The group stood before the building. Gimpel had led them. A tall Manhattan style office block towered above them.
Two Gestapo men waited at the entrance while the rest of the group stepped inside, shaking water off their umbrellas.
Water dripped from Paul's leather glove as he set it down on the reception desk, forming a tense fist.
With his left hand, he pulled out a golden star.
Turns out this could also be used for that, Paul thought, narrowing his eyes at the receptionist.
"NYPD," he said, slipping the badge away again before she could look too closely.
The woman behind the desk snapped to attention at once.
"Yes, officer, how can I help you?" she asked with wide eyes.
"Is there a man named Klausemann working in this office?" Paul asked.
"Klausemann?" she repeated with an awkward smile. "I do not think so. I have never heard that name."
Paul clenched his jaw.
"About five foot eight, a bit burly, blonde, middle aged, glasses," Paul said, already losing hope.
"This could describe many people here," she replied helplessly.
"I understand," Paul muttered, already turning away.
"But this does describe a man who worked here until recently. Perhaps he is the one you are searching for." She gestured toward the elevators. "I can show you a picture."
Paul's eyes widened slightly. He exchanged a quick look with Heydrich. The group of supposed officers followed her up.
When the elevator halted and the doors opened, they were greeted by a typical office of the 1930s. Desk after desk, stacks of papers, well dressed employees typing into clattering typewriters.
The smell of coffee drifted into Paul's nose.
The group made their way through the office. Their tall statures and cold atmosphere stood out immediately in the warm workspace. People peeked over their desks, whispering to each other.
The receptionist stopped before a wall filled with photographs.
"This is the yearly company picture," she said, pointing to a man standing at the back.
"This man is not Klausemann, but McCaunhey. He worked here until one month ago..." She fell silent when Paul gently pushed her aside, stepping closer. He lifted the picture off the nail.
Heydrich stepped beside him, inspecting it intensely. The two men exchanged knowing glances.
"Where is your boss, miss?" Heydrich asked, scanning the room.
"In his office," she answered timidly, pointing toward a small room with a narrow window. Although half covered by slats, they could see a man standing inside, staring in their direction while pressing a telephone to his ear.
The group moved at once, barging into the office.
"NYPD," Paul barked.
The man hardly reacted. He winked at Paul and kept talking.
"Yes, darling, I know. No, I have not, but I will get it, I promise. As I said, I promise..." He continued until Heydrich yanked the telephone cable free, tearing the device from his hand. He slammed it onto the station with a loud crack.
"Hey, what are you doing!" the man shouted.
"You did not hear us?" Heydrich growled.
"I did, but could you not wait? What do you want?" the boss asked, straightening his tie.
"Do you know this man?" Paul asked, stepping forward and tossing the picture onto the table.
"Who... McCaunhey? Yes, he worked here as an accountant. Why? Has he done something?"
"He has," Heydrich said flatly. "Do you know where he is now?"
"What exactly has he done..." the boss began.
"Answer the question," Heydrich snapped.
"No, I do not know. And if you do not leave soon, I will call my lawyer." The boss tugged at his tie again, loosening it this time.
"Why? You have not done anything, have you?" Paul asked, picking up a nameplate from the desk. "Manager Smith?"
"No, I have not done anything. Now get out, or I will call my lawyers."
"You did mention that," Heydrich said, folding his arms.
"What kind of officers are you, threatening a citizen like this?" the man barked, pointing at Heydrich's chest, his face turning red.
Then the distant wail of police sirens cut through the air.
"Did you call more of you, or what?" the man demanded, reaching for his tie again, only to be grabbed by Heydrich.
"Stop fiddling," Heydrich grumbled with murderous intent in his eyes.
Paul looked out the window instead and saw a police car pulling up outside.
"Well, officer," Paul said awkwardly toward Heydrich.
"Yes?" Heydrich raised an eyebrow.
"Let him go. We need to talk to our colleagues now." Paul spoke with an underlying tone Heydrich understood at once.
Heydrich released Smith and pushed him back.
"We will talk again, Mister Smith," Paul said before leaving the office with Heydrich and the two intimidating Gestapo men who had blocked the door.
They hurried to the elevator. When it stopped and opened again, they walked quickly, almost running toward the exit. Outside, they found the two Gestapo men holding off two police officers who argued with them.
Paul's group slipped past them, exiting the building.
For a second, Paul exchanged a look with one of the officers. The man watched him closely.
By the time the officer turned back, the two Gestapo guards had disappeared.
He shrugged and entered the building with his colleague, taking the elevator to the same floor Paul and Heydrich had visited.
"Good day," he said to a passing worker. "Where is your boss? We have the report about the theft he reported."
"Sorry," the worker replied. "The boss said he does not want to see any more police today. If you do not have a warrant, you have to leave."
"What?" the officer asked, confused. He glanced toward Smith's office.
Smith was still inside, again pressing the phone to his ear. He suddenly froze, widened his eyes, stood up, and closed the slats.
"So..." the officer began.
"You have to leave now," the worker insisted.
"Can I at least leave this here?" the officer asked, handing over the folder.
The worker nodded. The two officers left the office as quickly as they had arrived, still puzzled by the events of the evening.
A few minutes earlier, in a sparsely lit room somewhere in New York
Thick smoke had collected inside the room, rising from a cigar resting on a tray.
A hand reached out, grabbed the cigar for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon, and lifted it to a pair of lips.
The man took a deep drag before lowering the cigar back onto the tray with his left hand.
In his right hand he held something else, pressing it to his ear.
"Smith, keep calm. Do you understand?" the man said. For a moment, there was only silence.
"Yes, but..." Smith's voice came faintly through the telephone, then a loud noise echoed on his end.
"Yes, darling, I know. No, I have not, but I will get it, I promise. As I said, I promise..." Smith continued, clearly talking to someone else.
The man in the room raised an eyebrow but understood immediately.
"Call me back," he said, his voice low and commanding. Then he disconnected the call.
Several minutes later the phone rang again.
"Yes?" the man asked.
"The people looking for you were police officers..." Smith said.
"Police officers?" The man sounded genuinely confused. "Did you tell them anything?"
"Did I tell them anything?" Smith repeated nervously.
"Smith, you, your wife, your children, everyone you love will suffer if you do not tell me the truth." The man slammed his fist onto the table.
For a moment there was only silence. Smith seemed frozen on the other end.
Then, finally, he answered. "Yes, Sir. I only told them that you had been working here recently, when they had already seen the photo. But nothing more. Nothing."
"Can you describe those police officers for me? Perhaps I could contact someone inside the NYPD," the man said, rising from his chair and walking toward the window.
"Tall," Smith said. "One blonde, one black haired. Both handsome. Very rude and unprofessional."
The man opened the window slats. The majestic New York skyline spread out before him.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Thank you, Smith. Your cooperation will be remembered."
He set the phone down and stepped closer to the window, leaning on the rusty railing. His gaze drifted from the shining skyline down to the docks below, where workers were moving a large container toward an enormous freighter.
"I will have to inform Mister Carry," the man muttered in fluent German.
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