“Tell me what you want.”
“Stuckart is dead.”
“I know. I found him.”
A long pause. On the tape, in the background, March could hear a station announcement. Luther must have used the distraction caused by the discovery of the body to make a phone call from the Gotenland platform.
Charlie whispered: “He went so quiet, I thought I’d frightened him away.”
March shook his head. “I told you. You’re his only hope.”
The conversation on the tape resumed.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes.”
Wearily: “You say: What do I want? What do you think I want? Asylum in your country.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“I can pay.”
“That won’t -”
“I have information. Certain facts.”
“Tell me where you are. I’ll come and fetch you. We’ll go to the Embassy.”
“Too soon. Not yet.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning. Listen to me. Nine o’clock. The Great Hall. Central steps. Have you got that?”
“Right”
“Bring someone from the Embassy. But you must be there as well.”
“How do we recognise you?”
A laugh. “No. / shall recognise you, show myself when I am satisfied.” Pause. “Stuckart said you were young and pretty.” Pause. “That was Stuckart all over.” Pause. “Wear something that stands out.”
“I have a coat. Bright blue.”
“Pretty girl in blue. It is good. Until the morning, Fraulein.”
Click.
Purr.
The clatter of the tape machine being switched off.
“Play it again,” said March.
She rewound the tape, stopped it, pressed PLAY. March looked away, watched the rusty water swirling down the plughole, as Luther’s voice mingled with the reedy sound of a single clarinet. “Pretty girl in blue…” When they had heard it through for the second time, Charlie reached over and turned off the machine.
“After he hung up, I came over here and dropped off the tape. Then I went back to the telephone box and tried to call you. You weren’t there. So I called Henry. What else could I do? He says he wants someone from the Embassy.”
“Got me out of bed/ said Nightingale. He yawned and stretched, revealing an expanse of pale, hairless leg. “What I don’t understand is why he didn’t just let Charlie pick him up and bring him straight to the Embassy tonight.”
“You heard him,” said March. Tonight is too soon. He daren’t show himself. He has to wait until the morning. By then the Gestapo’s search for him will probably have been called off.”
Charlie frowned. “I don’t understand…”
The reason you couldn’t reach me two hours ago was because I was on my way to the Gotenland marshalling yards, where the Gestapo were hugging themselves with joy that they had finally discovered Luther’s body.”
That can’t be.”
“No. It can’t.” March pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. It was hard to keep his mind clear. “My guess is Luther’s been hiding in the rail yard for the past four days, ever since he got back from Switzerland, trying to work out some way of contacting you.”
“But how did he survive all that time?”
March shrugged. “He had money, remember. Perhaps he picked out some drifter he thought he could trust, paid him to bring him food and drink; warm clothes, maybe. Until he had his plan.”
Nightingale said: “And what was his plan, Sturmbann-fuhrer?”
“He needed someone to take his place› to convince the Gestapo he was dead.” Was he talking too loudly? The Americans” paranoia was contagious. He leaned forward and said softly: “Yesterday, when it was dark, he must have killed a man. A man of roughly his age and build. Got him drunk, knocked him out — I don’t know how he did it -dressed him in his clothes, gave him his wallet, his passport, his watch. Then he put him under a goods train, with his hands and head on the rails. Stayed with him to make sure he didn’t move until the wheels went over him. He’s trying to buy himself some time. He’s gambling that by nine o’clock this morning, the Berlin Polizei will have stopped looking for him. A fair bet, I would say.”
“Jesus Christ.” Nightingale looked from March to Charlie and back again. “And this is the man I’m supposed to take in to the Embassy?”
“Oh, it gets better than that.” From the inside pocket of his tunic, March produced the documents from the archive. “On the twentieth of January 1942, Martin Luther was one of fourteen men summoned to attend a special conference at the headquarters of Interpol in Wannsee. Since the end of the war, six of those men have been murdered, four have committed suicide, one has died in an accident, two have supposedly died of natural causes. Today only Luther is left alive. A freak of statistics, you would agree?” He handed Nightingale the papers. “As you will see, the conference was called by Reinhard Heydrich to discuss the final solution of the Jewish question in Europe. My guess is Luther wants to make you an offer: a new life in America in exchange for documentary proof of what happened to the Jews.”
The water ran. The music ended. An announcer’s silky voice whispered in the bathroom: “And now, for you night-lovers everywhere, Peter Kreuder and his orchestra with their version of I’m in Heaven…”
Without looking at him, Charlie held out her hand. March took it. She laced her fingers into his and squeezed, hard. Good, he thought, she should be afraid. Her grip tightened. Their hands were linked like parachutists in free fall. Nightingale had his head hunched over the documents and was murmuring “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ” over and over again.
“WE have a problem here,” said Nightingale. “I’ll be frank with you both. Charlie, this is off the record.” He was talking so quietly they had to strain to hear. “Three days ago, the President of the United States, for whatever reason, announced he was going to visit this Godforsaken country. At which point, twenty years of American foreign policy was turned upside down. Now this guy Luther, in theory -if what you say is true — could turn it upside down again, all in the space of seventy-two hours.”
Charlie said: “Then at least it would end the week the right way up.”
“That’s a cheap crack.”
He said this in English. March stared at him. “What are you saying, Mister Nightingale?”
“I’m saying, Sturmbannfuhrer, that I’m going to have to talk to Ambassador Lindbergh and Ambassador Lindbergh is going to have to talk to Washington. And my hunch is they’re both going to want a lot more proof than this—” he tossed the photocopies on to the floor “—before they open the Embassy gates to a man you say is probably a common murderer.”
“But Luther is offering you the proof.”
“So you say. But I don’t think Washington will want to risk all the progress that’s been made on detente this week just because of your…theories.”
Now Charlie was on her feet. “This is insane. If Luther doesn’t go straight with you to the Embassy, he’ll be captured and killed.”
“Sorry, Charlie. I can’t do that.” He appealed to her. “Come on! I can’t take in every old Nazi who wants to defect. Not without authorisation. Especially not with things as they are.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.” She had her hands on her hips and was staring at the floor, shaking her head.
“Just think it through for a minute.” He was almost pleading. “This Luther character seeks asylum. The Germans say: hand him over, he’s just killed a man. We say: no, because he’s going to tell us what you bastards did to the Jews in the war. What will that do for the summit? No -Charlie — don’t just look away. Think. Kennedy put on ten points in the polls overnight on Wednesday. How’s the White House going to react if we drop this on them?” For a second time, Nightingale glimpsed the implications; for a second time he shuddered. “Jesus Christ, Charlie, what have you got yourself mixed up in here?”