“I navigate skies filled with stars,” Nina said huffily, “not places called Woonsocket.”
“I am never getting in an airplane with you, so kindly start learning to navigate in two dimensions rather than three.”
“Mat tvoyu cherez sem’vorot s prisvistom.”
“Leave my mother out of this.”
It had been a two-hour drive between Boston and their first target, with Tony staying behind to cover the tail on Kolb. Nina had spent most of the drive telling Ian how she’d left the Soviet Union, flying into Poland two steps ahead of an arrest warrant before running into Sebastian. American road maps might be a mystery, but Ian was getting a feel for how to navigate the minefield that was his wife: ask anything about Lake Rusalka or what happened there with die Jägerin, or display any sign of affection whatsoever, and she either lapsed into prickly silence or detonated outright. But she didn’t mind telling him about Seb, and Ian stored her affectionate stories up like coins. New memories of his little brother, every one priceless . . . but now it was time to work.
The Ford soon coasted into a quiet suburb with green yards and bicycles lying in driveways. Number twelve was a small yellow house with a modest, lovingly tended garden. It most certainly wasn’t an antiques shop named “Huth & Sons.” Seeing it here, so plainly a residence and not a business, made Ian’s pulse pick up. Someone who was not who they were supposed to be lived here.
Nina had fallen silent too, thrumming like a plucked wire. He drove past number twelve and parked around the corner. Nina slid out, back to severe respectability again today in the high-necked blouse she’d worn to interrogate Kolb, a broad summer hat shading her face. She took Ian’s arm and they strolled up the street in perfect propriety. As discussed, Nina released his elbow and continued wandering up the street, and Ian turned as if by impulse up the front stoop of number twelve.
Had there been no answer to his knock, Ian and Nina would have returned to the car to wait, but the door opened. A middle-aged man, stocky, hair parted and barbered with (Prussian?) precision. “Hullo,” Ian said in his most drawling public school accents, removing his fedora with a deprecating smile. “Terribly sorry to disturb you, but my wife and I are pondering moving to the neighborhood.” He waved at Nina, standing one house down with the map raised close to her nose as if she were shortsighted. Critical to have her at a distance, in case it was indeed die Jägerin who answered the door, who might remember Nina’s face as Nina remembered hers. Ian’s wife gave a distracted wave back, deftly hiding most of her features between the map’s edge and her big hat brim, but without looking like she was trying to hide. Bloody hell, but you’re good at this, Ian thought in admiration.
“We’re considering a house just a block over. Graham’s the name.” Ian extended a hand, banking as always on two things: that most people were incapable of refusing a handshake, and that most people instinctively trusted a plummy English accent. It worked, as it usually did: the other man shook hands, firm and unhesitating.
“Vernon Waggoner. My wife and I have lived here a year.”
Definitely German, Ian thought. That unmistakable clip, the W like a V, the V like an F. Ian made pleasant small talk, asking if the neighbors were friendly, what schools there were for his nonexistent daughters. Did Mr. Waggoner have any children? No, just his wife and himself. Waggoner remained polite but formal.
“Your wife, does she like the neighborhood?” Ian asked. “Mine is most anxious to make friends here.” It was entirely possible that die Jägerin might have settled down with a new husband; her options for work would have been few for a refugee. Ian wanted a good look at any woman who lived in this house, but there was only so long he could spin chitchat on the stoop.
“Vernon?” Another voice floated from the hall behind, and a woman appeared, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Do we have visitors?”
Her German accent was much heavier than her husband’s. Ian’s eyes raked her face even as he begged pardon for interrupting. Very plump, blond, blue eyes. About the right age for die Jägerin—it was entirely possible that the very young woman in their old photograph had put on weight and tinted her hair. Ian angled himself as he shook her hand, drawing her out on the stoop so Nina from her vantage point would have the best look possible. His heart thudded.
But Nina tucked the map under her arm and crossed the lawn to mount the steps, offering a gloved hand. Ian’s hopes crashed. Had she kept her distance, she would have been signaling Yes, that’s the one.
“Do you hail from Austria or Germany, Mrs. Waggoner?” Ian continued, concealing his disappointment. “I spent some years in Vienna as a young man, I remember it fondly.”
“From Weimar,” Mrs. Waggoner said with a quick, relieved smile that a German accent was not going to be answered with a nasty look.
“I had a good friend from Weimar, actually . . . does the name Lorelei Vogt mean anything to you?”
They both looked blank, not even a tiny flinch of a reaction. Well, it had been a long shot. Even if they had met her, who knew under what name?
“I shan’t take up any more of your time,” Ian said, taking Nina’s arm. She murmured something politely inaudible. “You’ve been most kind.”
“Not at all,” Waggoner said jovially enough, but it hadn’t escaped Ian’s attention that in this land of overwhelming friendliness, the man hadn’t invited them in. He stood solid in the doorway, smiling a pleasant smile, eyes giving away nothing. I wonder what you were, Ian thought, before you became Vernon Waggoner of Woonsocket, Rhode Island.
“Thank you again,” Ian said, and retreated down the stoop. Nina’s hand in his elbow gripped like steel.
“Not her,” she murmured.
“I know.” They rounded the corner out of sight, and Ian opened the car door for her. “But he was someone. He has things he was nervous about hiding, enough to pay Kolb for a new name.” Ian closed the door after Nina, slid in on his own side. “A camp clerk? A Gestapo guard? One of those Reich doctors who culled the unfit from the ranks of the master race?”
Ian heard his voice growing louder and halted himself. He’d wanted so badly for it to be Lorelei Vogt. He wanted that door to open and show him the woman who killed his brother.
“We come back for this mudak some other time,” Nina said, kicking off her heeled pumps. “We know where he is, what he looks like. Later, after die Jägerin, we get him. Whoever he is.”
“He’s a goddamned Nazi,” Ian said. “But not the one we’re looking for.” He wasn’t even aware of making a fist before he drove it hard into the wheel.
“Seven names on list,” Nina said. “Six more chances.”
He flexed his stinging fingers, and Nina made the gesture she’d made at the diner, hooking her trigger finger through his. Not a gesture intended to comfort—rather, it was a reminder. A promise that the hunters had yet to fire their shot. Ian looked down at her finger looped around his own, then at her calm blue eyes. Nina Markova, a hurricane in compact female form, outer chaos whirling around an eye of silent, startling serenity. He’d first felt that serenity when he realized they could sit across a diner table in wordless accord, and he felt it thrumming through his bones now despite the frustration of the hunt. He squeezed, and she squeezed back before pulling away and reaching for the maps, all business again.