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 Sturmbannführer.’
‘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 Reichsminister 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?’
‘You can’t miss it. It’s on the east side of the island. Two large towers. It’s one of the biggest.’
‘Thanks.’
As he drove down the causeway, March checked in his mirror. The sentry stood looking after him for a few seconds, then hitched his rifle again, turned and walked slowly back to his hut.
Schwanenwerder was small, less than a kilometre long and half a kilometre wide, with a single loop of road running one-way, clockwise. To reach Buhler’s property, March had to travel three-quarters of the way round the island. He drove cautiously, slowing almost to a halt each time he glimpsed one of the houses off to his left.
The place had been named after the famous colonies of swans which lived at the southern end of the Havel. It had become fashionable towards the end of the last century. Most of its buildings dated from then: large villas, steep-roofed and stone-fronted in the French style, with long drives and lawns, protected from prying eyes by high walls and trees. A piece of the ruined Tuileries Palace stood incongruously by the roadside – a pillar and a section of arch carted back from Paris by some long-dead Wilhelmine businessman. No one stirred. Occasionally, through the bars of a gate, he saw a guard dog, and – once – a gardener raking leaves. The owners were either at work in the city, or away, or lying low.
March knew the identities of a few of them: Party bosses; a motor industry tycoon, grown fat on the profits of slave labour immediately after the war; the managing director of Wertheim’s, the great department store on Potsdamer Platz that had been confiscated from its Jewish owners more than thirty years before; an armaments manufacturer; the head of an engineering conglomerate building the great Autobahnen into the eastern territories. He wondered how Buhler could have afforded to keep such wealthy company, then he remembered Halder’s description: luxury like the Roman Empire . . .
‘KP17, this is KHQ. KP17, answer please!’ A woman’s urgent voice filled the car. March picked up the radio handset concealed under the dashboard.
‘This is KP17. Go ahead.’
‘KP17, I have Sturmbannführer Jaeger for you.’
He had arrived outside the gates to Buhler’s villa. Through the metalwork, March could see a yellow curve of drive and the towers, exactly as the sentry had described.
‘You said trouble,’ boomed Jaeger, ‘and we’ve got it.’
‘Now what?’
‘I hadn’t been back here ten minutes when two of our esteemed colleagues from the Gestapo arrived. “In view of Party Comrade Buhler’s prominent position, blah blah blah, the case has been redesignated a security matter.”’
March thumped his hand against the steering wheel. ‘Shit!’
‘“All documents to be handed over to the Security Police forthwith, reports required from investigating officers on current status of inquiry, Kripo inquiry to be closed, effective immediately.”’
‘When did this happen?’
‘It’s happening now. They’re sitting in our office.’
‘Did you tell them where I am?’
‘Of course not. I just left them to it and said I’d try and find you. I’ve come straight to the control room.’ Jaeger’s voice dropped. March could imagine him turning his back on the woman operator. ‘Listen, Zavi, I wouldn’t recommend any heroics. They mean serious business, believe me. The Gestapo will be swarming over Schwanenwerder any minute.’
March stared at the house. It was utterly still, deserted. Damn the Gestapo.
He made up his mind at that moment. He said: ‘I can’t hear you, Max. I’m sorry. The line is breaking up. I haven’t been able to understand anything you’ve said. Request you report radio fault. Out.’ He switched off the receiver.
About fifty metres before the house, on the right side of the road, March had passed a gated track leading into the woods that covered the centre of the island. Now he put the Volkswagen into reverse gear, rapidly backed up to it, and parked. He trotted back to Buhler’s gates. He did not have much time.
They were locked. That was to be expected. The lock itself was a solid metal block a metre and a half off the ground. He wedged the toe of his boot into it and stepped up. There was a row of iron spikes, thirty centimetres apart, running along the top of the gate, just above his head. Gripping one in either hand, he hauled himself up until he was in a position to swing his left leg over. A hazardous business. For a moment he sat astride the gate, recovering his breath. Then he dropped down to the gravel driveway on the other side.
The house was large and of a curious design. It had three storeys capped by a steep roof of blue slate. To the left were the two stone towers the sentry had described. These were attached to th
e main body of the house, which had a balcony with a stone balustrade running the entire length of the first floor. The balcony was supported by pillars. Behind these, half-hidden in the shadows, was the main entrance. March started towards it. Beech trees and firs grew in untended profusion along the sides of the drive. The borders were neglected. Dead leaves, unswept since the winter, blew across the lawn.
He stepped between the pillars. The first surprise. The front door was unlocked.
March stood in the hall and looked round. There was an oak staircase to the right, two doors to the left, a gloomy passage straight ahead which he guessed led to the kitchen.
He tried the first door. Behind it was a panelled dining room. A long table and twelve high-backed carved chairs. Cold and musty from disuse.
The next door led to the drawing room. He continued his mental inventory. Rugs on a polished wooden floor. Heavy furniture upholstered in rich brocade. Tapestries on the wall – good ones, too, if March was any judge, which he wasn’t. By the window was a grand piano on which stood two large photographs. March tilted one towards the light, which shone weakly through the dusty leaded panes. The frame was heavy silver, with a swastika motif. The picture showed Buhler and his wife on their wedding day, coming down a flight of steps between an honour guard of SA men holding oak boughs over the happy couple. Buhler was also in SA uniform. His wife had flowers woven into her hair and was – to use a favourite expression of Max Jaeger – as ugly as a box of frogs. Neither was smiling.
March picked up the other photograph, and immediately felt his stomach lurch. There was Buhler again, slightly bowing this time, and shaking hands. The man who was the object of this obeisance had his face half-turned to the camera, as if distracted in mid-greeting by something behind the photographer’s shoulder. There was an inscription. March smeared his finger through the grime on the glass to decipher the crabbed writing. ‘To Party Comrade Buhler,’ it read. ‘From Adolf Hitler. 17 May 1945.’
Suddenly, March heard a noise. A sound like a door being kicked, followed by a whimper. He replaced the photograph and went back into the hall. The noise was coming from the end of the passage.
He drew his pistol and edged down the corridor. As he had suspected, it gave on to the kitchen. The noise came again. A cry of terror and a drumming of feet. There was a smell, too – of something filthy.
At the far end of the kitchen was a door. He reached out and grasped the handle and then, with a jerk, pulled the door open. Something huge leapt out of the darkness. A dog, muzzled, eyes wide in terror, went crashing across the floor, down the passage, into the hall and out through the open front door. The larder floor was stinking-thick with faeces and urine and food which the dog had pulled down from the shelves but been unable to eat.
After that, March would have liked to have stopped for a few minutes to steady himself. But he had no time. He put the Luger away and quickly examined the kitchen. A few greasy plates in the sink. On the table, a bottle of vodka, nearly empty, with a glass next to it. There was a door to a cellar, but it was locked; he decided not to break it down. He went upstairs. Bedrooms, bathrooms – everywhere had the same atmosphere of shabby luxury; of a grand lifestyle gone to seed. And everywhere, he noticed, there were paintings – landscapes, religious allegories, portraits – most of them thick with dust. The place had not been properly cleaned for months, maybe years.
The room which must have been Buhler’s study was on the top floor of one of the towers. Shelves of legal text books, case studies, decrees. A big desk with a swivel chair next to a window overlooking the back lawn of the house. A long sofa with blankets draped beside it, which appeared to have been regularly slept on. And more photographs. Buhler in his lawyer’s robes. Buhler in his SS uniform. Buhler with a group of Nazi big-wigs, one of whom March vaguely recognised as Hans Frank, in the front row of what might have been a concert. All the pictures seemed to be at least twenty years old.
March sat at the desk and looked out of the window. The lawn led down to the Havel’s edge. There was a small jetty with a cabin cruiser moored to it and, beyond that, a clear view of the lake, right across to the opposite shore. Far in the distance, the Kladow–Wannsee ferry chugged by.
He turned his attention to the desk itself. A blotter. A heavy brass inkstand. A telephone. He stretched his hand towards it.
It began to ring.
His hand hung motionless. One ring. Two. Three. The stillness of the house magnified the sound; the dusty air vibrated. Four. Five. He flexed his fingers over the receiver. Six. Seven. He picked it up.
‘Buhler?’ The voice of an old man more dead than alive; a whisper from another world. ‘Buhler? Speak to me. Who is that?’
March said: ‘A friend.’
Pause. Click.
Whoever it was had hung up. March replaced the receiver. Quickly, he began opening the desk drawers at random. A few pencils, some notepaper, a dictionary. He pulled the bottom drawers right out, one after the other, and put his hand into the space.
There was nothing.
There was something.
At the very back, his fingers brushed against an object small and smooth. He pulled it out. A small notebook bound in black leather, an eagle and swastika in gold lettering on the cover. He flicked through it. The Party diary for 1964. He slipped it into his pocket and replaced the drawers.
Outside, Buhler’s dog was going crazy, running from side to side along the water’s edge, staring across the Havel, whinnying like a horse. Every few seconds it would get down on its hind legs, before resuming its desperate patrol. He could see now that almost the whole of its right side was matted with dried blood. It paid no attention to March as he walked down to the lake.
The heels of his boots rang on the planks of the wooden jetty. Through the gaps between the rickety boards he could see the muddy water a metre below, lapping in the shallows. At the end of the jetty he stepped down into the boat. It rocked with his weight. There were several centimetres of rainwater on the aft deck, clogged with dirt and leaves, a rainbow of oil on the surface. The whole boat stank of fuel. There must be a leak. He stooped and tried the small door to the cabin. It was locked. Cupping his hands, he peered through the window, but it was too dark to see.
He jumped out of the boat and began retracing his steps. The wood of the jetty was weathered grey, except in one place, along the edge opposite the boat. Here there were orange splinters; a scrape of white paint. March was bending to examine the marks when his eye was caught by something pale gleaming in the water, close to the place where the jetty left the shore. He walked back and knelt, and by holding on with his left hand and stretching down as far as he could with his right, he was just able to retrieve it. Pink and chipped, like an ancient china doll, with leather straps and steel buckles, it was an artificial foot.
THE dog heard them first. It cocked its head, turned, and trotted up the lawn towards the house. At once, March dropped his discovery back into the water and ran after the wounded animal. Cursing his stupidity, he worked his way round the side of the house until he stood in the shadow of the towers and could see the gate. The dog was leaping up at the iron work, grunting through its muzzle. On the other side, March could make out two figures standing looking at the house. Then a third appeared with a large pair of bolt-cutters which he clamped on to the lock. After ten seconds of pressure, it gave way with a loud crack.
The dog backed away as the three men filed into the grounds. Like March, they wore the black uniforms of the SS. One seemed to take something from his pocket and walked towards the dog, hand outstretched, as if offering it a treat. The animal cringed. A single shot exploded the silence, echoing round the grounds, sending a flock of rooks cawing into the air above the woods. The man holstered his revolver and gestured at the corpse to one of his companions, who seized it by the hind legs and dragged it into the bushes.
All three men strode towards the house. March stayed behind the pillar, slowly edging round it as they came up the drive,
keeping himself out of sight. It occurred to him that he had no reason to hide. He could tell the Gestapo men he had been searching the property, that he had not received Jaeger’s message. But something in their manner, in the casual ruthlessness with which they had disposed of the dog, warned him against it. They had been here before.
As they came closer, he could make out their ranks. Two Sturmbannführer and an Obergruppenführer – a brace of majors and a general. What matter of state security could demand the personal attention of a full Gestapo general? The Obergruppenführer was in his late fifties, built like an ox, with the battered face of an ex-boxer. March recognised him from the television, from newspaper photographs.
Who was he?
Then he remembered. Odilo Globocnik. Familiarly known throughout the SS as Globus. Years ago he had been Gauleiter of Vienna. It was Globus who had shot the dog.
‘You – ground floor,’ said Globus. ‘You – check the back.’
They drew their guns and disappeared into the house. March waited half a minute, then set off for the gate. He skirted the perimeter of the garden, avoiding the drive, picking his way instead, almost bent double, through the tangled shrubbery. Five metres from the gate, he paused for breath. Built into the right-hand gatepost, so discreet it was scarcely noticeable, was a rusty metal container – a mail box – in which rested a large brown package.
This is madness, he thought. Absolute madness.
He did not run to the gate: nothing, he knew, attracts the human eye like sudden movement. Instead he made himself stroll from the bushes as if it were the most natural thing in the world, tugged the package from the mail box, and sauntered out of the open gate.
He expected to hear a shout from behind him, or a shot. But the only sound was the rustle of the wind in the trees. When he reached his car, he found his hands were shaking.
THREE
hy do we believe in Germany and the Führer?’ ‘Because we believe in God, we believe in Germany which He created in His world, and in the Führer, Adolf Hitler, whom He has sent us.’
Fatherland Page 7