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safeguard their collections until future carriers are found.”
    Would the depositary accept ill-gotten riches? Mr. Morgan said they wouldn’t. He said their lengthy investigation into Hermann Goering’s belongings was precisely because of this concern. “We will not accept goods to which others have a claim,” he promised. “We will not be a knowing party in any theft.”
    So Flora had helped the overseer catalog and research Goering’s treasures. The paintings and jewels were deemed too risky to deposit, and James arranged for them to be “discovered” by the OSS’s Art Looting Investigation Unit. Those riches now sat in Munich, part of over one million other recovered works of art and gemstones slated to be returned to their rightful owners.
    The gold, however, still lingered. All seventy-two bars of it.
    Mr. Morgan unwrapped the bars last week, after they arrived as a special delivery from Goering’s lawyer. Flora shrank from the hated German eagle and swastika stamped on the top of each bar, but she copied down the serial numbers and dates of each one.
    A gold bar weighed four hundred troy ounces, exactly twelve and a half kilograms. At thirty-five dollars an ounce, the seventy-two bars were worth more than a million dollars.
    At the trials, the prosecution showed how the Nazis pulled the gold teeth and fillings from the bodies of their concentration camp victims and sent them to the Reichsbank for re-smelting. Flora was convinced that her father’s teeth made up part of Goering’s gold now housed in the basement.
    But Mr. Morgan had no such fears. After researching the serial numbers, he claimed it was impossible to identify the bullion’s source, and therefore it would remain as part of Hermann Goering’s wealth. So they had repacked the gold in sawdust, six bars to a keg. The gold and three boxes of Goering’s papers sat locked in the basement, and as soon as the Nazi pig became a certified Soul Identity member, they would be transported to the depositary’s Swiss facility.
    The thought that the bad guys always seem to win was stuck in her head as Flora returned to the front room. “Your coffee, James,” she said.
    “Thanks, doll.” James glanced up, then back at the drawing. “Just leave it on the desk,” he said. “We’re onto something here.”
    “You found a way to get Baba inside?” Despite her misgivings, the challenge of breaking into a prison intrigued her.
    “No,” Mr. Morgan said. “James is correct on that point—it is quite impossible.”
    “Then Mr. Goering cannot join Soul Identity?” she asked. Maybe the world still had some justice left in it.
    Mr. Morgan frowned. “He will join. And you will help us.”
    “Haven’t I helped enough?”
    The overseer took a deep breath. “Miss Drabarni—”
    “Flora,” she said.
    “Miss Drabarni.” His words were cold. “You will continue to help us until Hermann Goering is a member and his remaining collection is safe in the depositary. I should not have to remind you that your grandmother is counting on you. Am I clear?”
    She stared at him, unblinking, and forced herself to regain control before her tears betrayed her. “Yes, Mr. Morgan,” she said without a tremble.
    “Thank you, Flora.” He spoke with a warmer voice. “Now, have you ever used a camera?”

nine
    September 1946
    Nuremberg, Occupied Germany
     
    James reached up and massaged his brow with his fingertips. “How many more pictures are you going to take?” he asked Flora.
    She attached the new portrait lens onto the camera. “As many as it takes to get one that works,” she answered.
    Despite how the overseer had manipulated her, Flora had enjoyed the last month with her Kodak Six-16. The camera was a mechanical marvel, and she loved loading the film by turning the winding key slowly until the bubble indicator showed a ‘1’. She loved opening the front of the box and drawing down the bed until the lens and shutter clicked into position. She loved