But now he was calmer. She’d soothed him, listening, nodding, cajoling, whispering. They sat on two uncomfortable chairs in an antiseptic corridor of a private clinic in Kilburn, a London suburb, outside the door behind which the Man from the East—Fischelson’s portentous phrase—rested.

The crisis of the evening was now over. It seemed that late in the afternoon some investigators had shown up at the clinic and asked rude questions. Fischelson had panicked. A rough scene had ensued. In frenzy, he’d called her. She’d begged off late duty and gotten out there as fast as she could—only to find them gone and Fischelson shaking and incoherent.

“Now, now,” she calmed. “I’m sure it was nothing. Emigration people probably, or security. That’s all. They have to check these things.”

“Rude. So rude they was. No respect.” How could she make this man see how armies—modern nations, for that matter—worked?

“It’s nothing, Dr. Fischelson. Nothing at all. They have to check these things.” She stole a glance at her watch. Christ, it was getting late: near midnight. She’d been here with the old bird since eight. She was due in at six tomorrow. “Perhaps we ought to leave. Everything’s quiet now.”

“Sure, leave. You leave. Me, an old man, I’ll stay here.” The old Jews; they were all alike. Now he sounded like her mother. Manipulation with guilt. Most effective. Jesus, how long would this go on?

“All right. We’ll stay a little longer.” How could you get rough with Fischelson? He wasn’t some jerk who was pawing at you. But she was exhausted. They had the witness, curious man in the back room—an incredible story. A story that would be told now, at last. Even if it was too late. No, it wasn’t too late. In the camps were still many, near death. If the authorities could at last be convinced, who knew what was possible? Armored attacks driving toward the KZ’s, with doctors and medicine: thousands could be saved. If only the proper people could be convinced.

The doctor sat with hands folded, breathing heavily.

Then he took off his pince-nez and began to polish the lenses in his lapel. He had long, bony fingers. In the yellow light of the corridor, he looked as if he were made of old paper, parchment. Our Jewish general, she thought: half insane, half senile, furiously indignant. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.

Fischelson had been here since ’39. When the philanthropist Hirsczowicz had converted to Zionism late in that year, his first act had been to establish a voice in the West. He was very shrewd, Hirsczowicz: he knew the fate of the Jews rested in the hands of the West. He’d sent Fischelson over first, a kind of advance guard, to set things up. But Fischelson became the whole show when the war broke out and Hirsczowicz disappeared in a Nazi execution operation. The old man proved to be horribly unsuited to the task: he was not delicate, he had no tact, no political sensibility; he could only whine and rant.

“His papers is good,” Dr. Fischelson said, in his heavy accent.

“Pardon?” she said.

“His papers is good. I guarantee. I guarantee. He has release from prison war camp. Our peoples find him in DP hospital. Sick, very sick. They get him visa. Jews help Jews. Across France he comes by train. Then the last by ship. Lawyers draw up papers. All good, all legal. This I tell you. So why investigators? So why now investigators?”

“Please, please,” she said, for the old man had begun to rise and declaim. A vein pulsed beneath the dry skin of his throat. “It’s some kind of mistake, I’m sure. Or a part of the routine. That’s all. Look, I have a friend in the intelligence service, a captain.”

“A Jew?”

“No. But a good man, basically. A decent man. I’ll call him and—”

She heard the doors at the end of the corridor swing open and at first could not recognize them. They were not particularly impressive men: just big, burly, a little embarrassed. Susan’s sentence stopped in her mouth. Who were they? Dr. Fischelson, following the confusion in her eyes, looked over.

They came silently, without talking, four of them, and the fifth, a leader, a way back. They passed Susan and Fischelson and stepped into Shmuel’s room.

My God, she thought.

“What’s this, what’s going on?” shouted Fischelson.

Susan felt her heart begin to accelerate and her hands begin to tremble. She had trouble breathing.

“Easy,” said the leader, not brutally at all.

“Miss Susan, what’s going on?” Fischelson demanded.

Say something, you idiot, Susan thought.

“Hey, what are you guys doing?” she said, her voice breaking.

“Special Branch, miss. Sorry. Just be a moment.”

“Miss Susan, Miss Susan,” the old man stood, panic wild in his eyes. He began to lapse into Yiddish.

“What’s going on?” she shouted. “Goddamn you, what’s going on?”

“Easy, miss,” he said. He was not a brutal man. “Nothing to concern yourself with. Special Branch.”

The first four came out of the room. On a stretcher was the swaddled form of the survivor. He looked around dazedly.

“I’m an American officer,” she said, fumbling for identification. “For God’s sake, that man is ill. What is going on? Where are you taking that man?”

“Now, now, miss,” the leader soothed. It would have been easier to hate him if he hadn’t been quite so mild.

“He’s ill.”

The doctor was denouncing them in Polish. “Please don’t get excited,” the man said.

“Where is your authority?” she shouted, because it was the only thing she could think of.

“Sorry, miss. You’re a Yank, wouldn’t know, would you? Of course not. Special Branch. Don’t need an authority. Special Branch. That’s all.”

“He’s gone, mein Gott, is gone, is gone.” The doctor sat down.

Susan stared down the hall at the swinging doors through which they’d taken the Jew.

The leader turned to go, and Susan grabbed him.

“What is happening? My God, this is a nightmare. What are you doing, what is going on?” Her eyes felt big and she was terrified. They had merely come in and taken him and nothing on earth could stop them. There was nothing she could do. She and an old man alone in a corridor.

“Miss,” the leader said, “please. You are supposed to be in uniform. The regulations. Now I haven’t taken any names. We’ve been quite pleasant. Best advice is to go away, take the old man, get him some tea, and put him to bed. Forget all this. It’s a government matter. Now I haven’t taken any names. Please, miss, let go. I don’t want to take any names.”

He stood back. He was ill at ease, a big, strong type, with police or military written all over him. He was trying to be kind. It was a distasteful business for him.

“Who can I see?” she said. “Jesus, tell me who I can see?”

The man took a nervous look around. Outside, a horn honked. Quickly, his hand dipped into his coat, came out with a paper. He unfolded it, looked it over.

“See a Captain Leets,” he said. “American, like you. Or a Major Outhwaithe. They’re behind it all.” And he was gone.

“The Jews,” Dr. Fischelson was saying, over on the chair, looking bleakly at nothing, “who’ll tell about the Jews? Who’ll witness the fate of the Jews?”

But Susan knew nobody cared about the Jews.

Leets, alone in the office, waited for her. He knew she’d come. He felt nervous. He smoked. His leg ached. He’d sent Roger out on errands, for now there was much to do; and once Tony had called, urgent with a dozen ideas, with several subsidiary leads from the first great windfall. But Leets had pushed him off.

“I have to get through the business with Susan.”

Tony’s voice turned cold. “There is no business with Susan. You owe her nothing. You owe the Jews nothing. You owe the operation everything.”

“I have to try and explain it,” he said, knowing this would never do for a man of Tony’s hardness.

“Then get it over with quick, chum, and be ready for business tomorrow. It’s first day on the new job, all right?”