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escape. Henri Quimper, Hartmuth's Belgian trade counterpart, embraced and kissed him on both cheeks. He nudged Hartmuth conspiratorially. "The French think they can put one over on us, eh?"
    Hartmuth, his brow beading with sweat, nodded uneasily. He had no idea what Quimper meant.
    Heralded by prodigious clouds of cigar smoke, a group of delegates walked towards them down the hall.
    Cazaux, the French trade minister and probable appointee for the prime minister, strode among them. He beamed, seeing Quimper and Hartmuth together.
    "Ah, Monsieur Griffe, bienvenu! " he said, greeting Hartmuth warmly and gripping his shoulder. His cheeks were mapped by spidery purple veins. "Spare me a few words? All these meetings. . ." Cazaux shrugged, smiling.
    Hartmuth had forgotten how Frenchmen punctuated their sentences by throwing their arms in the air. The muscles in Cazaux's ropy neck twitched when he spoke.
    Hartmuth nodded. He knew the election was to take place the next week, and Cazaux's party was heavily invested in the trade issue. Hartmuth's job would be to bolster Cazaux by signing the trade agreement. The Werewolves had ordered it. Unter den Linden.
    Cazaux and Hartmuth moved to an alcove overlooking the limestone courtyard.
    "I'm concerned," Cazaux said. "This new addendum, these exclusionary quotas—frankly, I'm worried about what might happen."
    "Minister Cazaux, I'm not sure of your meaning," Hartmuth replied cautiously.
    "You know and I know parts of this treaty carry things a bit far," Cazaux said. "I'll speak for myself. The quotas border on fascism."
    Mentally, Hartmuth agreed. After being in diplomatic circles for so many years, however, he knew enough to keep his real feeling to himself. "After a thorough review I'll have a better understanding," he said.
    "I feel our thinking is probably very close on this," Cazaux said, lowering his voice. "A dilemma for me because my government prefers to maintain the status quo, reduce unemployment, and pacify les conservatives . This treaty is the only way we can pass economic benefits on throughout Europe, standardize trade, and get uniform guidelines."
    "I understand," Hartmuth said, not eager for Cazaux's added pressure. No more needed to be said.
    The two men rejoined Quimper and the other delegates in the hall. More kissing and jovial greetings were exchanged. Hartmuth excused himself as soon as it was diplomatically possible and escaped down the staircase. He paused on the marble landing, a floor below, and leaned against an antique tapestry, a forested scene with a naked wood nymph stuffing grapes into her mouth, juice dribbling down her chin.
    As he stood there, alone between floors, Sarah's face appeared to him in a vision, her incredibly blue eyes laughing. What he wouldn't give to change the past!
    But he was just a lonely old man full of regrets he'd tried to leave behind with the war. I'm pathetic, he thought, and waited for the ache in his heart to subside to a dull throb.

Thursday Afternoon

    A PUNGENT SMELL OF cabbage borscht clung to the hallway of 64 rue des Rosiers. Abraham Stein answered Aimee's knock, his faded maroon yarmulke nestled among his gray streaked black curls, a purple scarf riding his thin shoulders. She wanted to turn away, ashamed to intrude upon his grief.
    "What do you want?" he said.
    Aimee twisted her hair, still damp from swimming, behind her ears.
    "Monsieur Stein, I need to talk with you about your mother," she said.
    "This isn't the time." He turned to close the door.
    "I'm sorry. Please forgive me but murder is never convenient," she said, wedging behind him, afraid he'd shut the door in her face.
    "We're sitting shiva."
    Her blank look and foot inside the door forced him to explain.
    "A ritual mourning. Shiva helps acknowledge our suffering while we pray for the dead."
    "Please excuse me, this will only take a few minutes of your time," she said. "Then I promise I'll go."
    He put his scarf over his head and led her into the