The student gestured vaguely in response to March’s question, his arms laden with books, and was glad to be on his way.
LUTHER’S house was close to the Botanischer Garten, set back from the road – a nineteenth-century country mansion at the end of a sickle of white gravel. Two men sat in an unmarked grey BMW, parked opposite the drive. The car and its colour branded them at once. There would be two more watching the back, and at least one cruising the neighbourhood streets. March walked past and saw one of the Gestapo watchers turn to the other and speak.
Somewhere, a motor mower was whining; the smell of freshly cut grass hung over the drive. The house and grounds must have cost a fortune – not as much as Buhler’s villa, perhaps, but not far off it. The red box of a newly installed burglar alarm jutted beneath the eaves.
He rang the bell and felt himself come under inspection through the spy hole in the centre of the heavy door. After half a minute the door opened to reveal an English maid in a black and white uniform. He gave her his ID and she disappeared to check with her mistress, her feet flapping on the polished wooden floor. She returned to show March into the darkened drawing room. A sweet-smelling smog of eau de cologne lay over the scene. Frau Marthe Luther sat on a sofa, clutching a handkerchief. She looked up at him – glassy blue eyes cracked by minute veins.
‘What news?’
‘None, madam. I’m sorry to say. But you may be sure that no effort is being spared to find your husband.’ Truer than you know, he thought.
She was a woman fast losing her attractiveness but gamely staging a fighting retreat. Her tactics, though, were ill-advised: unnaturally blonde hair, a tight skirt, a silk blouse undone just a button too far, to display fat, milky-white cleavage. She looked every centimetre a third wife. A romantic novel lay open, face down, on the embroidered cushion next to her. The Kaiser’s Ball by Barbara Cartland.
She returned his identity card and blew her nose. ‘Will you sit down? You look exhausted. Not even time to shave! Some coffee? Sherry, perhaps? No? Rose, bring coffee for the Herr Sturmbannführer. And perhaps I might fortify myself with just the smallest sherry.’
Perched uneasily on the edge of a deep, chintz-covered armchair, his notebook open on his knee, March listened to Frau Luther’s woeful tale. Her husband? A very good man, short-tempered – yes, maybe, but that was his nerves, poor thing. Poor, poor thing – he had weepy eyes, did March know that?
She showed him a photograph: Luther at some Mediterranean resort, absurd in a pair of shorts, scowling, his eyes swollen behind the thick glasses.
On she went: a man of that age – he would be sixty-nine in December, they were going to Spain for his birthday. Martin was a friend of General Franco – a dear little man, had March ever met him?
No: a pleasure denied.
Ah, well. She couldn’t bear to think what might have happened, always so careful about telling her where he was going, he had never done anything like this. It was such a help to talk, so sympathetic . . .
There was a sigh of silk as she crossed her legs, the skirt rising provocatively above a plump knee. The maid reappeared and set down coffee cup, cream jug and sugar bowl in front of March. Her mistress was provided with a glass of sherry, and a crystal decanter, three-quarters empty.
‘Did you ever hear him mention the names Josef Buhler or Wilhelm Stuckart?’
A little crack of concentration appeared in the cake of makeup: ‘No, I don’t recall . . . No, definitely not.’
‘Did he go out at all last Friday?’
‘Last Friday? I think – yes. He went out early in the morning.’ She sipped her sherry. March made a note.
‘And when did he tell you he had to go away?’
‘That afternoon. He returned about two, said something had happened, that he had to spend Monday in Munich. He flew on Sunday afternoon, so he could stay overnight and be up early.’
‘And he didn’t tell you what it was about?’
‘He was old-fashioned about that sort of thing. His business was his business, if you see what I mean.’
‘Before the trip, how did he seem?’
‘Oh, irritable, as usual.’ She laughed – a girlish giggle. ‘Yes, perhaps he was a little more preoccupied than normal. The television news always depressed him – the terrorism, the fighting in the East. I told him to pay no attention – no good will come of worrying, I said – but things . . . yes, they preyed on his mind.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He had a breakdown during the war, poor thing. The strain . . .’
She was about to cry again. March cut in: ‘What year was his breakdown?’
‘I believe it was in ’43. That was before I knew him, of course.’
‘Of course.’ March smiled and bowed his head. ‘You must have been at school.’
‘Perhaps not quite at school . . .’ The skirt rose a little higher.
‘When did you start to become alarmed for his safety?’
‘When he didn’t come home on Monday. I was awake all night.’
‘So you reported him missing on Tuesday morning?’
‘I was about to, when Obergruppenführer Globocnik arrived.’
March tried to keep the surprise out of his voice: ‘He arrived before you even told the Polizei? What time was that?’
‘Soon after nine. He said he needed to speak to my husband. I told him the situation. The Obergruppenführer took it very seriously.’
‘I’m sure he did. Did he tell you why he needed to speak to Herr Luther?’
‘No. I assumed it was a Party matter. Why?’ Suddenly, her voice had a harder edge. ‘Are you suggesting my husband had done something wrong?’
‘No, no . . .’
She straightened her skirt over her knees, smoothed it out with ring-encrusted fingers. There was a pause and then she said: ‘Herr Sturmbannführer, what is the purpose of this conversation?’
‘Did your husband ever visit Switzerland?’
‘He used to, occasionally, some years ago. He had business there. Why?’
‘Where is his passport?’
‘It is not in his study. I checked. But I have been over this with the Obergruppenführer. Martin always carried his passport with him. He said he never knew when he might need it. That was his Foreign Ministry training. Really, there is nothing unusual about that, really . . .’
‘Forgive me, madam.’ He pressed on. ‘The burglar alarm. I noticed it on my way in. It looks new.’
She glanced down at her lap. ‘Martin had it installed last year. We had intruders.’
‘Two men?’
She looked up at him with surprise. ‘How did you know?’
That was a mistake. He said: ‘I must have read the report in your husband’s file.’
‘Impossible.’ Surprise had been replaced in her voice by suspicion. ‘He never reported it.’
‘Why not?’
She was on the point of making a blustering reply – ‘What business is it of yours?’ or something of the sort – but then she saw the expression in March’s eyes and changed her mind. She said, in a resigned voice: ‘I pleaded with him, Herr Sturmbannführer. But he wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t tell me why.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was last winter. We were planning to stay in for the evening. Some friends called at the last minute and we went out to dinner, at Horcher’s. When we got back, there were two men in this room.’ She looked around as if they might still be hiding somewhere. ‘Thank God our friends came in with us. If we’d been alone . . . When they saw there were four of us, they jumped out of that window.’ She pointed behind March’s shoulder.
‘So he put in an alarm system. Did he take any other precautions?’
‘He hired a security guard. Four of them, in fact. They worked shifts. He kept them on until after Christmas. Then he decided he didn’t trust them any more. He was so frightened, Herr Sturmbannführer.’
‘Of what?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me.’
Out came the
handkerchief. Another helping of sherry was sloshed from the decanter. Her lipstick had left thick pink smears around the rim of her glass. She was sliding towards the edge of tears again. March had misjudged her. She was frightened for her husband, true. But she was more frightened now that he might have been deceiving her. The shadows were chasing one another across her mind, and in her eyes they left their trails. Was it another woman? A crime? A secret? Had he fled the country? Gone for good? He felt sorry for her, and for a moment considered warning her of the Gestapo’s case against her husband. But why add to her misery? She would know soon enough. He hoped the state would not confiscate the house.
‘Madam, I have intruded too long.’ He closed his notebook and stood. She clutched his hand, peered up at him.
‘I’m never going to see him again, am I?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
No, he thought.
IT was a relief to leave the dark and sickly room and escape into the fresh air. The Gestapo men were still sitting in the BMW. They watched him leave. He hesitated for a second, and then turned right, towards the Botanischer Garten railway station.
Four security guards!
He could begin to see it now. A meeting at Buhler’s villa on Friday morning, attended by Buhler, Stuckart and Luther. A panicky meeting, old men in a sweat of fear – and with good reason. Perhaps they had each been given a separate task. At any rate, on Sunday, Luther had flown to Zürich. March was sure it was he who must have sent the chocolates from Zürich airport on Monday afternoon, maybe just as he was about to board another aircraft. What were they? Not a present: a signal. Was their arrival meant to be taken as a sign that his task had been completed successfully? Or that he had failed?
March checked over his shoulder. Yes, now he was being followed, he was almost certain. They would have had time to organise while he was in Luther’s house. Which were their agents? The woman in the green coat? The student on his bicycle? Hopeless. The Gestapo were too good for him to spot. There would be three or four of them, at least. He lengthened his stride. He was nearing the station.
Question: did Luther return to Berlin from Zürich on Monday afternoon, or did he stay out of the country? On balance, March inclined to the view that he had returned. That call to Buhler’s villa yesterday morning – ‘Buhler? Speak to me. Who is that?’ – that had been Luther, he was sure. So: assume Luther posted the packages just before he boarded his flight, say around five o’clock. He would have landed in Berlin about seven that evening. And disappeared.
The Botanischer Garten station was on the suburban electric line. March bought a one-Mark ticket and lingered around the barrier until the train approached. He boarded it and then, just as the doors sighed shut, jumped off, and sprinted over the metal foot-bridge to the other platform. Two minutes later he got on to the south-bound train, only to leap out at Lichterfelde, and re-cross the tracks. The station was deserted. He let the first north-bound train go by, caught the second, and settled into his seat. The only other occupant of the carriage was a pregnant woman. He gave her a smile; she looked away. Good.
Luther, Luther. March lit a cigarette. Nearing seventy with a nervous heart and rheumy eyes. Too paranoid to trust even your wife. They came for you six months earlier, and by luck you escaped. Why did you make a run for it from Berlin airport? Did you come through customs and decide to call your confederates? In Stuckart’s apartment, the telephone would have rung unanswered, next to the silent, blood-washed bedroom. In Schwanenwerder, if Eisler’s estimate of the time of death was accurate, Buhler must already have been surprised by his killers. Had they let the telephone ring? Or had one of them answered it, while the others held Buhler down?
Luther, Luther: something happened to make you run for your life – out into the freezing rain of that Monday night.
He got out at Gotenland station. It was yet another piece of architectural fantasy come true – mosaic floors, polished stone, stained glass windows thirty metres high. The regime closed churches and compensated by building railway termini to look like cathedrals.
Gazing down from the overhead walkway on to the thousands of hurrying passengers, March almost gave in to despair. Myriad lives – each with its own secrets and plans and dreams, its individual luggage of guilt – criss-crossed beneath him, not one touching the other, separate and distinct. To think that he, alone, could possibly track down one old man among so many – for the first time, the idea struck him as fantastic, absurd.
But Globus could do it. Already, March could see, the police patrols had been increased in strength. That must have happened in the last half-hour. The Orpo men were scrutinising every male over sixty. A derelict without papers was being led away, complaining.
Globus! March turned away from the handrail and stepped on to the descending escalator, in search of the one person in Berlin who might be able to save his life.
FOUR
o travel on the central U-bahn line is, in the words of the Reich Ministry for Propaganda and Cultural Enlightenment, to take a trip through German history. Berlin-Gotenland, Bülow Strasse, Nollendorf Platz, Wittenberg Platz, Nürnberger Platz, Hohenzollern Platz – the stations succeed one another like pearls on a string.
The carriages which work this line are pre-war. Red cars for smokers, yellow for non-smokers. Hard wooden seats have been rubbed shiny by three decades of Berlin backsides. Most passengers stand, holding on to the worn leather hand-grips, swaying with the rhythm of the train. Signs urge them to turn informer. ‘The fare-dodger’s profit is the Berliner’s loss! Notify the authorities of all wrong-doing!’ ‘Has he given up his seat to a woman or veteran? Penalty for failure: 25 Reichsmarks!’
March had bought a copy of the Berliner Tageblatt from a platform kiosk and was leaning next to the doors, skimming through it. Kennedy and the Führer, the Führer and Kennedy – that was all there was to read. The regime was clearly investing heavily in the success of the talks. That could only mean that things in the East were even worse than everyone thought. ‘A permanent state of war on the Eastern front will help to form a sound race of men,’ the Führer had once said, ‘and will prevent us relapsing into the softness of a Europe thrown back upon itself.’ But people had grown soft. What else was the point of victory? They had Poles to dig their gardens and Ukrainians to sweep their streets, French chefs to cook their food and English maids to serve it. Having tasted the comforts of peace they had lost their appetite for war.
Way down on an inside page, in type so small it was barely readable, was Buhler’s obituary. He was reported as having died in a ‘bathing accident’.
March stuffed the paper into his pocket and got out at Bülow Strasse. From the open platform he could see across to Charlotte Maguire’s apartment. A shape moved against the curtain. She was at home. Or, rather, someone was at home.
The concierge was not in her chair, and when he knocked on the apartment door there was no reply. He knocked again, more loudly.
Nothing.
He walked away from the door and clattered down the first flight of steps. Then he stopped, counted to ten, and crept back up again, sideways, with his back pressed to the wall – one step, pause; another step, pause – wincing whenever he made a noise, until he stood once more outside the door. He drew his pistol.
Minutes passed. Dogs barked, cars and trains and planes went by, babies cried, birds sang: the cacophony of silence. And at one point, inside the apartment, loud above it all, a floorboard creaked.
The door opened a fraction.
March spun, rammed into it with his shoulder. Whoever was on the other side was knocked back by the force of the blow. And then March was in and on him, pushing him through the tiny hall and into the sitting room. A lamp toppled to the floor. He tried to bring up the gun, but the man had grabbed his arms. And now it was he who was being pushed backwards. The back of his legs made contact with a low table and he toppled over, cracking his head on something, the Luger skittering across the floor.
Well, n
ow, this was quite funny, and in other circumstances March might have laughed. He had never been very good at this sort of thing, and now – having started with the advantage of surprise – he was on his back, unarmed, with his head in the fireplace and his legs still resting on top of the coffee table, in the position of a pregnant woman undergoing an internal examination.
His assailant fell on top of him, winding him. One gloved hand clawed at his face, the other seized his throat. March could neither see nor breathe. He twisted his head from side to side, chewed on the leather hand. He flailed at the other man’s head with his fists, but could put no force behind his blows. What was on him was not human. It had the remorseless power of machinery. It was grinding him. Steel fingers had found that artery – the one March could never remember, let alone locate – and he felt himself surrendering to the force, the rushing blackness obliterating the pain. So, he thought, I have walked the earth and come to this.
A crash. The hands slackened, withdrew. March came swimming back into the fight, at least as a spectator. The man had been knocked sideways, hit on the head by a chair of tubular steel. Blood masked his face, pulsing from a cut above his eye. Crash. The chair again. With one arm, the man tried to ward off the blows, with the other he wiped frantically at his blinded eyes. He began shuffling on his knees for the door, a devil on his back – a hissing, spitting fury, claws scrabbling to find his eyes. Slowly, as if carrying an immense weight, he raised himself on one leg, then the other. All he wanted now was to get away. He blundered into the door frame, turned and hammered his tormentor against it – once, twice.
Only then did Charlie Maguire let him go.
CLUSTERS of pain, bursting like fireworks: his head, the backs of his legs, his ribs, his throat.
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