City of Secrets by Stewart O’Nan Read Free Book Online

the train slicing the idiot Gypsy boy in two—atrocities so commonplace that no one wanted to hear them. Everything he’d witnessed was his now, indelible yet unspeakable. His best chance was to forget, and so he kept on, letting the meaningless present distract him.
    He was becoming a great liar. All day, as Jossi, he joked with his passengers, the Italian and French and Turks alike, while the buildings around them crumbled. Whenever he picked up a Tommy on leave, he was sure he was smiling too much, and felt the crazy urge to blurt out their plans. That would solve all his problems.
    Maybe it would snow and they would call it off. Maybe the Peugeot would blow a gasket and they’d have to find someone else. And then, other times, he imagined dynamiting the gates and guard towers around the ghetto of Riga, setting everyone free. Was this so different?
    Fein wished they knew the overall scope of the operation.
    â€œI wish the filthy Arabs would go away,” Yellin said, “but that’s not going to happen either.”
    Brand trusted them because they were older and kvetchedabout everything like a long-married couple—like his uncles—but what better cover for informants? Had Asher been their contact, or whoever it was that had recruited Eva?
    â€œI have no idea,” Eva said, though, knowing her, he could see she was holding back.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou really shouldn’t be asking me that.”
    â€œWho else am I going to ask?”
    â€œI’m serious, Jossi. It’s better not to know.”
    â€œI won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
    â€œYou don’t know that,” she said, as if he’d hurt her, and he wondered what exactly had happened with her husband. He wanted to say he’d never leave her, but feared that would only make it worse.
    The operation was everything now. They still had no date, but late Wednesday afternoon when he checked in with Greta from the call box at the Jaffa Gate, she gave him a pickup in Rehavia with a familiar address.
    Asher was waiting on the porch with a black leather valise and a deep blue suit that might have belonged to a banker. In the backseat he kept the valise in his lap, his arms crossed over it as if it were filled with cash.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œThe high school,” Asher said, as if Brand would know where it was. “Take a left after the Jewish Agency.”
    The quickest route was up King George. In the mirror, Asher watched the storefronts slide by, hooking back one cuff with a finger to check his watch like a stockbroker late for anappointment. Beside his perfect impersonation, Brand’s own seemed crude, his bulky sweater a botched attempt at a costume—the greenhorn from Riga. He pictured the blonde from the limousine taking Asher’s arm, and the smile she gave him. Was she his wife or was it just a disguise? He thought of Eva and himself. How much of their love was an act?
    Like Rehavia, the high school was recent, and bland, a concrete box in the unadorned style of the last decade. School was finished for the day; only a few cars dotted the lot. Asher had him park behind a Plymouth, hiding the Peugeot from the road, and they walked to the nearest set of doors. Asher knocked, and as they waited, Brand glanced at the valise and noted, just below the handle, a gold set of initials: NJW.
    Nathan Joshua Weinberg.
    Nahum Jacob Wertz.
    If, in fact, it was his. Like the house, probably not.
    The custodian who let them in seemed to know Asher, and again Brand marveled at the reach of the underground. The hallway was dark and quiet, muted daylight filtering in from the classrooms. At the end they pushed through a pair of fire doors guarding a stairwell. Brand expected they’d head down to the safety of the basement, but Asher led him up to the third floor, where he produced a single key from his jacket and entered a classroom. Beside the blackboard hung the periodic table.