“Indeed.” March was standing a metre back from the window smoking a cigarette, alternately watching the television and watching the square. Traffic was sparse -mostly people returning from dinner or the cinema. A young couple held hands under the statue of Todt. They might be Gestapo; it was hard to tell.
The millions of Jews who vanished in the war… He was risking court martial simply by talking to her. Yet her mind must be a treasure house, full of ill-considered objects which meant nothing to her but would be gold to him. If he could somehow overcome her furious resentment, pick his way around the propaganda…
No. A ridiculous thought. He had problems enough as it was.
A solemn blonde newsreader filled the screen; behind her, a composite picture of Kennedy and the Fuhrer and the single word “Detente”.
Charlotte Maguire had helped herself to a glass of Scotch from Stuckart’s drinks cabinet. Now she raised it to the television in mock salute. To Joseph P. Kennedy: President of the United States — appeaser, anti-Semite, gangster and sonofabitch. May you roast in hell.”
THE clock outside struck ten-thirty, ten forty-five, eleven.
She said: “Maybe this friend of yours had second thoughts.”
March shook his head. “He’ll come.”
A few moments later, a battered blue Skoda entered the square. It made one slow circuit of the Platz, then came round again and parked opposite the apartment block. Max Jaeger emerged from the driver’s side; from the other came a small man in a shabby sports jacket and trilby, carrying a doctor’s bag. He squinted up at the fourth floor and backed away, but Jaeger took his arm and propelled him towards the entrance.
In the stillness of the apartment, a buzzer sounded.
“It would be best,” said March, “if you didn’t speak.”
She shrugged. “As you like.”
He went into the hall and picked up the intercom.
“Hello, Max.”
He pressed a switch and unlocked the door. The corridor was empty. After a minute, a soft ping signalled the arrival of the elevator and the little man appeared. He scuttled down the passage and into Stuckart’s hall without uttering a word. He was in his fifties and carried with him, like bad breath, the reek of the back-streets — of furtive deals and triple-entry accounting, of card-tables folded away at the sound of a tread on the stairs. Jaeger followed close behind.
When the man saw March was not alone, he shrank back into the corner.
“Who’s the woman?” He appealed to Jaeger. “You never said anything about a woman. Who’s the woman?”
“Shut up, Willi,” said Max. He gave him a gentle push into the drawing room.
March said: “Never mind her, Willi. Look at this.”
He switched on the lamp, angling it upwards.
Willi Stiefel took in the safe at a glance. “English,” he said. “Casing: one and a half centimetres, high-tensile steel. Fine mechanism. Eight-figure code. Six, if you’re lucky.” He appealed to March: “I beg you, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. It’s the guillotine for me next time.”
“It’ll be the guillotine for you this time,” said Jaeger, “if you don’t get on with it.”
“Fifteen minutes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. Then I’m out of here. Agreed?”
March nodded. “Agreed.”
Stiefel gave the woman a last, nervous look. Then he removed his hat and jacket, opened his case, and took out a pair of thin rubber gloves and a stethoscope.
March took Jaeger over to the window, and whispered: “Did he take much persuading?”
“What do you think? But then I told him he was still covered by Forty-two. He saw the light.”
Paragraph Forty-two of the Reich Criminal Code stated that all “habitual criminals and offenders against morality” could be arrested on suspicion that they might commit an offence. National Socialism taught that criminality was in the blood: something you were born with, like musical talent or blond hair. Thus the character of the criminal rather than his crime determined the sentence. A gangster stealing a few Marks after a fist-fight could be sentenced to death, on the grounds that he “displayed an inclination towards criminality so deep-rooted that it precluded his ever becoming a useful member of the folk community”. But the next day, in the same court, a loyal Party member who had shot his wife for an insulting remark might merely be bound over to keep the peace.
Stiefel could not afford another arrest. He had recently served nine years in Spandau for a bank robbery. He had no choice but to co-operate with the Polizei, whatever they asked him to be — informant, agent provocateur, or safebreaker. These days, he ran a watch repair business in Wedding and swore he was going straight: a protestation of innocence it was hard to believe, watching him now. He had placed the stethoscope against the safe door and was twisting the dial a digit at a time. His eyes were closed as he listened for the click of the lock’s tumblers falling into place.
Come on, Willi. March rubbed his hands. His fingers were numb with apprehension.
“Jesus Christ,” said Jaeger, under his breath. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’ll explain later.”
“No thanks. I told you: I don’t want to know.”
Stiefel straightened and let out a long sigh. “One,” he said. One was the first digit of the combination.
Like Stiefel, Jaeger kept glancing at the woman. She was sitting demurely on one of the gilt chairs, her hands folded in her lap. “A foreign woman, for God’s sake!”
“Six.”
So it went on, one digit every few minutes, until, at 11.35, Stiefel said to March: The owner: when was he born?”
“Why?”
“It would save time. I think he’s set this with the date of his birth. So far, I’ve got one-six-one-one-one-nine. The sixteenth of the eleventh, nineteen…”
March checked his notes from Stuckart’s Wer Ist’s? entry.
“Nineteen hundred and two.”
“Zero-two.” Stiefel tried the combination, then smiled. “It’s usually the owner’s birthday,” he said, “or the Fuhrer’s birthday, or the Day of National Reawakening.” He pulled open the door.
The safe was smalclass="underline" a fifteen-centimetre cube containing no bank notes or jewellery, just paper — old paper, most of it. March piled it on to the table and began rifling through it.
Td like to leave now, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”
March ignored him. Tied up in red ribbon were the title deeds to a property in Wiesbaden — the family home, by the look of it. There were stock certificates. Hoesch, Siemens, Thyssen: the companies were standard, but the sums invested looked astronomical. Insurance papers. One human touch: a photograph of Maria Dymarski, in a 1950s cheesecake pose.
Suddenly, from the window, Jaeger gave a shout of warning: “Here they come, you fucking, fucking fool!”
An unmarked grey BMW was driving round the square, fast, followed by an army truck. The vehicles swerved to a halt outside, blocking the street. A man in a belted leather coat leapt out of the car. The tailgate of the lorry was kicked down and SS troops carrying automatic rifles began jumping out.
“Move! Move!” yelled Jaeger. He began pushing Charlie and Stiefel towards the door.
With shaking fingers, March worked his way through the remaining papers. A blue envelope, unmarked. Something heavy in it. The flap of the envelope was open. He saw a letterhead in copperplate — Zaugg Cie, Bankiers — and stuffed it into his pocket.
The buzzer from the door downstairs began sounding in long, urgent bursts.
They must know we’re up here!”
Jaeger said: “Now what?” Stiefel had turned grey. The woman stood motionless. She did not seem to know what was going on.
The basement,” shouted March. “They might just miss us. Get the elevator.”
The other three ran out into the corridor. He began stuffing the papers back into the safe, slammed it shut, twirled the dial, pushed the mirror back into place. There was no time to do anything about the broken seal on the apartment door. They were holding the lift for him. He squeezed in and they began their descent.