce, but the rending and tearing that would follow. “Lorelei Vogt,” Nina said.
“At least fifteen years younger than she is now.” Tony frowned.
“Was thinner when I saw her than here,” Nina agreed, tapping the picture. “Darker hair too.”
“So how much help will this photograph be, identifying the real thing if we run across her?