Your user name is NorseWarrior23 and the password to get through the door is ‘John Birch didn’t go far enough.’”

“Lovely. How did you manage all of this so quickly? Does anyone know this NorseWarrior asshole by sight?”

“NorseWarrior23. Got to get that right, man. No, it’s an online group. Actually I’m NorseWarrior23.”

“Yeah, you look it.”

Biniam laughed. “I’ve been trolling the far right for months. It’s sort of a hobby of mine.”

“Collect old music, it’s safer.”

“You’re the one who needs to stay safe. Be careful out there.”

Biniam hung up.

✽ ✽ ✽

Pavel Balcerzak was a portly senior citizen who hung around the New York Polish-American Club because he had nothing better to do. A retired plumber, he had started giving Polish lessons to bored children who would rather play video games on their iPads. He was delighted to have an eager student for a change.

Heinrich spent two hours with him the first day and six hours the second day. When the old guy flagged, they moved to a Polish bar across the street where they drank potato vodka and ate sausage while the lesson continued. Pavel called over some of his friends who looked like they never left the place and Heinrich became the center of attention while the Poles fired vocabulary words at him and he parroted them back to them. He bought a couple of rounds for the whole bar. That vile woman up in Westchester County could pay for it.

When he visited Mrs. Briggs two days later, he brought a letter he had Pavel write outlining his progress. It had so many exclamation points Heinrich almost felt embarrassed. To drive his point home, Heinrich also repeated back all the Romanian she had taught him.

“Your talents are remarkable,” the widow said, clearly impressed. “You’re not living up to your potential.”

“That’s what the teachers at juvvie used to say.”

“You were a criminal?”

“Just a kid having fun.”

“I’m surprised your grandfather didn’t cultivate sufficient values in you.”

Heinrich ground his teeth. He’d been expecting this, but it still hit him harder than that hipster he’d floored. “How the hell did you know about that?”

“It was in all the papers. We remember these things. When I was looking for a private investigator, your surname rang a bell. I did a bit of research and discovered the connection.”

“And you think I’ll help you just because my last name is Müller?”

“Yes.”

“Lady, after the shit hit the fan with my granddad I wanted to change my name from Heinrich Müller to Henry Miller, only that was already taken.”

“Be proud of your name, young man.”

“It’s not the name I have a problem with. It’s what’s attached to it.”

“Are you a communist, Mr. Müller?”

“Hell, no.”

“Many Germans in your grandfather’s generation enlisted not to support the Nazis but to fight communism. History forgets that.”

“History hasn’t forgotten the other shit they did, and neither have I.”

The widow leaned forward, her eyes fixed on him. “And you can help reverse some of that and stop it from happening again. The Purity League will figure out how to decode that message sooner rather later, and when they do, they’ll get the treasure. The far right in Europe will rise like a wolf from the ashes.”

“It’s a phoenix.” Heinrich looked around at all the Nazi memorabilia. “And why do you care?”

“Because I have read history and learned from it.