He returned to find a fresh heap of files on his desk.
SS-Oberfuhrer Gerhard Klopfer, deputy head of the Party Chancellery, had been reported missing by his wife in May 1963; his body had been found by building-site workers in southern Berlin, stuffed into a cement mixer.
Friedrich Kritzinger. That name was familiar. Of course. March remembered the scenes from the television news: the familiar taped-off street, the wrecked car, the widow supported by her sons. Kritzinger, the former Ministerialdirektor from the Reich Chancellery, had been blown up outside his home in Munich just over a month ago, on 7 March. No terrorist group had yet claimed responsibility.
Two men were recorded by the Volkischer Beobachter as having died of natural causes. SS-Standartenfuhrer Adolf Eichmann of the Reich Main Security Office had succumbed to a heart attack in 1961. SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Doctor Rudolf Lange of KdS Latvia had died of a brain tumour in 1955.
Heinrich Muller. Here was another name March knew. The Bavarian policeman Muller, the former head of the Gestapo, had been on board Himmler’s plane when it crashed in 1962, killing everyone on board.
SS-Oberfuhrer Doctor Karl Schongarth, representing the security services of the General Government, had fallen beneath the wheels of a U-bahn train pulling into Zoo Station on 9 April 1964 — barely more than a week ago. There were no witnesses.
SS-Obergruppenfuhrer Otto Hoffmann of the Reich Security Office had been found hanging from a length of clothesline in his Spandau apartment on Boxing Day 1963.
That was all. Of the fourteen men who had attended the conference at Heydrich’s invitation, thirteen were dead. The fourteenth — Luther — was missing.
As part of its campaign to raise public awareness about terrorism, the Propaganda Ministry had produced a series of children’s cartoons. Someone had pinned one up on the noticeboard on the second floor. A little girl receives a parcel and begins opening it. In each succeeding picture she removes more layers of wrapping paper, until she is left holding an alarm clock with two sticks of dynamite attached to it. The last picture is an explosion, with the caption: “Warning! Do not open a parcel unless you know its contents!”
A good joke. A maxim for every German policeman. Do not open a parcel unless you know its contents. Do not ask a question unless you know the answer.
Endlosung: final solution. Endlosung. Endlosung. The word tolled in March’s head as he half-walked, half-ran along the corridor and into his office.
Endlosung.
He wrenched open the drawers of Max Jaeger’s desk and searched through the clutter. Max was notoriously inefficient about administrative matters, had often been reprimanded for his laxity. March prayed he had not taken the warnings to heart.
He had not.
Bless you, Max, you dumbhead.
He slammed the drawers shut.
Only then did he notice it. Someone had attached a yellow message slip to March’s telephone: “Urgent. Contact the Duty Office immediately.”
FIVE
In the marshalling yards of the Gotenland railway station, they had set up arc lights around the body. From a distance the scene looked oddly glamorous, like a film set.
March stumbled towards it, up and down, across the wooden sleepers and metal tracks, over the diesel-soaked stone.
Before it had been renamed Gotenland, this had been the Anhalter Bahnhof: the Reich’s main eastern railway terminus. It was from here that the Fuhrer had set out in his armoured train, Amerika, for his wartime headquarters in East Prussia; from here, too, that Berlin’s Jews — the Weisses among them — must have embarked on their journey east.
“…from 10 October onwards the Jews have been evacuated from Reich territory to the East in a continuous series of transports…”
In the air behind him, growing fainter: the platform announcements; somewhere ahead, the clank of wheels and couplings, a bleak whistle. The yard was vast — a dreamscape in the orange sodium lighting — at its centre, the one patch of brilliant white. As March neared it, he could make out a dozen figures standing in front of a high-sided goods train: a couple of Orpo men, Krebs, Doctor Eisler, a photographer, a group of anxious officials of the Deutsche Reichsbahn, and Globus.
Globus saw him first, and slowly clapped his gloved hands in muffled and mocking applause. “Gentlemen, we can relax. The heroic forces of the Kriminalpolizei have arrived to give us their theories.”
One of the Orpo men sniggered.
The body, or what was left of it, was under a rough woollen blanket spread across the tracks, and also in a green plastic sack.
“May I see the corpse?”
“Of course. We haven’t touched him yet. We’ve been waiting for you, the great detective.” Globus nodded to Krebs, who pulled away the blanket.
A man’s torso, neatly cropped at either end, along the lines of the rails. He was belly down, slanted across the tracks. One hand had been severed, the head was crushed. Both legs had also been run over, but the bloodied shards of clothing made it difficult to gauge the precise point of amputation. There was a strong smell of alcohol.
“And now you must look in here.” Globus was holding the plastic sack up to the light. He opened it and brought it close to March’s face. “The Gestapo does not wish to be accused of concealing evidence.”
The stumps of feet, one of them still shod; a hand ending in ragged white bone and the gold band of a wristwatch. March did not close his eyes, which seemed to disappoint Globus. “Ach, well.” He dropped the sack. “They’re worse when they stink, when the rats have been at them. Check his pockets, Krebs.”
In his flapping leather coat, Krebs squatted over the body like carrion. He reached beneath the corpse, feeling for the inside of the jacket. Over his shoulder, Krebs said: “We were informed two hours ago by the Reichshahn Polizei that a man answering Luther’s description had been seen here. But by the time we got here…”
“He had already suffered a fatal accident.” March smiled bitterly. “How unexpected.”
“Here we are, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.” Krebs had retrieved a passport and wallet. He straightened, and handed them to Globus.
“This is his passport, no question,” said Globus, flicking through it. “And here are several thousand Reichsmarks in cash. Money enough for silk sheets at the Hotel Adlon. But, of course, the bastard couldn’t show his face in civilised company. He had no choice but to sleep rough out here.”
This thought appeared to give him satisfaction. He showed March the passport: Luther’s ponderous face peered out from above his calloused thumb. “Look at it, Sturmbannfuhrer, then run along and tell Nebe it is all over. The Gestapo will handle everything from now on. You can clear off and get some rest.” And enjoy it, his eyes said, while you can.
The Herr Obergruppenfuhrer is kind.”
“You’ll discover how kind I am, March, that much I promise you.” He turned to Eisler. “Where’s that fucking ambulance?”
The pathologist stood to attention. “On its way, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer. Most definitely.”
March gathered he had been dismissed. He moved towards the railway workers, standing in a forlorn group about ten metres away. “Which of you discovered the body?”
“I did, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.” The man who stepped forward wore the dark blue tunic and soft cap of a locomotive driver. His eyes were red, his voice raw. Was that because of the body, wondered March, or was it fear at the unexpected presence of an SS general?
“Cigarette?”
“God, yes, sir. Thanks.”
The driver took one, giving a furtive glance towards Globus, who was now talking to Krebs.
March offered him a light. “Relax. Take your time. Has this happened to you before?”