“Wait, wait” she was laughing, holding on to him. “Enough. Stop. I’m starting to worry you only want me for my mind.”
IN his hotel room, she unknotted his tie and reined him to her once more, her mouth soft on his. Still kissing him, she smoothed the jacket from his shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt, parted it. Her hands skimmed over his chest, around his back, across his stomach.
She knelt and tugged at his belt.
He closed his eyes and coiled his fingers in her hair.
After a few moments he pulled away gently, and knelt to face her, lifted her dress. Freed from it, she threw back her head and shook her hair. He wanted to know her completely. He kissed her throat, her breasts, her stomach; inhaled her scent, felt the firm flesh stretching smooth and taut beneath his hands, her soft skin on his tongue.
Later she guided him on to the bed and settled herself above him. The only light was cast by the lake. Rippling shadows all around them. When he opened his mouth to say something, she put a finger to his lips.
PART FOUR
FRIDAY 17 APRIL
The Gestapo, the Kriminalpolizei and the security services are enveloped in the mysterious aura of the political detective story.
ONE
The Berlin Borse had opened for trading thirty minutes earlier. In the window display of the Union des Banques Suisses on Zurich’s Bahnhof Strasse, the numbers clicked like knitting needles. Bayer, Siemens, Thyssen, Daimler -up, up, up, up. The only stock falling on news of detente was Krupp.
A smart and well-dressed crowd had gathered anxiously, as they did every morning, to watch this monitor of the Reich’s economic health. Prices on the Borse had been falling for six months and a mood close to panic had seized investors. But this week, thanks to old Joe Kennedy — he always knew a thing or two about markets, old Joe: made half a billion dollars on Wall Street in his day — yes, thanks to Joe, the slide had stopped. Berlin was happy. Everyone was happy. Nobody paid attention to the couple walking up the street from the lake, not holding hands but close enough for their bodies to touch occasionally, followed by a weary-looking pair of gentlemen in fawn raincoats.
March had been given a short briefing on the customs and practices of Swiss banking the afternoon he left Berlin.
“Bahnhof Strasse is the financial centre. It looks like the main shopping street, which it is. But it’s the courtyards behind the shops and the offices above them that matter. That’s where you’ll find the banks. But you’ll have to keep your eyes open. The Swiss say: the older the money, the harder to see it. In Zurich, the money’s so old, it’s invisible.”
Beneath the paving stones and tramlines of Bahnhof Strasse -ran the catacomb of vaults in which three generations of Europe’s rich had buried their wealth. March looked at the shoppers and tourists pouring along the street and wondered upon what ancient dreams and secrets, upon what bones they were treading.
These banks were small, family-run concerns: a dozen or two employees, a suite of offices, a small brass plate. Zaugg Cie was typical. The entrance was in a side-street, behind a jewellers, scanned by a remote camera identical to the one outside Zaugg’s villa. As March rang the bell beside the discreet door he felt Charlie brush his hand.
A woman’s voice over the intercom demanded his name and business. He looked up at the camera.
“My name is March. This is Fraulein Maguire. We wish to see Herr Zaugg.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“The Herr Direktor sees no one without an appointment.”
Tell him we have a letter of authorisation for account number 2402.”
“One moment, please.”
The policemen were lounging at the entrance to the side-street. March glanced at Charlie. It seemed to him her eyes were brighter, her skin more lustrous. He supposed he flattered himself. Everything looked heightened today- the trees greener, the blossom whiter, the sky bluer, as if washed with gloss.
She was carrying a leather shoulder bag, from which she now produced a camera, a Leica. “I think a shot for the family album.”
“As you like. But leave me out of it.”
“Such modesty.”
She took a photograph of Zaugg’s door and nameplate. The receptionist’s voice snapped over the intercom. “Please come to the second floor.” There was a buzz of bolts being released, and March pushed at the heavy door.
The building was an optical illusion. Small and nondescript from the outside, inside a staircase of glass and tubular chrome led to a wide reception area, decorated with modern art. Hermann Zaugg was waiting to meet them. Behind him stood one of the bodyguards from last night.
“Herr March, is it?” Zaugg extended his hand. “And Fraulein Maguire?” He shook her hand, too, and gave a slight bow. “English?”
“American.”
“Ah. Good. Always a pleasure to meet our American friends.” He was like a little dolclass="underline" silver hair, shiny pink face, tiny hands and feet. He wore a suit of immaculate black, a white shirt, a pearl-grey tie. “I understand you have the necessary authorisation?”
March produced the letter. Zaugg held the paper swiftly to the light and studied the signature. “Yes indeed. The hand of my youth. I fear my script has deteriorated since those years. Come.”
In his office, he directed them to a low sofa of white leather. He sat behind his desk. Now the advantage of height lay with him: the oldest trick.
March had decided to be frank. “We passed your home last night. Your privacy is well protected.”
Zaugg had his hands folded on his desk. He made a non-committal gesture with his tiny thumbs, as if to say: You know how it is. “I gather from my associates that you had protection of your own. Do I take it this visit is official, or private?”
“Both. That is to say, neither.”
“I am familiar with the situation. Next you will tell me it is "a delicate matter".”
“It is a delicate matter.”
“My speciality.” He adjusted his cuffs. “Sometimes, it seems to me that the whole history of twentieth-century Europe has flowed through this office. In the 1930s, it was Jewish refugees who sat where you now sit — often pathetic creatures, clutching whatever they had managed to salvage. They were usually followed closely by gentlemen from the Gestapo. In the 1940s, it was German officials of- how shall we say? — recently-acquired wealth. Sometimes the very men who had once come to close the accounts of others now returned to open new ones on their own behalf. In the 1950s, we dealt with the descendants of those who had vanished during the 1940s. Now, in the 1960s, I anticipate an increase in American custom, as your two great countries come together once more. The 1970s I shall leave to my son.”
This letter of authorisation,” said March, “how much access does it give us?”
“You have the key?”
March nodded.
Then you have total access.”
“We would like to begin with the account records.”
“Very well.” Zaugg studied the letter, then picked up his telephone. “Fraulein Graf, bring in the file for 2402.”
She appeared a minute later, a middle-aged woman carrying a thin sheaf of papers in a manila binding. Zaugg took it. “What do you wish to know?”
“When was the account opened?”
He looked through the papers. “July 1942. The eighth day of that month.”
“And who opened it?”
Zaugg hesitated. He was like a miser with his store of precious information: parting with each fact was agony. But under the terms of his own rules he had no choice.
He said at last: “Herr Martin Luther.”
March was making notes. “And what were the arrangements for the account?”
“One box. Four keys.”