Then he’d shown him Eisler’s “evidence’: copies of documents stamped geheime Reichssache — Top Secret State Document — and dated Dachau, 1942. It was a report of freezing experiments carried out on condemned prisoners, restricted to the department of the SS Surgeon-General. The men had been handcuffed and dumped in tanks of icy water, retrieved at intervals to have their temperatures taken, right up to the point at which they died. There were photographs of heads bobbing between floating chunks of ice, and charts showing heat- loss, projected and actual. The experiments had lasted two years and been conducted, among others, by a young Untersturmfuhrer, August Eisler. That night, March and the prosecutor had gone to a bar in Kreuzberg and got blind drunk. Next day, neither of them mentioned what had happened. They never spoke to one another again.
“If you expect me to come out with some fancy theory, March, forget it.”
Td never expect that.”
Jaeger laughed. “Nor would I.”
Eisler ignored their mirth. “It was a drowning, no question about it. Lungs full of water, so he must have been breathing when he went into the lake.”
“No cuts?” asked March. “Bruises?”
“Do you want to come over here and do this job? No? Then believe me: he drowned. There are no contusions to the head to indicate he was hit or held under.”
“A heart attack? Some kind of seizure?”
“Possible,” admitted Eisler. Eck handed him a scalpel. “I won’t know until I’ve completed a full examination of the internal organs.”
“How long will that take?”
“As long as it takes.”
Eisler positioned himself behind Buhler’s head. Tenderly, he stroked the hair towards him, off the corpse’s forehead, as if soothing a fever. Then he hunched down low and jabbed the scalpel through the left temple. He drew it in an arc across the top of the face, just below the hairline. There was a scrape of metal and bone. Eck grinned at them. March sucked a lungful of smoke from his cigar.
Eisler put the scalpel into a metal dish. Then he bent down once more and worked his forefingers into the deep cut. Gradually, he began peeling back the scalp. March turned his head away and closed his eyes. He prayed that no one he loved, or liked, or even vaguely knew, ever had to be desecrated by the butcher’s work of an autopsy.
Jaeger said: “So what do you think?”
Eisler had picked up a small, hand-sized circular saw. He switched it on. It whined like a dentist’s drill.
March took a final puff on his cigar. “I think we should get out of here.”
They made their way down the corridor. Behind them, from the autopsy room, they heard the saw’s note deepen as it bit into the bone.
TWO
Half an hour later, Xavier March was at the wheel of . one of the Kripo’s Volkswagens, following the curving path of the Havelchaussee, high above the lake. Sometimes the view was hidden by trees. Then he would round a bend, or the forest would thin, and he would see the water again, sparkling in the April sun like a tray of diamonds. Two yachts skimmed the surface — children’s cut-outs, white triangles brilliant against the blue.
He had the window wound down, his arm resting on the sill, the breeze plucking at his sleeve. On either side, the bare branches of the trees were flecked with the green of late spring. In another month, the road would be nose-to-tail with cars: Berliners escaping from the city to sail or swim, or picnic, or simply to lie in the sun on one of the big public beaches. But today there was still enough of a chill in the air, and winter was still close enough, for March to have the road to himself. He passed the red-brick sentinel of the Kaiser Wilhelm Tower and the road began to drop to lake level.
Within ten minutes he was at the spot where the body had been discovered. In the fine weather it looked utterly different. This was a tourist spot, a vantage-point known as the Grosse Fenster: the Picture Window. What had been a mass of grey yesterday was now a gloriously clear view, across eight kilometres of water, right up to Spandau.
He parked, and retraced the route Jost had been running when he discovered the body — down the woodland track, a sharp right turn, and along the side of the lake. He did it a second time; and a third. Satisfied, he got back into the car and drove over the low bridge on to Schwanenwerder. A red and white pole blocked the road. A sentry emerged from a small hut, a clipboard in his hand, a rifle slung across his shoulder.
“Your identification, please.”
March handed his Kripo ID through the open window. The sentry studied it and returned it. He saluted. “That’s fine, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”
“What’s the procedure here?”
“Stop every car. Check the papers and ask where they’re going. If they look suspicious, we ring the house, see if they’re expected. Sometimes we search the car. It depends whether the Reichsminister is in residence.”
“Do you keep a record?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do me a favour. Look and see if Doctor Josef Buhler had any visitors on Monday night.”
The sentry hitched his rifle and went back into his hut. March could see him turning the pages of a ledger. When he returned he shook his head. “Nobody for Doctor Buhler all day.”
“Did he leave the island at all?”
“We don’t keep a record of residents, sir, only visitors. And we don’t check people going, only coming.”
“Right.” March looked past the guard, across the lake. A scattering of seagulls swooped low over the water, crying. Some yachts were moored to a jetty. He could hear the clink of their masts in the wind.
“What about the shore. Is that watched at all?”
The guard nodded. 'The river police have a patrol every couple of hours. But most of those houses have enough sirens and dogs to guard a KZ. We just keep the sightseers away.”
KZ: pronounced kat-set. Less of a mouthful than Konzentrationslager. Concentration camp.
There was a sound of powerful engines gunning in the distance. The guard turned to look up the road behind him, towards the island.
“One moment, sir.”
Round the bend, at high speed, came a grey BMW with its headlights on, followed by a long black Mercedes limousine, and then another BMW. The sentry stepped back, pressed a switch, the barrier rose, and he saluted. As the convoy swept by, March had a glimpse of the Mercedes’s passengers — a young woman, beautiful, an actress perhaps, or a model, with short blonde hair; and, next to her, staring straight ahead, a wizened old man, his rodent-like profile instantly recognisable. The cars roared off towards the city.
“Does he always travel that quickly?” asked March.
The sentry gave him a knowing look. “The Reichs-minister has been screen-testing, sir. Frau Goebbels is due back at lunchtime.”
“Ah. All is clear.” March turned the key in the ignition and the Volkswagen came to life. “Did you know that Doctor Buhler was dead?”
“No, sir.” The sentry gave no sign of interest. “When did that happen?”
“Monday night. He was washed up a few hundred metres from here.”
“I heard they’d found a body.”
“What was he like?”
“I hardly noticed him, sir. He didn’t go out much. No visitors. Never spoke. But then, a lot of them end up like that out here.”
“Which was his house?”
