turned, the moisture scudded across the window, leaving threads of droplets. The swastika above the terminal building hung limp in the wet.
There were two queues at passport control: one for German and European Community nationals, one for the rest of the world.
This is where we part,” said March. He had persuaded her, with some difficulty, to let him carry her case. Now he handed it back. “What are you going to do?”
“Go back to my apartment, I guess, and wait for the telephone to ring. What about you?”
“I thought I would arrange myself a history lesson.” She looked at him, uncomprehending. He said: “I’ll call you later.”
“Be sure you do.”
A vestige of the old mistrust had returned. He could see it in her eyes, felt her searching it out in his. He wanted to say something, to reassure her. “Don’t worry. A deal is a deal.”
She nodded. An awkward silence. Then abruptly she stood on tiptoe and brushed her cheek against his. She was gone before he could think of a response.
The line of returning Germans shuffled one at a time, in silence, into the Reich. March waited patiently with his hands clasped behind his back while his passport was scrutinised. In these last few days before the Fuhrer’s birthday, the border checks were always more stringent, the guards more jittery.
The eyes of the Zollgrenzschutz officer were hidden in the shade of his visor. The Herr Sturmbannfuhrer is back with three hours to spare.” He drew a thick black line through the visa, scrawled Void” across it, and handed the passport back. “Welcome home.”
In the crowded customs hall March kept a. look out for Charlie, but could not see her. Perhaps they had refused to let her back into the country. He almost hoped they had: it would be safer for her.
The Zollgrenzschutz were opening every bag. Never had he seen such security. It was chaos. The passengers milling and arguing around the mounds of clothes made the hall look Hike an Indian bazaar. He waited his turn.
It was after three by the time March reached the left-luggage area and retrieved his case. In the toilets he changed back into his uniform, folded his civilian clothes and packed them away. He checked his Luger and slipped it into his holster. As he left, he glanced at himself in the mirror. A familiar black figure.
Welcome home.
THREE
When the sun shone the Party called it “Fuhrer weather”. They had no name for rain. Nevertheless, it had been decreed, drizzle or not, that this afternoon was to be the start of the three-day holiday. And so, with dogged National Socialist determination, the people set about their celebrations.
March was in a taxi heading south through Wedding. This was workers” Berlin, a communist stronghold of the 1920s. The factory whistles, in a festive gesture, had sounded an hour earlier than usual. Now the streets were dense with damp revellers. The Blockwarts had been active. From every second or third building, a banner hung -mostly swastikas, but also the occasional slogan, strung between the iron balconies of the fortress- tenements. WORKERS OF BERLIN SALUTE THE FUHRER ON HIS 75TH BIRTHDAY! LONG LIVE THE GLORIOUS NATIONAL SOCIALIST REVOLUTION! LONG LIVE OUR GUIDE AND FIRST COMRADE ADOLF HITLER! The back streets were in a delirium of colour, throbbing to the oohm-pah! of the local SA bands. And this was only Friday. March wondered what the Wedding authorities had planned for the day itself.
During the night, on the corner of Wolff Strasse, some rebellious spirit had added a piece of graffiti, in white paint: ANYONE FOUND NOT ENJOYING THEMSELVES WILL BE SHOT.
A couple of anxious-looking brownshirts were trying to clean it off.
March took the taxi as far as Fritz-Todt Platz. His Volkswagen was still outside Stuckart’s apartment, where he had parked it the night before last. He looked up at the fourth floor. Someone had drawn all the curtains.
At Werderscher Markt, he stowed his suitcase in his office and rang the Duty Officer. Martin Luther had not been located.
Krause said: “Between you and me, March, Globus is driving us all fucking mad. In here every half-hour, ranting and raving that someone will go to a KZ unless he gets results.”
“The Herr Obergruppenfuhrer is a very dedicated officer.”
“Oh, he is, he is.” Krause’s voice was suddenly panicky. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”
March hung up. That would give whoever was listening to his calls something to think about.
He lugged the typewriter across to his desk and inserted a single sheet of paper. He lit a cigarette.
To: Artur Nebe, SS-Oberstgruppenfuhrer, Reich Kriminalpolizei
FROM: X. March, SS-Sturmbannfuhrer 17.4.64
1. I have the honour to inform you that at 10.00 this morning I attended the premises of Zaugg Cie, Bankiers, Bahnhof Strasse, Zurich.
2. The numbered account, whose existence we discussed yesterday, was opened by Foreign Ministry Under State Secretary Martin Luther on 8.7.42. Four keys were issued.
3. The box was subsequently opened on three occasions: 17.12.42, 9.8.43, 13.4.64.
4. On inspection by myself, the box was found to contain
March leaned back in his seat and blew a pair of neat smoke rings towards the ceiling. The thought of that painting in the hands of Nebe — dumped into his collection of bombastic, syrupy Schmutzlers and Kirchners — was repugnant, even sacrilegious. Better to leave her at peace in the darkness. He let his fingers rest on the typewriter keys for a moment, then tapped: nothing.
He wound the paper out of the typewriter, signed it, and sealed it in an envelope. He called Nebe’s office and was ordered to bring it up at once, personally. He hung up and stared out the window at the brickwork view.
Why not?
He stood and checked along the bookshelves until he found the Berlin area telephone directory. He took it down and looked up a number, which he dialled from the office next door, so as not to be overheard.
A man’s voice answered: “Reichsarchiv.”
Ten minutes later his boots were sinking into the soft mire of Artur Nebe’s office carpet.
“Do you believe in coincidences, March?”
“No, sir.”
“No,” said Nebe. “Good. Neither do I.” He put down his magnifying glass and pushed away March’s report. “I don’t believe two retired public servants of the same age and rank just happen to choose to commit suicide rather than be exposed as corrupt. My God” — he gave a harsh little laugh -’if every government official in Berlin took that approach, the streets would be piled high with the dead. Nor do they just happen to be murdered in the week an American president announces he will grace us with a visit.”
He pushed back his chair and hobbled across to a small bookcase lined with the sacred texts of National Socialism: Mein Kampf, Rosenberg’s Mythus der XX. Jahrhunderts, Goebbels’s Tagebucher… He pressed a switch and the front of the bookcase swung open to reveal a cocktail cabinet. The tomes, March saw now, were merely the spines of books, pasted on to the wood.
Nebe helped himself to a large vodka and returned to his desk. March continued to stand before him, neither fully at attention nor fully at ease.
“Globus works for Heydrich,” said Nebe. 'That’s simple. Globus wouldn’t wipe his own arse unless Heydrich told him it was time to do it.”
