March pulled into a parking space close to the tourist coaches. From here he had a clear view across the lanes of traffic to the centre of the Hall.
“Walk up the steps,” he said, “go inside, buy a guide book, look as natural as you can. When Nightingale appears, bump into him: you’re old friends, isn’t it marvellous, you stop and talk for a while.”
“What about you?”
“When I see you’ve made contact with Luther, I’ll drive across and pick you up. The rear doors are unlocked. Keep to the lower steps, close to the road. And don’t let him drag you into a long conversation — we need to get out of here fast.”
She was gone before he could wish her luck.
Luther had chosen his ground well. There were vantage points all around the Platz: the old man would be able to watch the steps without showing himself. Nobody would pay any attention to three strangers meeting. And if something did go wrong, the throngs of visitors offered the ideal cover for escape.
March lit a cigarette. Twelve minutes to go. He watched as Charlie climbed the long flight of steps. She paused at the top for breath, then turned and disappeared inside.
Everywhere: activity. White taxis and the long, green Mercedes of the Wehrmacht High Command circled the Platz. The television technicians checked their camera angles and shouted instructions at one another. Stallholders arranged their wares — coffee, sausages, postcards, newspapers, ice cream. A squadron of pigeons wheeled overhead in tight formation and fluttered in to land beside one of the fountains. A couple of young boys in Pimpf uniforms ran towards them, flapping their arms, and March thought of Pili — a stab — and closed his eyes for an instant, confining his guilt to the dark.
At five to nine exactly she came out of the shadows and began descending the steps. A man in a fawn raincoat strode towards her. Nightingale.
Don’t make it too obvious, idiot…
She stopped and threw her arms wide — a perfect mime of surprise. They began talking.
Two minutes to nine.
Would Luther come? If so, from which direction? From the Chancellery to the east? The High Command building to the west? Or directly north, from the centre of the Platz?
Suddenly, at the window beside him, a gloved hand appeared. Attached to it: the body of an Orpo traffic cop in leather uniform.
March wound down the window.
The cop said: “Parking here suspended.”
“Understood. Two minutes and I’m out of here.”
“Not two minutes. Now.” The man was a gorilla, escaped from Berlin Zoo.
March tried to keep his eyes on the steps, maintain a conversation with the Orpo man, while pulling his Kripo ID out of his inside pocket.
“You are screwing up badly, friend,” he hissed. “You are in the middle of a Sipo surveillance operation and, I have to tell you, you are blending into the background as well as a prick in a nunnery.”
The cop grabbed the ID and held it close to his eyes. “Nobody told me about any operation, Sturmbannfuhrer. What operation? Who’s being watched?”
“Communists. Freemasons. Students. Slavs.”
“Nobody told me about it. I’ll have to check.”
March clutched the steering wheel to steady his shaking hands. “We are observing radio silence. You break it and Heydrich personally will have your balls for cufflinks, I guarantee you. Now: my ID.”
Doubt clouded the Orpo man’s face. For an instant he almost looked ready to drag March out of the car, but then he slowly returned the ID. “I don’t know…”
“Thank you for your co-operation, Unterwachtmeister.” March wound up his window, ending the discussion.
One minute past nine. Charlie and Nightingale were still talking. He glanced in his mirror. The cop had walked a few paces, had stopped, and was staring back at the car. He looked thoughtful, then made up his mind, went over to his bike and picked up his radio.
March swore. He had two minutes, at the outside.
Of Luther: no sign.
AND then he saw him.
A man with thick-framed glasses, wearing a shabby overcoat, had emerged from the Great Hall. He stood, peering around him, his hand touching one of the granite pillars as if afraid to let go. Then, hesitantly, he began to make his way down the steps.
March switched on the engine.
Charlie and Nightingale still had their backs to him. He was heading towards them.
Come on. Come on. Look round at him, for God’s sake.
At that moment Charlie did turn. She saw the old man and recognised him. Luther’s arm came up, like an exhausted swimmer reaching for the shore.
Something is going to go wrong, thought March suddenly. Something is not right. Something I haven’t thought of…
Luther had barely five metres to go when his head disappeared. It vanished in a puff of moist red sawdust and then his body was pitching forward, rolling down the steps, and Charlie was putting up her hand to shield her face from the sunburst of blood and brain.
A beat. A beat and a half. Then the crack of a high-velocity rifle howled around the Platz, scooping up the pigeons, scattering them like grey litter across the square.
PEOPLE started to scream.
March threw the car into gear, flashed his indicator and cut sharply into the traffic, ignoring the outraged hooting-across one lane, and then another. He drove like a man who believed himself invulnerable, as if faith and willpower alone would protect him from collision. He could see a little group had formed around the body which was leaking blood and tissue down the steps. He could hear police whistles. Figures in black uniforms were converging from all directions — Globus and Krebs among them.
Nightingale had Charlie by the arm and was propelling her away from the scene, towards the road, where March was braking to a halt. The diplomat wrenched open the door and threw her into the back seat, crammed himself in after her. The door slammed. The Volkswagen accelerated away.
WE were betrayed.
Fourteen men summoned; now fourteen dead.
He saw Luther’s hand outstretched, the fountain bursting from his neck, his trunk exploded toppling forwards. Globus and Krebs running. Secrets scattered in that shower of tissue; salvation gone …
Betrayed…
HE drove to an underground parking lot just off Rosen Strasse, close to the Borse, where the Synagogue used to stand — a favourite spot of his for meeting informers. Was there anywhere more lonely? He took a ticket from the machine and pointed the car down the steep ramp. The tyres cried against the concrete; the headlights picked out ancient stains of oil and carbon on the floors and walls, like cave paintings.
Level two was empty — on Saturdays, the financial sector of Berlin was a desert. March parked in a central bay. When the engine died the silence was complete.
Nobody said anything. Charlie was dabbing at her coat with a paper handkerchief. Nightingale was leaning back with his eyes closed. Suddenly, March slammed his fists down on the top of the steering wheel.
“Whom did you tell?”
Nightingale opened his eyes. “Nobody.”
“The Ambassador? Washington? The resident spy-master?”
“I told you: nobody.” There was anger in his voice.
This is no help,” said Charlie.
“It’s also insulting and absurd. Christ, you two…”
“Consider the possibilities/ March counted them off on his fingers. “Luther betrayed himself to somebody -ridiculous. The telephone box in Billow Strasse was tapped — impossible: even the Gestapo does not have the resources to bug every public telephone in Berlin. Very well. So was our discussion last night overheard? Unlikely, as we could hardly hear it ourselves!”
“Why does it have to be this big conspiracy? Maybe Luther was just followed.”
Then why not pick him up? Why shoot him in public, at the very moment of contact?”