March said nothing.
“And Heydrich works for the Fuhrer most of the time, and all of the time he works for himself…”
Nebe held the heavy tumbler to his lips. His lizard’s tongue darted into the vodka, playing with it. He was silent for a while. Then he said: “Do you know why we’re greasing up to the Americans, March?”
“No, sir.”
“Because we’re in the shit. Here is something you won’t read in the little Doctor’s newspapers. Twenty million settlers in the East by 1960, that was Himmler’s plan. Ninety million by the end of the century. Fine. Well, we shipped them out all right. Trouble is, half of them want to come back. Consider that cosmic piece of irony, March: living space that no one wants to live in. Terrorism” — he gestured with his glass, the ice clinked — “I don’t need to tell an officer of the Kripo how serious terrorism has become. The Americans supply money, weapons, training. They’ve kept the Reds going for twenty years. As for us: the young don’t want to fight and the old don’t want to work.”
He shook his grey head at such follies, fished an ice cube out of his drink and sucked it noisily.
“Heydrich’s mad for this American deal. He’d kill to keep it sweet. Is that what’s happening here, March? Buhler, Stuckart, Luther — were they a threat to it somehow?”
Nebe’s eyes searched his face. March stared straight ahead.
“You’re an irony yourself, March, in a way. Did you ever consider that?”
“No, sir.”
“ ‘No, sir.’ ” Nebe mimicked him. “Well consider it now. We set out to breed a generation of supermen to rule an empire, yes? We trained them to apply hard logic -pitilessly, even cruelly. Remember what the Fuhrer once said? 'My greatest gift to the Germans is that I have taught them to think clearly.' And what happens? A few of you -perhaps the best of you — begin to turn this pitiless clear thinking on to us. I tell you, I’m glad I’m an old man. I fear the future.” He was quiet for a minute, lost in his own thoughts.
At length, disappointed, the old man picked up the magnifying glass. “Corruption it is, then.” He read through March’s report once more, then tore it up and dropped it into his waste bin.
Clio, the Muse of History, guarded the Reichsarchiv: an Amazonian nude designed by Adolf Ziegler, the “Reich Master of the Pubic Hair”. She frowned across the Avenue of Victory towards the Soldiers” Hall, where a long queue of tourists waited to file past Frederick the Great’s bones. Pigeons perched on the slopes of her immense bosom, like mountaineers on the face of a glacier. Behind her, a sign had been carved above the entrance to the archive, gold leaf inlaid on polished granite. A quotation from the Fuhrer: FOR ANY NATION, THE RIGHT HISTORY IS WORTH 100 DIVISIONS.
Rudolf Halder led March inside, and up to the third floor. He pushed at the double-doors and stood aside to let him walk through. A corridor with stone walls and a stone floor seemed to stretch for ever.
“Impressive, yes?” In his place of work, Halder spoke in the tone of a professional historian, conveying pride and sarcasm simultaneously. “We call the style mock-Teutonic. This, you will not be surprised to hear, is the largest archive building in the world. Above us: two floors of administration. On this floor: researchers” offices and reading rooms. Beneath us: six floors of documents. You are treading, my friend, on the history of the Fatherland. For my part, I tend Clio’s lamp in here.”
It was a monkish cell: small, windowless, the walls made of blocks of granite. Papers were stacked in piles half a metre high on the table; they spilled over on to the floor. Books were everywhere — several hundred of them — each sprouting a thicket of markers: multi-coloured bits of paper, tram tickets, pieces of cigarette carton, spent matches.
“The historian’s mission. To bring out of chaos — more chaos.” Halder lifted a stack of old army signals off the solitary chair, knocked the dust off it, and gestured to March to sit.
“I need your help, Rudi — again.”
Halder perched on the edge of his desk. “I don’t hear from you for months, then suddenly it’s twice in a week. I presume this also has to do with the Buhler business? I saw the obituary.”
March nodded. “I should say now that you are talking to a pariah. You may be endangering yourself merely by meeting me.”
“That only makes it sound more fascinating.” Halder put his long fingers together and cracked the joints. “Go on.”
“This is a real challenge for you.” March paused, took a breath. Three men: Buhler, Wilhelm Stuckart and Martin Luther. The first two dead; the last, a fugitive. All three senior civil servants, as you know. In the summer of 1942, they opened a bank account in Zurich. At first I assumed they put away a hoard of money or art treasures - as you suspected, Buhler was up to his armpits in corruption — but now I think it is more likely to have been documents.”
“What sort of documents?”
“Not sure.”
“Sensitive?”
“Presumably.”
“You’ve got one problem straight away. You’re talking about three different ministries — Foreign, Interior and General Government, which isn’t really a ministry at all. That’s tons of documents. I mean it, Zavi, literally- tons.”
“Do you have their records here?”
“Foreign and Interior, yes. General Government is in Krakau.”
“Do you have access to them?”
“Officially — no. Unofficially…’He wobbled a bony hand.’…Perhaps, if I’m lucky. But, Zavi, it would take a lifetime simply to look through them. What are you suggesting we do?”
There must be some clue in there. Perhaps there are papers missing.”
“But this is an impossible task.”
“I told you it was a challenge.”
“And how soon does this 'clue' need to be discovered?”.
“I need to find it tonight.”
Halder made an explosive sound, of mingled incredulity, anger, scorn. March said quietly: “Rudi, in three days” time, they’re threatening to put me in front of an SS Honour Court. You know what that means. I have to find it now.”
Halder looked at him for a moment, unwilling to believe what he was hearing, then turned away, muttering: “Let me think.”
March said: 'Can I have a cigarette?”
“In the corridor. Not in here — this stuff is irreplaceable.”
As March smoked he could hear Halder, in his office, pacing up and down. He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. The long corridor was deserted. Most of the staff must have gone home, to begin the holiday weekend. March tried a couple of office doors, but both were locked. The third was open. He picked up the telephone, listened to the tone, and dialled nine. The tone changed: an outside line. He rang Charlie’s number. She answered at once.
“It’s me. Are you all right?”
She said: “I’m fine. I’ve discovered something- just a tiny thing.”
“Don’t tell me over an open line. I’ll talk to you later.” He tried to think of something else to say, but she had replaced the receiver.
Now Halder was on the telephone, his cheerful voice echoing down the flagstone corridor. “Eberhard? Good evening to you… Indeed, no rest for some of us. A quick question, if I may. The Interior Ministry series… Oh, they have been? Good. On an office basis? … I see. Excellent. And all that is done?…”
March leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, trying not to think of the ocean of paper beneath his feet. Come on, Rudi. Come on.
He heard a bell tinkle as Halder hung up. A few seconds later Rudi appeared in the corridor, pulling on his jacket. A bunch of pen-tops jutted from his breast pocket. “One small piece of luck. According to my colleague, the Interior Ministry files at least have been catalogued.” He set off down the passage at a rapid pace. March strode beside him.
