philanthropist. A force for good. And a Holocaust survivor, of course. Yes, it looks like him-like you, in fact. But I repeat: that makes no sense."
Ben laughed bitterly. "I'm sorry. But things stopped making sense for me when my old college buddy tried to murder me on the Bahnhofstrasse." Lenz's eyes looked sorrowful. "Tell me how you found this."
Ben told Lenz about the events of the past several days, trying to stay as dispassionate as he could.
"Then you, too, know danger," Lenz said solemnly. "There are filaments, invisible filaments, that link this photograph to those deaths."
Frustration welled up in Ben as he struggled to make some sense of everything Lenz was telling him, tried to rearrange the pieces of information to make a coherent picture. Instead of becoming clearer, things were even more bewildering, more maddening.
Ben was first conscious of Use's return to the room from the scent of her perfume.
"This young man brings danger," she said to her husband, and her voice was like sandpaper. She turned to Ben. "Forgive me, but I cannot keep silent any longer. You bring death to this house. My husband has been menaced by extremists for so many years because of his fight for justice. I am sorry for what you have undergone. But you are careless, the way you Americans always are. You come to see my husband under false pretenses, pursuing some private vendetta of your own."
"Please, Use," Lenz interjected.
"And now you have brought death here with you, like an unannounced guest. I would be grateful to you if you would leave my house. My husband has done enough for the cause. Must he give his life for it, too?"
"Use is upset," Lenz said apologetically. "There are aspects of my life that she has never grown accustomed to."
"No," Ben said. "She's probably right. I've already put too many lives in jeopardy." His voice was hollow.
Use's face was a mask, the muscles immobilized by fear. "Gute Nacht," she said with quiet finality.
Walking Ben to the foyer, Lenz spoke with murmured urgency. "If you want, I'll be glad to help you. To do what I can. Pull strings where I am able to, provide contacts. But Use is right about one thing. You can't know what you're up against. I'd advise you to be cautious, my friend." There was something familiar about the harrowed look on Lenz's face, and after a moment Ben realized that it reminded him of what he'd seen on Peter's. Within both men, it seemed, a passion for justice had been worn down by vast forces, and yet it could be mistaken for nothing else.
Ben left Lenz's house, dazed. He was far over his head: why couldn't he just admit that he was powerless, hopelessly unequipped for a task that had defeated his own brother? And the very facts he had already established now ground deeper into his psyche, like glass shards under his feet. Max Hartman, philanthropist, Holocaust survivor, humanitarian-was he, in fact, a man like Gerhard Lenz, a confederate in barbarity? It was sickening to contemplate. Might Max have been complicit in Peter's murder? Was the man behind his own son's death?
Was this why he'd suddenly disappeared? So he wouldn't have to face his own exposure? And what about the complicity of the CIA? How the hell did an Obersturmfuhrer in Hitler's SS come to emigrate and settle in the States, if not with help from the U.S. government? Were allies of his, very old friends indeed, behind the horrific events? Was there some chance they were doing it on his father's behalf-to protect him and themselves as well-without the old man's knowledge?
You talk of things you cannot understand, his father had said, speaking past him as much as to him.
Ben was seized with conflicting emotions. Part of him, the devoted, loyal son, wanted to believe that there was some other explanation, had wanted to since Peter's revelations. Some reason to believe his own father was not a ... a what? A monster. He heard his mother's voice, whispering as she died, pleading with him to understand, to try to heal the breach, to get along. To love this complicated, difficult man who was Max Hartman.
While another part of Ben felt a welcome clarity.
I've worked hard to understand you, you bastard! Ben found himself shouting inwardly. I've tried to love you. But a deception like this, the ugliness of your real life-how can I feel anything but hatred?
He had parked, once again, a good distance from Lenz's