She stood silently beside him in the doorway, gazing at the boxes in a mysterious fascination, he sensed. From what he had explained on the phone, she appeared to perceive something beyond the material, something beyond his understanding and experience. “My God,” she finally whispered. “Who would have believed?” Her voice was low and uttered to herself. He motioned ahead, though he wondered if she noticed. “A chart in that book mentions Reinhard Heyrich and Adolf Eichmann. I’ve vaguely heard of them. It also shows a Théodor Dannecker—” She broke toward the desk before he could finish. She sat at the edge of the chair without speaking, without removing her shoulder bag. She stared at the pages for a long moment. Then she caressed them like rare artifacts unearthed, and when she examined the book’s spine she pressed a hand to her lips with a gasp. “We must have privacy,” she demanded. “I trust my police,” he said. She glared at him. “Absolute privacy. Do as I say.”
