Lincoln shrugged. “Wait here,” he said. He went back into the auditorium. As the door opened, Pierre recognized Craig Bullen’s voice coming over the speakers. So much the better: Abraham Danielson had clearly sat back down and would hardly be on guard against his picture being taken now. Lincoln returned a few minutes later. “Got it,” he said.

“Good,” said Pierre. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Avi Meyer,” said a familiar Chicago-accented voice.

“Avi, it’s Pierre Tardivel at LBNL.” He hit the transmit button on his fax machine.

“Hey, Pierre. What’s new with Klimus?”

“Nothing, but—”

“We don’t have anything new, either. I’ve got an agent in Kiev, working on digging up records of his time in a displaced-persons camp, but—”

“No, no, no,” said Pierre. “Klimus isn’t Ivan Marchenko.”

“What?”

“I was wrong. He’s not Marchenko.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“Damn it, Pierre, we’ve spent months following this up on your insistence—”

“I’ve seen Marchenko. Face-to-face.”

“In Berkeley?”

“No, in San Francisco. And Molly saw him on a street wearing a trench coat.”

“What is this? The new version of Elvis sightings?” Avi breathed out loudly. His tone conveyed that he was regretting ever getting involved with an amateur sleuth. “Damn it, Pierre, who are you going to finger next?

Ross Perot? He’s got jug ears, after all. Or Patrick Stewart? There’s a suspicious-looking bald guy. Or the pope? Fucking guy’s got an Eastern European accent, and—”

“I’m serious, Avi. I’ve seen him. He’s using the name Abraham Danielson now. He was the founder of a company called Condor Health Insurance.”

Keyclicks in the background. “We’ve got no open file on a guy with that name, and — Condor? Aren’t those the people who have that abortion policy you don’t like? Goddamn it, Pierre, I told you not to fuck with Justice. I could have you jailed for this. First you sic us on your boss ‘cause he’s pissed you off somehow; now you try to get us to hound the guy whose company offends your delicate sensibilities—”

“No, I tell you I’ve got him this time.”

“Sure you have.”

“Really, damn it. This guy is a monster—”

“Because he encourages abortions.”

“Because he’s Ivan Grozny. Because he runs the Millennial Reich. And because he’s ordered the executions of thousands of people here in California.”

“Can you prove that? Can you prove one word of that? Because if you can’t—”

“Check your fax machine, Avi.”

“What? Oh… Just a sec.” Pierre could hear Avi setting down the handset and moving about the office. A moment later the phone was picked back up. “Where’d you get this picture?”

“A reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle took it.”

“That’s — what was the name you said? — Abraham Danielson?”

“That’s him.”

“Shit, he does look like Marchenko.”

“Tell me about it,” said Pierre with satisfaction.

“I’ll have my assistant dig up his immigration papers; that could take a couple of weeks. But if this doesn’t pan out, Pierre—”

“I know, I know. Anne Murray time.”

Amanda still hadn’t said anything aloud, although, according to Molly, she could mentally articulate several hundred words — many more than she’d yet to learn in American Sign Language.

Saturday afternoon meant it was time for Klimus’s weekly visit. The old man arrived at 3:00 p.m. He brought no gift for Amanda — he never did — but, as usual, he did have a small notebook in his breast pocket. He sat back on the couch, making notes about Amanda’s behavior and her ability to communicate with her hands. Throughout it all, Molly had to keep Amanda far out of her zone: Amanda understood that unless she was close to her mother, her mother couldn’t hear her thoughts, but she didn’t yet understand that this ability was a secret, and so Molly simply kept her distance, hoping that nothing in Amanda’s behavior would give it away to Klimus.

After two hours of this, Klimus got up to leave, but Molly sat down next to him on the couch. “Please stay,” she said.

Klimus looked surprised. He’d grown accustomed to Molly and Pierre’s hostility.

“What for?” he asked.

“Just to talk,” said Molly, inching even closer to him.

“About what?”

“Oh, this and that. Stuff. We don’t really know each other that well, and, well, if you are going to be part of the family, I figured we should—”

“I’m a very busy man,” said Klimus.

But Pierre sat down as well, in a chair facing the couch. “We’ve got more coffee on. It won’t be a minute.”

Klimus exhaled and spread his arms. “Very well.”

Amanda toddled over to her mother and started to climb into her lap, but Molly blocked Amanda’s way. “Go over to your father,” she said.

Amanda looked at the distance, obviously thinking the lap at hand was just as good, but then seemed to shrug slightly, and made her way across to Pierre, who lifted her up into his lap.

“Tell us a bit about yourself,” said Molly.

“For instance?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What TV shows do you like?”

“The only one I watch is 60 Minutes. Everything else is garbage.”

Pierre’s eyebrows went up. 60 Minutes had been where the story about Ivan Marchenko first broke; no wonder Klimus had known the name.

“So,” said Klimus awkwardly. “How are your friends the Lagerkvists?”

“They’re fine,” said Molly. “Ingrid’s talking about going into private practice.”

“Ah,” said Klimus. “Would she stay in Berkeley?”

“If the Lagerkvists have any plans to move,” said Molly, “they’re keeping it a secret.” She paused for a beat. “Secrets are always interesting, aren’t they?” She looked right at the old man. “I mean, we’ve all got secrets. I do, Pierre does, even little Amanda does, I’m sure. What about you, Burian?

What’s your secret?”

What’s she on about ? thought Klimus.

“You know — something down deep, something hidden…”

She’s crazy if she thinks I’m going to talk about my private life.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say, Molly.”

“Oh, nothing really. I’m just rambling. Just wondering what makes a man like you tick. You know I’m a psychologist. You’ve got to forgive me for being intrigued by the mind of a genius.”

That’s more like it, though Klimus. A little respect.

“I mean,” said Molly, “normal people have all kinds of secrets — sexual things…”

Christ, I can’t remember the last time I had sex…

“Financial secrets — maybe a little cheating on the old income tax…”

No more than anyone else…

“Or secrets related to their jobs…”

Best damned job in the world, university professor. Travel, respect, decent money, power…

“Secrets related to your research…”

Not lately…

“To your earlier research…”

The prize should have been mine, anyway…

“To — to your Nobel Prize, maybe?”

Secrets Tottenham took to the grave…

Molly looked him directly in the eyes. “Who is Tottenham?”

Klimus’s parchment skin showed a little color. “Tottenham—”

“Yes, who is he?”

She.

“Or she?”

Christ, what is — “I don’t know anyone named—”

Amanda was playing with Pierre’s fingers. He spoke up.

“Tottenham — not Myra Tottenham?”

Molly looked at her husband. “You know that name?”

Pierre frowned, thinking. Where had he heard it before? “A biochemist at Stanford during the sixties. I read an old paper of hers recently on missense mutations.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed. She’d gone over Klimus’s bio in Who’s Who in preparation for today. “Weren’t you at Stanford in the sixties?” she said.

“Whatever happened to Myra Tottenham?”