one of the lessons learned at the consulate in New York:
Base the lie in an aspect of truth
. The family Von Tiebolt had relations in the United States, went the lie. People who had immigrated to America in the twenties and thirties. Very few were left, and there was a large sum of money involved. Surely, the officials at the
Ministério do Imigração
would want to help find the inheritors. It was entirely possible that the Von Tiebolts would be grateful … and he, as the intermediary, would certainly make known their cooperation.
Ledgers were brought out. Hundreds of photostats from another era were studied. Faded, soiled copies of documents, so many of which were obviously false papers purchased in Bern and Zurich and Lisbon. Passports.
But there were no documents relating to the Von Tiebolts, no descriptions of a pregnant woman with two children entering Rio de Janeiro during the month of June or July in 1945. At least, none resembling the wife of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. There were pregnant women, even pregnant women with children, but none with children that could have been Von Tiebolt’s. According to Manfredi, the daughter, Gretchen, was twelve or thirteen years old; the son, Johann, ten. Every one of the women entering Brazil during those weeks was accompanied either by a husband or a false husband, and where there were children, none—not
one
—was more than seven years of age.
This struck Holcroft as being not only unusual but mathematically impossible. He stared at the pages of faded ink, at the often illegible entries made by harried immigration officials thirty-odd years ago.
Something was wrong; his architect’s eye was troubled. He had the feeling he was studying blueprints that had not been finished, that were filled with minute alterations—tiny lines erased and changed, but very delicately, so as not to disturb the larger design.
Erased and changed.
Chemically
erased,
delicately
changed. That was what bothered him! The birthdates! Page after page of miniature figures, digits subtly altered! A
3
became an
8
, a
1
a
9
, a
2
a
0
, the curve retained, a line drawn down, a zero added. Page after page in the ledgers, for the weeks of June and July of 1945, the birthdates of all the children entering Brazil had been changed so that none was born prior to 1938!
It was a painstakingly clever ruse, one that had to be thought out carefully, deliberately. Stop the hunt at the source. But do it in a way that appeared above suspicion. Small numbers faithfully—if hastily—recorded by unknown immigration personnel more than thirty years ago. Recorded from documents, the majority of which had been long since destroyed, for most were false. There was no way to substantiate, to confirm or deny the accuracy. Time and conspiracies had made that impossible. Of course there was no one resembling the Von Tiebolts!
Good Lord
, what a deception!
Noel pulled out his lighter; its flame would provide more light on a page where his eye told him there were numerous minute alterations.
“
Senhor!
That is forbidden!” The harsh command was delivered in a loud voice by the translator. “Those old pages catch fire easily. We cannot take such risks.”
Holcroft understood. It explained the inadequate light, the windowless cubicle. “I’ll bet you can’t,” he said, extinguishing his lighter. “And I suppose these ledgers can’t be removed from this room.”
“No,
senhor
.”
“And, of course, there are no extra lamps around, and you don’t have a flashlight. Isn’t that right?”
“Senhor,”
interrupted the translator, his tone now courteous, even deferential. “We have spent nearly three hours with you. We have tried to cooperate fully, but as I’m sure you’re aware, we have other duties to perform. So, if you have finished …”
“I think you made sure of that before I started,” broke in Holcroft. “Yes, I’m finished. Here.”
He walked in the bright afternoon sunlight, trying to make sense out
Base the lie in an aspect of truth
. The family Von Tiebolt had relations in the United States, went the lie. People who had immigrated to America in the twenties and thirties. Very few were left, and there was a large sum of money involved. Surely, the officials at the
Ministério do Imigração
would want to help find the inheritors. It was entirely possible that the Von Tiebolts would be grateful … and he, as the intermediary, would certainly make known their cooperation.
Ledgers were brought out. Hundreds of photostats from another era were studied. Faded, soiled copies of documents, so many of which were obviously false papers purchased in Bern and Zurich and Lisbon. Passports.
But there were no documents relating to the Von Tiebolts, no descriptions of a pregnant woman with two children entering Rio de Janeiro during the month of June or July in 1945. At least, none resembling the wife of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. There were pregnant women, even pregnant women with children, but none with children that could have been Von Tiebolt’s. According to Manfredi, the daughter, Gretchen, was twelve or thirteen years old; the son, Johann, ten. Every one of the women entering Brazil during those weeks was accompanied either by a husband or a false husband, and where there were children, none—not
one
—was more than seven years of age.
This struck Holcroft as being not only unusual but mathematically impossible. He stared at the pages of faded ink, at the often illegible entries made by harried immigration officials thirty-odd years ago.
Something was wrong; his architect’s eye was troubled. He had the feeling he was studying blueprints that had not been finished, that were filled with minute alterations—tiny lines erased and changed, but very delicately, so as not to disturb the larger design.
Erased and changed.
Chemically
erased,
delicately
changed. That was what bothered him! The birthdates! Page after page of miniature figures, digits subtly altered! A
3
became an
8
, a
1
a
9
, a
2
a
0
, the curve retained, a line drawn down, a zero added. Page after page in the ledgers, for the weeks of June and July of 1945, the birthdates of all the children entering Brazil had been changed so that none was born prior to 1938!
It was a painstakingly clever ruse, one that had to be thought out carefully, deliberately. Stop the hunt at the source. But do it in a way that appeared above suspicion. Small numbers faithfully—if hastily—recorded by unknown immigration personnel more than thirty years ago. Recorded from documents, the majority of which had been long since destroyed, for most were false. There was no way to substantiate, to confirm or deny the accuracy. Time and conspiracies had made that impossible. Of course there was no one resembling the Von Tiebolts!
Good Lord
, what a deception!
Noel pulled out his lighter; its flame would provide more light on a page where his eye told him there were numerous minute alterations.
“
Senhor!
That is forbidden!” The harsh command was delivered in a loud voice by the translator. “Those old pages catch fire easily. We cannot take such risks.”
Holcroft understood. It explained the inadequate light, the windowless cubicle. “I’ll bet you can’t,” he said, extinguishing his lighter. “And I suppose these ledgers can’t be removed from this room.”
“No,
senhor
.”
“And, of course, there are no extra lamps around, and you don’t have a flashlight. Isn’t that right?”
“Senhor,”
interrupted the translator, his tone now courteous, even deferential. “We have spent nearly three hours with you. We have tried to cooperate fully, but as I’m sure you’re aware, we have other duties to perform. So, if you have finished …”
“I think you made sure of that before I started,” broke in Holcroft. “Yes, I’m finished. Here.”
He walked in the bright afternoon sunlight, trying to make sense out
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