“Fifteen minutes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. Then I’m out of here. Agreed?”
March nodded. “Agreed.”
Stiefel gave the woman a last, nervous look. Then he removed his hat and jacket, opened his case, and took out a pair of thin rubber gloves and a stethoscope.
March took Jaeger over to the window, and whispered: “Did he take much persuading?”
“What do you think? But then I told him he was still covered by Forty-two. He saw the light.”
Paragraph Forty-two of the Reich Criminal Code stated that all “habitual criminals and offenders against morality” could be arrested on suspicion that they might commit an offence. National Socialism taught that criminality was in the blood: something you were born with, like musical talent or blond hair. Thus the character of the criminal rather than his crime determined the sentence. A gangster stealing a few Marks after a fist-fight could be sentenced to death, on the grounds that he “displayed an inclination towards criminality so deep-rooted that it precluded his ever becoming a useful member of the folk community”. But the next day, in the same court, a loyal Party member who had shot his wife for an insulting remark might merely be bound over to keep the peace.
Stiefel could not afford another arrest. He had recently served nine years in Spandau for a bank robbery. He had no choice but to co-operate with the Polizei, whatever they asked him to be — informant, agent provocateur, or safebreaker. These days, he ran a watch repair business in Wedding and swore he was going straight: a protestation of innocence it was hard to believe, watching him now. He had placed the stethoscope against the safe door and was twisting the dial a digit at a time. His eyes were closed as he listened for the click of the lock’s tumblers falling into place.
Come on, Willi. March rubbed his hands. His fingers were numb with apprehension.
“Jesus Christ,” said Jaeger, under his breath. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’ll explain later.”
“No thanks. I told you: I don’t want to know.”
Stiefel straightened and let out a long sigh. “One,” he said. One was the first digit of the combination.
Like Stiefel, Jaeger kept glancing at the woman. She was sitting demurely on one of the gilt chairs, her hands folded in her lap. “A foreign woman, for God’s sake!”
“Six.”
So it went on, one digit every few minutes, until, at 11.35, Stiefel said to March: The owner: when was he born?”
“Why?”
“It would save time. I think he’s set this with the date of his birth. So far, I’ve got one-six-one-one-one- nine. The sixteenth of the eleventh, nineteen…”
March checked his notes from Stuckart’s Wer Ist’s? entry.
“Nineteen hundred and two.”
“Zero-two.” Stiefel tried the combination, then smiled. “It’s usually the owner’s birthday,” he said, “or the Fuhrer’s birthday, or the Day of National Reawakening.” He pulled open the door.
The safe was small: a fifteen-centimetre cube containing no bank notes or jewellery, just paper — old paper, most of it. March piled it on to the table and began rifling through it.
Td like to leave now, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”
March ignored him. Tied up in red ribbon were the title deeds to a property in Wiesbaden — the family home, by the look of it. There were stock certificates. Hoesch, Siemens, Thyssen: the companies were standard, but the sums invested looked astronomical. Insurance papers. One human touch: a photograph of Maria Dymarski, in a 1950s cheesecake pose.
Suddenly, from the window, Jaeger gave a shout of warning: “Here they come, you fucking, fucking fool!”
An unmarked grey BMW was driving round the square, fast, followed by an army truck. The vehicles swerved to a halt outside, blocking the street. A man in a belted leather coat leapt out of the car. The tailgate of the lorry was kicked down and SS troops carrying automatic rifles began jumping out.
“Move! Move!” yelled Jaeger. He began pushing Charlie and Stiefel towards the door.
With shaking fingers, March worked his way through the remaining papers. A blue envelope, unmarked. Something heavy in it. The flap of the envelope was open. He saw a letterhead in copperplate — Zaugg Cie, Bankiers — and stuffed it into his pocket.
The buzzer from the door downstairs began sounding in long, urgent bursts.
They must know we’re up here!”
Jaeger said: “Now what?” Stiefel had turned grey. The woman stood motionless. She did not seem to know what was going on.
The basement,” shouted March. “They might just miss us. Get the elevator.”
The other three ran out into the corridor. He began stuffing the papers back into the safe, slammed it shut, twirled the dial, pushed the mirror back into place. There was no time to do anything about the broken seal on the apartment door. They were holding the lift for him. He squeezed in and they began their descent.
Third floor, second floor …
March prayed it would not stop at the ground floor. It did not. It opened on to the empty basement. Above their heads they could hear the heels of the stormtroopers on the marble floor.
This way!” He led them into the bomb shelter. The grating from the air vent was where he had left it, leaning against the wall.
Stiefel needed no telling. He ran to the air shaft, lifted his bag above his head and tossed it in. He grabbed at the brickwork, tried to haul himself after it, his feet scrabbling for a purchase on the smooth wall. He was yelling over his shoulder: “Help me!” March and Jaeger seized his legs and heaved. The little man wriggled head first into the hole and was gone.
Coming closer — the ring and scrape of boots on concrete. The SS had found the entrance to the basement. A man was shouting.
March to Charlie: “You next.”
“I’ll tell you something,” she said, pointing at Jaeger. “He’ll never make it.”
Jaeger’s hands went to his waist. It was true. He was too fat. “I’ll stay. I’ll think of something. You two get out.”
“No.” This was turning into a farce. March took the envelope from his pocket and pressed it into Charlie’s hand. Take this. We may be searched.”
“And you?” She had her stupid shoes in one hand, was already mounting the chair.
“Wait until you hear from me. Tell nobody.” He grabbed her, locked his hands just below her knees, and threw. She was so light, he could have wept.
The SS were in the basement. Along the passage — the crash of doors flung open.
March swung the grating back into place and kicked away the chair.
PART THREE
THURSDAY 16 APRIL
When National Socialism has ruled long enough, it will no longer be possible to conceive of a form of life different from ours.
ONE
The grey BMW drove south down Saarland Strasse, past the slumbering hotels and deserted shops of
