officer, Ben thought. Tweed jacket, not a banker's suit: he's above such things as dress code.
Ben watched him closely, waiting for any signs of suspicion. But Suchet seemed all business as usual.
The elevator opened on a waiting area covered in a wall-to-wall oatmeal deep-pile rug and furnished with antiques, not reproductions. They moved through the waiting area to a door, where Suchet inserted a badge that he wore on a chain around his neck, into an electronic card-reader.
Suchet's office was just down the hall, a spacious, light-flooded room. A computer was the only object on his long glass-topped desk. He sat behind it, while Deschner and Ben sat across from him. A middle-aged woman entered with two espressos and two glasses of water on a silver tray and set them down on the desk before the two visitors. Then a young male came in and handed Dr. Suchet a file.
Suchet opened it. "You are Benjamin Hartman, of course," he asked, moving his owlish gaze from the file to Ben.
Ben nodded, his stomach tightening.
"We have been provided with ancillary documentation certifying that you are the sole heir to the 'beneficial owner' of this account. And you affirm that you are, correct?"
"That's correct."
"Legally I am satisfied with your documentation. And visually-well, it is clear you are indeed Peter Hartman's twin brother." He smiled. "So what can I do for you this morning, Mr. Hartman?"
The Handelsbank's vaults were located in the basement of the building, a fluorescent-lit, low-ceilinged area that was nowhere near as sleek and modern as the upstairs. There were several numbered doors off a narrow corridor, presumably room-sized vaults. Several larger alcoves off the hallway appeared from a distance to be lined with brass, which upon closer inspection Ben saw were safe-deposit boxes of various sizes.
At the entrance to an alcove numbered 18C, Dr. Suchet stopped and handed Ben a key. He did not indicate which of the hundreds of vaults in this area was Peter's. "I assume you would like privacy," he said. "Herr Deschner and I shall leave you now. You can call me on this phone here"-he indicated a white phone on a steel table in the center of the room-"when you are finished."
Ben looked at the rows upon rows of vaults, and didn't know what to do. Was this a test of some sort? Or did Suchet merely assume that Ben would know the number of his vault? Ben glanced at Deschner, who seemed to sense his discomfort but, curiously, said nothing. Then Ben looked again at the key and saw a number embossed on it. Of course. The obvious place.
"Thank you," he said. "I'm all set."
The two Swiss left, chatting. Ben noticed a surveillance camera mounted high in the room, where the ceiling met the wall. Its red light
He located vault 322, a small box at about eye level, and turned the key to open it.
Oh, God, he thought, heart thrumming, what could be in here? Peter, what did you hide here that was worth your life?
Inside was what looked like an envelope made of stiff wax paper. He pulled it out the document inside was dismayingly thin and opened it.
There was only one item inside, and it was not & piece of paper.
It was a photograph, measuring about five inches by seven.
It took his breath away.
It showed a group of men, a few in Nazi uniforms, some in 1940s suits with overcoats. A number of them were immediately recognizable. Giovanni Vignelli, the great Italian industrialist out of Turin, automotive magnate, his massive plants supplying the Italian military, diesel engines, railroad cars, airplanes. The head of Royal Dutch Petroleum, Sir Han Detwiler, a xenophobic Dutchman. The legendary founder of the first, and greatest, American airline. There were faces that he could not identify but had seen in the history books. A few of the men wore mustaches. Including the handsome, dark-haired young man standing next to an arrogant Nazi official with pale eyes who looked familiar to Ben, though he knew little of German history.
No, please, not him.
The Nazi, whose face he'd seen before, he could not identify.
The handsome young man was unquestionably his father.
Max Hartman.
A typewritten caption on the white border at the bottom of the photograph read: zurich, 1945. sigma ag.
He returned the photograph to the envelope and slipped it into his breast pocket. Felt it burn against his chest.
There could no longer be any doubt that his father had lied to him, had lied all his adult life. His head reeled. Abruptly