Frameshift

Avi knew this was ideal: if Malamud thought he was looking for someone else and still spotted Ivan Grozny, the identification would be very hard to discredit in court. But Avi couldn’t bear to use the man like that. “No,” he said. “No, I’m so sorry, but this has nothing to do with your brother.”

The man’s face visibly sank. “Then what?”

“If you can just look at these pictures…”

Malamud took a moment to compose himself, then fumbled for a pair of glasses in his breast pocket. They had enormously thick lenses. He balanced them on his large, pitted nose, and peered at the pictures for a few moments. “Still can’t see them very well,” he said.

Avi sighed. But then Malamud continued, “Ezra, go and get my lens.”

The boy, now somewhat intrigued by the proceedings, seemed reluctant to leave, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he disappeared into another room and then returned brandishing a magnifying glass worthy of Sherlock Holmes. The old man removed his glasses, held out his hand, let Ezra place the lens within it, and then bent over the photo spread again.

“No,” he said, looking at the first photo, and “No,” again, after peering at the second.

“Remember,” said Avi, knowing he should keep quiet, but unable to do so, “you’re looking for someone from fifty-odd years ago. Try to imagine them as young men.”

The man grunted, as if to say there was no need to remind him of that — he might be old, but he wasn’t stupid. He moved from face to face, his own eye only inches above the snapshots. “No. No. Not him, either.

No — oh, my! Oh, heaven — oh, heaven.” His finger was on the Danielson photo. “It’s him! After all these years, you’ve found him!”

Avi felt his pulse racing. “Who?” he said, trying to keep his voice under control. “Who is it?”

“That monster from Treblinka.” The man’s face had gone completely white and his hand was shaking so much it looked like he was going to drop the magnifying glass. Ezra reached over and took it gently from his grandfather.

“Who is he?” asked Avi. “What’s his name?”

“Ivan,” said the old man, practically spitting the word. “Ivan Grozny.”

“Are you sure?” said Avi. “Do you have any doubt?”

“Those eyes. That mouth. No — no doubt. It’s him, the very devil himself.”

Avi closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “If we draw up a statement to that effect, will you sign it?”

The old man turned to face Avi. “Where is he? Have you got him?”

“He’s in the United States.”

“You’ll bring him here? To stand trial?”

“Yes.”

The old man was silent for a long time, then: “Yes, I’ll sign a statement.

You’re afraid I’ll die before the trial, aren’t you? Afraid I won’t live to identify him in court?”

Avi said nothing.

“I’ll live,” said the old man simply. “You’ve given me something to live for.” He reached out, trying to find Avi’s hand. They connected, Avi feeling the rough, loose skin. As he reached out, Malamud’s sleeve rode up his forearm, revealing his serial-number tattoo. “Thank you,” said Malamud.

“Thank you for bringing him to justice.” He paused. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Meyer, sir. Agent Avi Meyer, of the United States Department of Justice.”

“I knew someone named Meyer, at Treblinka. Jubas Meyer. He was my partner in removing bodies.”

Avi felt his eyes stinging. “That was my father.”

“A good man, Jubas.”

“He died before I was born,” said Avi. “What — what was he like?”

“Sit down,” said Malamud, “and I’ll tell you.”

Avi looked at Tischler, his eyes asking for the Israeli cop’s indulgence.

“Go ahead,” said Tischler gently. “Family is important.”

Avi took a seat, his heart pounding.

Malamud told him stories about Jubas, and Avi listened, rapt. When the old man had recounted all he could remember, Avi shook his hand again. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so very much.”

Malamud shook his head, “No, son — thank you. Thank you for both of us, both me and your father. He’d be very proud of you today.”

Avi smiled, blinking away tears.

Pierre had done tests on various types of primate DNA collected from the zoo, determining not just the degree of genetic divergence but also specific ways in which key segments of their chromosome thirteens varied.

Pierre and Shari were now immersed in designing a computer simulation.

They integrated all the cytosine-methylation data they had, all the patterns they’d detected in the human and nonhuman introns, all the ideas they had about the significance of codon synonyms.

It was a massive project, with a huge database. The simulation was far too complex for them to run in any reasonable amount of time on their lab’s PC. But LBNL had a Cray supercomputer, a machine that could crunch all the numbers six ways from Sunday in the blink of an eye. Pierre had long ago put in a request for some CPU time on the Cray, and he’d slowly been moving up the queue. His time was scheduled for two weeks from now.

They’d need every minute of that time to get the simulation ready to run, but, assuming everything worked, they’d at last have the answers they’d been looking for.

“David Solomon?”

“Yes?”