Ziegler got in the back of the staff car with Jacob Sternberg, Bayer driving. “Take us to Aaron Peeters’ home.”
“Turn right,” Sternberg said, “and two blocks down, turn left.”
Peeters’ apartment was not far from Claudette Maes. It was a charming street, flower beds by the curb and in window boxes. But in the distance, two houses lay in ruins, victims of German air raids, bombs likely meant for the port.
As they got out of the car, Ziegler turned toward the main road. “This seems familiar.”
“The exchange is only a block away,” Sternberg said, pointing. “The thieves got in through a back entrance in the garden.”
Ziegler looked up the street, trying to visualize the route the blonde woman had taken. He turned to Sternberg. “Let’s see what Mr. Peeters has to say.”
“I assure you he had no
