"You tell the." The captain opened the packet and withdrew a large black-and-white photograph. He handed it to Rosenberg. Fear squeezed

Rosenberg's heart. "I don't understand." He raised his eyes toward

Chavez. "Why would you show me a photograph of a German soldier from

World War Two?"

"Not just a soldier, an officer. I'm told the rank... excuse my poor

German accent... was Oberfuhrer, or senior colonel. He belonged to the

Totenkopfverbande, the so-called Death's Head formation. You can see the silver medallion of a death's head on his military cap. You can also see the twin lightning bolts on the sleeve of his jacket--the symbol for the SS. The photograph is so detailed you can even see the unit's personal pledge to the Fuhrer on his belt buckle--'My loyalty is my honor" Note carefully in the background--the mounds of corpses. The

Death's Head division was in charge of exterminating the Jews."

"You don't need to tell me about the Holocaust." Rosenberg bristled.

"Why are you showing me this photograph?"

"You don't recognize the officer?"

"Of course not. Why should I?"

"Because he bears a striking resemblance to your father, whose photograph you gave me when you asked me to investigate his disappearance a few months ago."

"That man is not my father."

"Don't lie to me!" Chavez snapped. "I've compared the photographs in detail!

Add facial wrinkles! Take away some hair! Add gray to the rest!

Allow for minor reconstructive surgery! That man is your father!"

"How could a Jew be an SS officer?"

"Your father wasn't a Jew, and you're not either! Your real family name is Rodenbach! Your father's first name was Otto! Yours is Karl!"

Chavez took documents from the packet.

"That officer's picture appeared on SS identification records and on immigration forms when he came to Mexico. The face is the same, though the name is different. Government authorities will soon be told who he really is! The United States authorities will also be told, and as both of us know, the United States bolsters its relations with Israel by pretending indignation toward Nazi war criminals!" Rosenberg couldn't move. "Who told you these things?"

"You don't expect me to reveal my sources." Chavez spread his arms in a gesture of goodwill. "But I wonder, how much are you willing to pay for me to neutralize my informants, to assure the authorities there's been a mistake?"

Rosenberg wanted to vomit. Blackmail never ended. It only bought time.

But time was in limited supply. It would last only as long as his money did. He thought of the cargo in the ship headed toward the

Mediterranean and what he assumed now was certain disaster. "How much do you want?" he asked. The glint in the captain's coal-black eyes didn't reassure him.

St. Paul, Minnesota. William Miller feigned a polite smile of greeting as he crossed the cocktail lounge and approached the man in the left rear booth. On the phone, the man had said his name was Sloane. He was with the Associated Press, he claimed, and wanted to talk about Miller's father. Now Sloane imitated Miller's smile of greeting, stood, and extended his hand. They surveyed each other.

"Somebody sent you what?" Sloane asked. "On the phone, you said something about filth."

"You're really a reporter?"

"Cross my heart."

"Shit." Miller swallowed, disgusted at himself. "I'm sorry I lost my temper when you called. I thought for sure..."

"That's why we're here. To talk about it." Sloane gestured toward the booth. They sat across from each other. Sloane was in his midthirties, short, heavy-chested, with dark thin hair and intelligent eyes. "What do you mean by filth?" he asked. "Photographs."

"Of?"

"Nazi concentration camps. Corpses. Ashes." Miller massaged his forehead. "God. My father disappeared. Then somebody painted a death's head on the bottom of my swimming pool."

"Death's head?"

"Now you show up..."

"And you assumed..."

"Well, wouldn't you assume? My wife doesn't know about the photographs."

"Slow down," Sloane said. "What you're telling me connects with what I came for. I'll give you my side, and we'll see what we come up with."

"Credentials."

"What?"

"You're an AP reporter. Prove it." Sloane sighed and pulled out his press card. "Anybody can have a card printed up," Miller said. "There's a phone number. The AP central office."

"And anybody can hire a voice to claim he's in the AP office."

"Right. And I bet you've got all kinds of fascinating theories about the JFK assassination. The UN's controlled by drug dealers. Satan's responsible for heavy-metal rock." Reluctantly, Miller laughed.

"Good," Sloane said. "As long as you can laugh at yourself, you're in control."

"Sometimes I wonder. You said you wanted to talk about my father. Why?"

"I have contacts in the Justice Department. It's what you might call a symbiotic relationship. I do them a favor, write stories that bolster their public image. They do me a favor, let me know when they're working on something I can use."

"I still don't understand. What does the Justice Department have to do with my father?"

"Someone sent them documents that made them decide to investigate him."

Miller clutched his drink so hard he feared the glass would break. "This gets more and more insane."

"And since your father disappeared--"