of beeswax candles to light. “No, thanks,” Ben said, turning back to
the door.
A group of tourists with cameras and green guides. He turned back to
Jesus in his display case and saw the priest move close to him. He was
swarthy, tall, and strong-looking, fiftyish, balding, barrel-chested.
He spoke to Ben in a hushed baritone. “Come with me, Mr. Johnson.”
Ben rose, followed him out of the chapel and down the nave, then a sharp
right across an empty row to a narrow passage that ran parallel to the
nave, along a stone wall, until they were almost at the apse.
A small, almost concealed wooden door. The priest opened it. The room
was pitch-black, dank and musty. The priest flicked a switch and a wan
yellow light illuminated what appeared to be a dressing room. A
coatrack with priestly garb. A few scuffed wooden chairs.
The priest was pointing a gun.
Ben felt a jolt of fear.
“Do you have anything on you?” the priest asked with unexpected
courtesy. “Weapon of any kind, any electronic devices?”
Fear gave way to anger. “Just my cell phone, if you consider that a
deadly weapon.”
“May I have it, please?”
Ben handed it over. The priest ran his free hand down the front and
back of Ben’s suit jacket, beneath the shoulders, at the waist, the legs
and ankles. A swift and expert frisking. He then examined the cell
phone carefully and returned it to Ben.
“I need to see your passport, some form of identification.”
Ben produced his Michael Johnson passport and slipped out a business
card as well. Earlier in the morning he had taken the precaution of
stopping at a printing-and-copy shop on Avenue 9 de Julio and ordering
fifty of them, surcharge for rush. An hour later he had
plausible-looking cards for Michael Johnson, partner in a fictional
Manhattan law firm.
The priest examined it.
“Look,” Ben said, summoning high dudgeon, “I really don’t have time for
this. And put the damn gun away.”
Ignoring his request, the priest indicated the exit. “This way.”
He pulled the door open to the dazzling sun, a tiny courtyard, and the
sliding side doors of a windowless black van.
“Please.” A wave of the gun barrel. He meant: into the van.
“Sorry,” Ben said. So this was the widow’s son? He could scarcely
credit it: he didn’t look anything like Jorgen, who would have to be his
half brother at least. “Nothing doing.”
The priest’s eyes blazed. “Then you are, of course, free to go. But if
you wish to see my mother you must go my way.” His tone softened. “You
see, people still come to Buenos Aires to talk to her. Journalists
sometimes, but sometimes also bounty hunters, crazy people with guns.
Maybe agents from the Mossad. They used to threaten her to make her
tell where is Lenz. For a long time people did not believe he was dead.
Like with Mengele, they thought he made a trick. Now I will not let her
see anyone she does not know unless I clear it.”
“You say “Lenz’ he’s not your father?”
A scowl. “My father married Lenz’s widow. But she has outlived both
husbands. A strong woman. I take care of her. Please, get in.”
Everything is a chance. He had not come this far to back out now. This
man could finally lead him to the truth. After studying the enigmatic
priest for a moment, he climbed into the back of the van.
The priest slid the doors closed with the rumble of thunder. Now the
only illumination came from a dim roof light. Except for pull-down
seats the van was entirely empty.
Everything is a chance.
Ben wondered: What have I done?
The engine started up, then protested all the way into first gear.
This is how they execute people, Ben thought. I don’t know this man,
genuine priest or not. Maybe he’s from one of those groups Sonnenfeld
mentioned who defend and protect the old Nazis.
After some twenty minutes, the van came to a halt. Its doors slid open,
revealing a cobblestone street in dappled light that filtered through a
canopy of trees. The length of the journey told him they were still in
Buenos Aires, but the street looked entirely different from the city he
had seen so far. It was serene and quiet but for birdsong. And, just
barely audible, piano music.
No, I’m not about to be killed.
He wondered what Anna would think. No doubt she’d be appalled at the
risk he’d taken. And she’d be right.
They were parked in front of a two-story brick house with a roof of
barrel tiles, not particularly large, but graceful. Wooden shutters on
all the windows were closed. The piano music seemed to be coming from
within the house, a Mozart sonata. A tall, serpentine wrought-iron
fence enclosed the house and its small patch of yard.
The priest took Ben by the elbow and helped him out of the van. Either
his gun was now concealed or, less likely, it had been left in the van.
At the front gate he keyed a code into a number pad, unlocking the gate
with an electrical buzz.
Inside, the house was cool and dark. The Mozart recording was coming
from a room straight ahead. A note was bungled, the passage begun
again, and Ben realized that this was no recording; someone was playing
the piano with great skill. The old woman?
He followed the priest into the room from which the piano music
emanated. It was a small sitting room, book-lined, Oriental carpets on
the floor. A tiny, birdlike old woman was hunched over a Steinway
grand. She did not seem to notice when they entered. They sat down on
a coarse, uncomfortable couch and waited in silence.
When the piece was finished, she kept her hands frozen in the air,
poised over the keys, then brought them slowly to her lap. The
affectations of a concert pianist. Slowly she turned. Her face was
prune-like, her eyes sunken, her neck crepey. She had to be ninety.
Ben clapped a few times.
She spoke in a quavering, hoarse small voice. “jQuien es este?”
“Mother, this is Mr. Johnson,” the priest said. “Mr. Johnson, my
stepmother.”
Ben went over to her and took her fragile hand.
The priest continued, to Ben, “And I am Francisco.”
“Pongame en una silla cdtnoda,” the old woman said.
Francisco put an arm around his stepmother and helped her into a chair.
She said in decent English, “You come from Austria?”
“I was just in Vienna, yes.”
“Why have you come?”
Ben began to speak, but she interrupted, fearful, “You are from the
company?”
The company? Did she mean Sigma? If so, he had to make her talk.
“Frau … Frau Lenz, I’m afraid I’ve come here under false pretenses.”
Francisco swiveled his head toward Ben, furious. “I’ll kill you!”
“You see, Jorgen Lenz asked me to see you,” Ben said, ignoring him. He
offered no explanation. Mention Austria, suggest that he had gained the
trust of (urgen Lenz. If pressed, he would improvise. He was getting
good at that. “He asked me to meet with you and warn you to be
especially careful, to tell you that your life may be in danger.”
“I am not Frau Lenz,” she said haughtily. “I have not been Lenz for
over thirty years. I am Senora Acosta.”
“My apologies, senora.”
But the old woman’s hauteur had given way to fear. “Why does Lenz send
you? What does he want?”
“Senora Acosta,” Ben began, “I’ve been asked–”
“Why?” she asked, raising her quavering voice. “Why? You come here
from Semmering? We’ve done nothing wrong! We’ve done nothing to break
the agreement! Leave us alone!”
“No! Silence, Mother!” the priest shouted.
What was she referring to? The agreement… Was this what Peter had
stumbled on to?
“Senor Acosta, your son specifically asked me–”
“My son?” the old woman rasped.
“That’s right.”
“You say my son in Vienna?”
“Yes. Your son Jorgen.”
The priest rose. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Tell him, Francisco,” the old woman said. “Francisco is my stepson.
From my second marriage. I never had any children.” Her face was
contorted with fear. “/ have no son.”
The priest loomed menacingly over Ben. “You’re a liar,” he snapped.
“You say you’re a lawyer for an estate, and now you lie to us again!”
Head reeling, Ben attempted a quick recovery. “You have no son? Then
I’m glad I’m here. Now I see I haven’t wasted my time, or my firm’s
money, in coming down here to Buenos Aires.”
The priest glowered. “Who sent you here?”
“He is not from the company!” his stepmother croaked.
“This is exactly the sort of fraud I need to clear up,” Ben said,
feigning a sense of triumph. “So this Jurgen Lenz of Vienna–he says he
is your son, but he is not your son? Then who is he?”