Frameshift

  “I know. That’s why he’d have made a great witness this time.”

  “But it tore him up, watching that trial. All that testimony about Treblinka. He’d never spoken about it—my whole life, he’d never said a word to me. But he sat there, transfixed, day in and day out, listening to the testimony. He knew some of those who were testifying. Hearing them recount the things that butcher did—murder and rape and torture. He thought if he never spoke about it, somehow he could separate it from his life, keep it isolated from everything else. To have to live through it all again, even from the comfort of his living room, almost killed him. To ask him to do that once more—such a thing I’d never do. He’s ninety-three; he’d never survive it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Avi. He looked at the woman, trying to size her up. It occurred to him that perhaps the man wasn’t really blind. Maybe she was just trying to shelter him. “I, ah, I’d like to speak to your father anyway, if I may. You know, just to shake his hand. I’ve come all the way from the United States.”

  “You don’t believe me,” she said, in the same blunt tone she’d used before. But then she shrugged. “I’ll let you talk to him, but you can’t say a word about why you’re here. I won’t have you upsetting him.”

  “I promise.”

  “Come in, then.” She headed upstairs, Avi and Tischler following. The man was sitting in a chair in front of a television set. Avi thought he’d caught the woman in a lie, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t watching the TV. Rather, he was just listening to it. A talk show in Hebrew was on. The interviewer, a young woman, was asking her guests about their first sexual experiences. The man was listening intently. In the corner of the room, a white cane leaned against a wall.

  “Abba,” said the woman, “I’d like you to meet two people. They’re just passing through town. Old friends of mine.”

  The man rose slowly, painfully, to his feet. As soon as he was standing, Avi saw his eyes. They were completely clouded over. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you,” said Avi, taking the man’s gnarled hand. “A great pleasure.”

  “Your accent—you’re American?”

  “Yes.”

  “What brings you to Israel?” asked the man, his voice low.

  “Just the sights,” said Avi. “You know—the history.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the old man. “We’ve got lots of that.”

  The phone in Pierre’s lab rang. He hobbled over to answer it. “Hello?”

  “Pierre?”

  “Hi, Avi. What’s the score?”

  “Forces of good, zero. Forces of evil, two.”

  “No IDs?”

  “Not yet. The second guy is blind. Complications of diabetes, his daughter said.”

  Pierre snorted.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s not funny, really. Just ironic. The first guy had Alzheimer’s and this one has diabetes. Those are both genetically related. As Danielson, Marchenko discriminates against people who have those same diseases, and now those diseases are saving him.”

  “Yeah,” said Avi. “Well, let’s hope things go better. We’ve only got two shots left.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Right. Bye.”

  Pierre went back to the light table, hunching over the two autorads. He kept at it for hours, but when he was done, he leaned back and nodded to himself in satisfaction. It was exactly what he’d expected.

  When Avi got back to the States, Pierre would have one hell of a surprise for him.

  Avi and Detective Tischler drove down to Jerusalem for their next attempt. All the buildings were made of stone—there was an ordinance that required it; at sunset, the light reflecting from the stone transformed Jerusalem into the fabled City of Gold. They found the ancient house they were looking for and knocked on the door. After a few moments a young man, perhaps thirteen years old, appeared, wearing a yarmulke and a Melrose Place T-shirt. Avi shook his head slightly. He was always surprised at how pervasive American pop culture was no matter where he traveled.

  “Yes?” said the boy in Hebrew.

  Avi smiled. “Shalom,” he said. He knew his Hebrew was rough, but he’d told Tischler that he wanted to do all the talking. He couldn’t risk the Israeli police officer saying anything that might contaminate the identification. “My name is Avi Meyer. I’m looking for Shlomo Malamud.”

  “He’s my zayde,” said the boy. But then his eyes immediately narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “Just to speak to him, just for a moment.”

  “About what?”

  Avi sighed. “I’m an American—”

  “No shit,” said the boy, making it clear that this had been obvious from the first syllable Avi had uttered.

  “—and this man is an Israeli police officer. Show him,” said Avi, turning to Tischler. Tischler pulled out his ID and held it up for the boy to see.

  The boy shook his head. “My zayde is very old,” he said, “and almost never leaves the house. He hasn’t done anything.”

  “We know that. We just need to talk to him for a moment.”

  “Maybe you should come back when my father is home,” said the boy.

  “When will that be?”

  “Friday, for Shabbat. He’s on business right now, in Haifa.”

  “What we want will only take a moment.” Through the doorway, Avi could see that an ancient man had appeared, oblivious of their presence, hunched over, shuffling toward the kitchen.

  “Is that him?” asked Avi.

  The boy didn’t have to look back. “He’s very old,” he said.

  “Shlomo Malamud!” shouted Avi.

  The man slowly turned around, a look of surprise on his deeply wrinkled, sun-battered face.

  “Mar Malamud!” Avi shouted again. The man began to shuffle toward them.

  “It’s all right,” said the boy, trying to stop his grandfather from coming nearer. “I’m taking care of everything.”

  “Mar Malamud,” said Avi over the boy. “I’ve come a long way to ask you just one question, sir. I need you to look at some photographs and tell me if you recognize anyone.”

  The man was moving slowly toward them, but the boy was still blocking the entrance with his body. “You’re wasting your time,” said the boy. “He’s blind.”

  Avi felt his heart sinking. Not again! Damn it, why hadn’t he thought to check on this before leaving the States? How was he going to explain this one to his boss? “Yes, sir, that’s right, I spent three thousand dollars flying halfway across the world to show some pictures to a bunch of blind old men.”

  The old fellow was still working his way down the corridor. “I—I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Avi said, turning to go.

  “What do you two want?” asked Malamud, his voice as dry as the desert.

  “Nothing,” said Avi, and then, almost at once, thinking for a second that his Hebrew had failed him, “Did you say ‘you two?” Tischler hadn’t uttered a word since they’d arrived.

  “Speak up, young man. I can hardly hear you.”

  Avi wheeled on the teenager. “Is he blind, or isn’t he?”

  “’Course he is,” said the boy. “Well, legally blind.”

  “Mr. Malamud, how much vision do you have left?”

  “Not much.”

  “If I show you a series of photographs, could you tell them apart?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can we come in?”

  The old man thought for a long time. “I guess,” he said at last.

  The teenager, looking quite miffed at having had an end run done around him, reluctantly moved aside. Avi and Tischler followed Malamud as he moved at a snail’s pace down to the kitchen. He found a chair—whether he could actually see it, or simply knew where it would be, Avi couldn’t tell. After he’d sat down, he waved for Avi and Tischler to do the same. Avi opened up his briefcase and took out a small cassette recorder, thumbed it on, then placed it on the table near Malamud. He then took out the photo sp
read, unfolding it at its central masking-tape hinge and placing it in front of Malamud. The spread consisted of three rows of eight photos, twenty-four in all.

  “These are modern pictures,” said Avi. “They all show men in their eighties or nineties. But we’re trying to identify someone you might have known in your youth—someone you would have known in the early 1940s.”

  The old man looked up, his eyes full of hope. “You’ve found Saul?”

  Avi looked at the teenager. “Who is Saul?”

  “His brother,” said the boy. “He disappeared in the war. My grandfather was taken to Treblinka; Saul was taken to Chelm.”

  “I’ve been looking for him ever since,” said Malamud. “And now you’ve found him!”

  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?”

  “My name is Avi Meyer of the United States government. This is Detective Izzy Tischler of the Israeli police. We’d like to show you some pictures, and see if you recognize any of the people.”

  Solomon had a face like a crumpled paper bag, tanned and coarsened from exposure to sun and wind. The only sharp part was his nose, a giant thing, curved and hooked like an eagle’s beak, and webbed over its entire surface by tiny exploded blood vessels. His irises were so dark brown that his pupils were all but lost against them, and the rest of his eyeballs were more yellow than white, shot through with veins.

  “Why?” asked Solomon.

  “I can tell you after you look at the pictures,” said Avi.

  Solomon shrugged. “Okay.”

  “May we come in?”

  Another shrug. “Sure.” The old man shuffled into his living room and sat on the well-worn couch. There was no air-conditioning; the heat was oppressive. Tischler gingerly removed a vase from the coffee table and, finding nowhere else to set it down, simply held it in his hand. Avi placed his tape recorder on the table, then unfolded the photo spread, with its three rows of eight pictures. Solomon took off the pair of glasses he was wearing and replaced them with another pair from his breast pocket. “These are people that—”

  “Ivan Marchenko!” said the man at once.

  Avi leaned forward anxiously. “Which one?”

  “The middle row. The third one.”

  Avi felt his stomach sink. The third picture in the middle row was indeed a bald-headed moonfaced man, but it was not Marchenko; rather, it was the caretaker at OSI headquarters in Washington. Avi knew that if he asked any leading questions—“Are you sure? Isn’t there somebody else who looks more like Ivan?”—the defense attorneys would get the evidence laughed out of court. Instead, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice, Avi simply said, “Thank you,” and reached over to close up the spread.
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  But Solomon was leaning forward. “I’d know that face anywhere,” he said. He reached over with a gnarled finger and tapped the sixth photo in the row of eight.

  Avi felt adrenaline pounding. “But you said the third photo—”

  “Sure. Third from the right.” The man looked at Avi. “That’s an American accent, isn’t it? Don’t you read Hebrew?”

  Avi laughed out loud. “Not as much as I should, obviously.”

  “Pierre, it’s Avi Meyer.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “I’ve got two positive IDs.”

  “Terrific!”

  “I’ll be flying back to Washington in a few days; I’ve still got some work to do with the Israeli police, helping them draft an extradition request.”

  “No. Get a flight here. Fly into San Francisco. I’ve got something here you’ll want to see.”

  C h a p t e r

  40

  Pierre tried to ignore the way Avi Meyer was looking at him. It had been twenty-six months since they’d last seen each other face-to-face, and although Pierre had told Avi over the phone about his condition, Avi had not until today actually seen Pierre’s chorea.

  Pierre slowly, carefully, laid two autoradiographs on the light table set into his lab’s countertop, and then, with dancing hands, tried to line them up side by side. He seated himself on a lab stool, then motioned for Avi to come over and look at the autorads. “All right,” said Pierre, “what do you see?”

  Avi shrugged, not knowing what Pierre wanted him to say. “A bunch of black lines?”

  “Right—almost like blurry versions of the bar codes you see on food boxes. But these bar codes”—he tapped one of the pieces of film with a trembling finger—“are DNA fingerprints of two different people.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. You see that the bar codes are quite different, right?”

  Avi nodded his bulldog head.

  “There’s a thick black line here,” said Pierre, pointing with a trembling finger again, “and there’s no corresponding black line at the same point on the other one, right?”