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“Fritz—”

“Go, Gunther! Go with God, my son.”

Gunther did so, disappearing through the rear door into the alley.

Gerlich put on his glasses and reached into his pocket, taking the rosary in his hand.

The brownshirts busted the door down. Gerlich closed his eyes and said a prayer.

“Fritz Gerlich!” The lead storm trooper, rifle slung over his shoulder, faced him squarely. “We are here pursuant to the authority of the Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of People and State,” he said, referring to the official title of the Reichstag Fire Decree.

You’re here pursuant to Adolf Hitler’s monstrous but fragile ego, Gerlich thought.

“We are placing you in protective custody. We will take custody of your offices immediately. We are prepared to use force to effect these orders.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Gerlich put out his hands to be cuffed. “I am ready to respond with my life for what I have written,” he said. “I will not retract. I am a Catholic.”

He was handcuffed and led from his office as SA troopers smashed desks and windows with billy clubs. He could smell gasoline dousing the furniture.

“Forgive me, Sophie,” he whispered, catching a glimpse of a photograph taken on a wedding anniversary trip to Vienna. He remembered how truly fortunate he’d felt when beautiful Sophie Botzenhart said yes to his marriage proposal. He thought then, as he thought now, that he didn’t deserve her.

And then he thought of his beloved country, one to which he had devoted his life’s work. A country he no longer recognized.

“God save Germany,” he whispered, as they threw him inside a car. “I did what I could.”

71

Present Day

Vienna

“EXCUSE ME, MA’AM. ARE you okay?”

I look up to see a man and woman, French judging by the accent, looking down on me. I can hardly blame them for their concern. I can’t imagine how I must look, a middle-aged woman sitting on the floor of a hallway in a Viennese hotel, my back against the wall, my head in my hands.

No, I am not okay. Twenty minutes ago, in this very spot, I held in my hand an artifact that would have proven Hitler’s obsession with Geli, his unwillingness to ever let her go, complete with his ink-stained thumbprint on the stationery. And then, just like that, it was gone, snatched from me at gunpoint.

“I’m okay.” I try to smile while I get to my feet. I don’t remember collapsing to the floor.

I make it back to my hotel room, tapping the key against the sensor to open the door without even considering the possibility that someone might be waiting for me. That, fortunately, is not the case; the room is empty.

I no longer need the outfit they asked me to wear for the meet, so I shrug out of my beige corduroy jacket and let it drop to the floor. I remove the ridiculous orange Euro Disney hat from my head and Frisbee it across the room. I pull on a wool turtleneck sweater and run my fingers through my hair. It’s times like this, when I’m questioning things, when my life is taking one turn or another, that I feel my daughter’s loss most palpably, that I long to hold her, feel her, talk to her. They have words for women who lose their spouses (widows) and for children who lose their parents (orphans) but not for a mother who loses her child.

My burner phone buzzes. It’s my brother Ty, no doubt checking up on me again. Unexpectedly—as if anything happening to me of late is expected—I burst into tears. I put my hands on the bathroom counter and sob uncontrollably, shoulders bobbing, chest heaving, tears dripping into the sink.

The buzzing of the phone stops, but I know Ty will keep calling until we speak. I draw a deep breath and towel off my face, grab the burner phone, and leave the room.

I need fresh air. There may be someone awaiting me out there on the streets of Vienna. But I’m the furthest thing from an expert at surveillance or countersurveillance. Besides, if they want me, they’ve made it clear that they know how to get to me.

“I’m fine, Ty,” I say as soon as he picks up the phone. The cool air, as I step out onto Kärntner Straße, is a welcome relief. I turn the direction opposite the Stephansdom, where I had my nice chat with Stranger Danger in the church, and walk instead toward Vienna’s magnificent opera house. But I’m not really looking at anything. I simply move forward as I recount the events, with as much detail as I can, to my brother. I should probably edit my account, as Ty will worry, but I feel the need to unburden myself, and I know that if the roles were reversed, I’d want the truth from him, warts and all.

“I don’t want a lecture, Ty,” I tell him when I’m finished, when I’ve walked the better part of a mile, moving in and out of the various side streets off the main boulevard, nightfall quickly approaching.

“So the man you were supposed to meet, you never met,” he says. “But then he slipped you the artifact via a Greenpeace volunteer, hidden inside a brochure about whaling?”

“Right.”

“But the man you did meet with—Stranger Danger, as you call him—his people saw the exchange and took the artifact from you at gunpoint?”