TWO

The head of the Reich Kriminalpolizei was an old man. His name was Artur Nebe, and he was a legend.

Nebe had been head of the Berlin detective force even before the Party came to power. He had a small head and the sallow, scaly skin of a tortoise. In 1954, to mark his sixtieth birthday, the Reichstag had voted him a large estate, including four villages, near Minsk in the Ostland, but he had never even been to look at it. He lived alone with his bed-ridden wife in Charlottenburg, in a large house marked by the smell of disinfectant and the whisper of pure oxygen. It was sometimes said that Heydrich wanted to get rid of him, to put his own man in charge of the Kripo, but dared not. “Onkel Artur” they called him in Werderscher Markt. Uncle Artur. He knew everything.

March had seen Nebe from a distance but never met him. Now he was sitting at Buhler’s grand piano, picking out a high note with a single, yellowish claw. The instrument was untuned, the sound discordant in the dusty air.

At the window, his broad back to the room, stood Odilo Globus.

Krebs brought his heels together and saluted. “Heil Hitler! Investigators March and Jaeger.”

Nebe continued to tap the piano key.

“Ah!” Globus turned round. The great detectives.”

Close up, he was a bull in uniform. His neck strained at his collar. His hands hung at his sides, bunched in angry red fists. There was a mass of scar tissue on his left cheek, mottled crimson. Violence crackled around him in the dry air, like static electricity. Every time Nebe struck a note, he winced. He wants to punch the old man, thought March, but he can’t. Nebe outranked him.

“If the Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer has finished his recital,” said Globus, through his teeth, “we can begin.”

Nebe’s hand froze over the keyboard. “Why would anyone have a Bechstein, and leave it untuned?” He looked at March. “Why would he do that?”

“His wife was the musician, sir,” said March. “She died eleven years ago.”

“And nobody played in all that time?” Nebe closed the lid quietly over the keys and drew his finger through the dust. “Curious.”

Globus said: “We have much to do. Early this morning I reported certain matters to the Reichsfuhrer. As you know, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer, it is on his orders that this meeting is taking place. Krebs will put the position of the Gestapo.”

March exchanged glances with Jaeger. It had gone up as far as Heydrich.

Krebs had a typed memorandum. In his precise, expressionless voice he began to read.

“Notification of Doctor Josef Buhler’s death was received by teleprinter message at Gestapo Headquarters from the Night Duty Officer of the Berlin Kriminalpolizei at two-fifteen yesterday morning, April fifteenth.

“At eight-thirty, in view of Party Comrade Buhler’s honorary SS rank of Brigadefuhrer, the Reichsfuhrer was personally informed of his demise.”

March had his hands clasped behind his back, his nails digging into his palms. In Jaeger’s cheek, a muscle fluttered.

“At the time of his death, the Gestapo was completing an investigation into the activities of Party Comrade Buhler. In view of this, and in view of the deceased’s former position in the General Government, the case was redesignated a matter of state security, and operational control was passed to the Gestapo.

“However, due to an apparent breakdown in liaison procedures, this redesignation was not communicated to Kripo Investigator Xavier March, who effected an illegal entry to the deceased’s home”

The Gestapo was investigating Buhler? March struggled to keep his gaze fixed on Krebs, his expression impassive.

“Next: the death of Party Comrade Wilhelm Stuckart. Inquiries by the Gestapo indicated that the cases of Stuckart and Buhler were linked. Once again, the Reichsfuhrer was informed. Once again, investigation of the matter was transferred to the Gestapo. And once again, Investigator March, this time accompanied by Investigator Max Jaeger, conducted his own inquiries at the home of the deceased.

“At zero-zero-twelve, sixteenth April, Investigators March and Jaeger were apprehended by myself at Party Comrade Stuckart’s apartment block. They agreed to accompany me to Gestapo Headquarters, pending clarification of this matter at a higher level.

“Signed, Karl Krebs, Sturmbannfuhrer.

“I have dated it and timed it at six this morning.”

Krebs folded the memorandum and handed it to the head of the Kripo. Outside, a spade rang on gravel.

Nebe slipped the paper into his inside pocket. “So much for the record. Naturally, we shall prepare a minute of our own. Now, Globus: what is this really about? You are desperate to tell us, I know.”

“Heydrich wanted you to see for yourself.”

“See what?”

“What your man here missed on his little freelance excursion yesterday. Follow me, please.”

It was in the cellar, although even if March had smashed the padlock on the entrance and forced his way down, he doubted if he would have found it. Past the usual household rubbish — broken furniture, discarded tools, rolls of filthy carpet bound with rope — was a wood-panelled wall. One of the panels was false.

“We knew what we were looking for, you see.” Globus rubbed his hands. “Gentlemen, I guarantee you will never have clapped eyes on the likes of this in your entire lives.”

Beyond the panel was a chamber. When Globus turned on the lights, it was indeed dazzling: a sacristy; a jewelbox. Angels and saints; clouds and temples; high-cheeked noblemen in white furs and red damask; sprawling pink flesh on perfumed yellow silk; flowers and sunrises and Venetian canals…

“Go in,” said Globus. “The Reichsfuhrer is anxious that you should see it properly.”

It was a small room — four metres square, March guessed -with a bank of spotlights built into the ceiling, directed on to the paintings which covered every wall. In the centre was an old-fashioned swivel chair, of the sort a nineteenth-century clerk might have had in a counting-house. Globus placed a gleaming jackboot on the arm and kicked, sending it spinning.

“Imagine him, sitting here. Door locked. Like a dirty old man in a brothel. We found it yesterday afternoon. Krebs?”

Krebs took the floor. “An expert is on his way this morning from the Fuhrermuseum in Linz. We had Professor Braun of the Kaiser Friedrich, here in Berlin, give us a preliminary assessment last night.”

He consulted his sheaf of notes.

“At the moment, we know we have Portrait of a Young Man by Raphael, Portrait of a Young Man by Rembrandt, Christ Carrying the Cross by Rubens, Guardi’s Venetian Palace, Krakau Suburbs by Bellotto, eight Canalettos, at least thirty-five engravings by Durer and Kulmbach, a Gobelin. The rest he could only guess at.”

Krebs reeled them off as if they were dishes in a restaurant. He rested his pale ringers on an altar-piece of gorgeous colours, raised on planks at the end of the room.

This is the work of the Nuremberg artist, Viet Stoss, commissioned by the King of Poland in 1477. It took ten years to complete. The centre of the triptych shows the Virgin asleep, surrounded by angels. The side panels show scenes from the lives of Jesus and Mary. The predella” — he pointed to the base of the altar-piece- “shows the genealogy of Christ.”

Globus said: “Sturmbannfuhrer Krebs knows of these things. He is one of our brightest officers.”

“I’m sure” said Nebe. “Most interesting. And where did it all come from?”

Krebs began: “The Viet Stoss was removed from the Church of Our Lady in Krakau in November 1939—”

Globus interrupted: “It came from the General Government. Warsaw, mainly, we think. Buhler recorded it as either lost or destroyed. God alone knows how much else the corrupt swine got away with. Think what he must have sold just to buy this place!”

Nebe reached out and touched one of the canvases: the martyred Saint Sebastian, bound to a Doric pillar, arrows jutting from his golden skin. The varnish was cracked, like a dried river bed, but the colours beneath — red, white, purple, blue — were bright still. The painting gave off a faint smell of must and incense — the scent of pre-war Poland, of a nation vanished from the map. Some of the panels, March saw, had powdery lumps of masonry attached to their edges — traces of the monastery and castle walls from which they had been wrenched.

Nebe was rapt before the saint. “Something in his expression reminds me of you, March.” He traced the body’s outline with his fingertips and gave a wheezing laugh. “ ‘The willing martyr.’ What do you say, Globus?”

Globus grunted. “I don’t believe in saints. Or martyrs.” He glared at March.

“Extraordinary,” murmured Nebe, “to think of Buhler, of all people, with these…”

“You knew him?” March blurted out the question.

“Slightly, before the war. A committed National Socialist, and a dedicated lawyer. Quite a combination. A fanatic for detail. Like our Gestapo colleague here.”

Krebs gave a slight bow. "The Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer is kind.”

“The point is this” said Globus, irritably. “We have known about Party Comrade Buhler for some time. Known about his activities in the General Government. Known about his associates. Unfortunately, at some point last week, the bastard found out we were on to him.”

“And killed himself?” Nebe asked. “And Stuckart?”

The same. Stuckart was a complete degenerate. He not only helped himself to beauty on canvas. He liked to taste it in the flesh. Buhler had the pick of what he wanted in the East. What were those figures, Krebs?”

“A secret inventory was compiled in 1940 by the Polish museum authorities. We now have it. Art treasures removed from Warsaw alone: two thousand seven hundred paintings of the European school; ten thousand seven hundred paintings by Polish artists; fourteen hundred sculptures.”

Globus again: “We’re digging up some of the sculptures in the garden right now. Most of this stuff went where it was intended: the Fuhrermuseum, Reichsmarschall Goring’s museum at Carinhall, galleries in Vienna, Berlin. But there’s a big discrepancy between the Polish lists of what was taken and our lists of what we got. It worked like this. As State Secretary, Buhler had access to everything. He would ship the stuff under escort to Stuckart at the Interior Ministry. Everything legal-looking. Stuckart would arrange for it to be stored, or smuggled out of the Reich to be exchanged for cash, jewels, gold — anything portable and non-traceable”

March could see that Nebe was impressed, despite himself. His little eyes were drinking in the art. “Was anyone else of high rank involved?”

“You are familiar with the former Under-Secretary of State at the Foreign Ministry, Martin Luther?”

“Of course.”

“He is the man we seek.”

“Seek? He is missing?”

“He failed to return from a business trip three days ago.”

“I take it you are certain of Luther’s involvement in this affair?”

“During the war, Luther was head of the Foreign Ministry’s German Department.”

“I remember. He was responsible for Foreign Ministry liaison with the SS, and with us at the Kripo.” Nebe turned to Krebs. “Another fanatical National Socialist. You would have appreciated his — ah — enthusiasm. A rough fellow, though. Incidentally, at this point, I should like to state, for the record, my astonishment at his involvement in anything criminal.”

Krebs produced his pen. Globus went on: “Buhler stole the art. Stuckart received it. Luther’s position at the Foreign Ministry gave him the opportunity to travel freely abroad. We believe he smuggled certain items out of the Reich, and sold them.”

“Where?”

“Switzerland, mainly. Also Spain. Possibly Hungary.”

“And when Buhler came back from the General Government -when was that?”

He looked at March, and March said: “In 1951.”

“In 1951, this became their treasure chamber.”

Nebe lowered himself into the swivel chair and spun round, slowly, inspecting each wall in turn. “Extraordinary. This must have been one of the best collections of art in private hands anywhere in the world.”

“One of the best collections in criminal hands,” cut in Globus.

“Ach.” Nebe closed his eyes. “So much perfection in one space deadens the senses. I need air. Give me your arm, March.”

As he stood, March could hear the ancient bones cracking. But the grip on his forearm was steel.

Nebe walked with a stick — tap, tap, tap — along the verandah at the back of the villa.

“Buhler drowned himself. Stuckart shot himself. Your case seems to be resolving itself rather conclusively, Globus, without requiring anything so embarrassing as a trial. Statistically, I should say Luther’s chances of survival look rather poor.”

“As it happens, Herr Luther does have a heart condition. Brought on by nervous strain during the war, according to his wife.”

“You surprise me.”

“According to his wife, he needs rest, drugs, quiet- none of which will he be getting at the moment, wherever he is.”

“This business trip…”

“He was supposed to return from Munich on Monday. We’ve checked with Lufthansa. There was nobody called Luther on any Munich flights that day.”

“Maybe he’s fled abroad.”

“Maybe. I doubt it. We’ll hunt him down eventually, wherever he is.”

Tap, tap. March admired Nebe’s nimbleness of mind. As Police Commissioner for Berlin in the 1930s, he had written a treatise on criminology. He remembered seeing it on Koth’s shelves in the fingerprint section on Tuesday night. It was still a standard text.

“And you, March.” Nebe halted and swung round. “What is your view of Buhler’s death?”

Jaeger, who had been silent since their arrival at the villa, butted in anxiously: “Sir, if I might say, we were merely collecting data—”

Nebe rapped the stone with his stick. The question was not addressed to you.”

March wanted a cigarette, badly. “I have only preliminary observations,” he began. He ran his hand through his hair. He was out of his depth here; a long way out. It was not where to start, he thought, but where to end. Globus had folded his arms and was staring at him.

“Party Comrade Buhler” he began, “died some time between six o’clock on Monday evening and six o’clock the following morning. We await the autopsy report, but cause of death was almost certainly drowning- his lungs were full of fluid, indicating he was breathing when he entered the water. We also know, from the sentry on the causeway, that Buhler received no visitors during those crucial twelve hours.”

Globus nodded. Thus: suicide.”

“Not necessarily, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer. Buhler received no visitors by land. But the woodwork on the jetty has been recently scraped, suggesting a boat may have moored there.”

“Buhler’s boat,” said Globus.

“Buhler’s boat has not been used for months; maybe, years.”

Now he held the attention of his small audience, March felt a rush of exhilaration; a sense of release. He was starting to talk quickly. Slow down, he told himself, be careful.

“When I inspected the villa yesterday morning, Buhler’s guard dog was locked in the pantry, muzzled. The whole of one side of its head was bleeding. I ask myself: why would a man intending to commit suicide do that to his dog?”

“Where is this animal now?” asked Nebe.

“My men had to shoot it,” said Globus. The creature was deranged.”

“Ah. Of course. Goon, March.”

“I think Buhler’s assailants landed late at night, in darkness. If you recall, there was a storm on Monday night. The lake would have been choppy — that explains the damage to the jetty. I think the dog was alerted, and they clubbed it senseless, muzzled it, took Buhler unawares.”

“And threw him in the lake?”

“Not immediately. Despite his disability, according to his sister, Buhler was a strong swimmer. You could see that by the look of him: his shoulders were well-developed. But after he had been cleaned up, I inspected his body in the morgue. There was bruising here” — March touched his cheeks — “and on the gums at the front of his mouth. On the kitchen table yesterday was a bottle of vodka, most of it gone. I think the autopsy report will show alcohol in Buhler’s bloodstream. I think they forced him to drink, stripped him, took him out on their boat, and dumped him over the side.”

“Intellectual pigshit,” said Globus. “Buhler probably drank the vodka to give him the guts to kill himself.”

“According to his sister, Party Comrade Buhler was a teetotaller.”

There was a long silence. March could hear Jaeger breathing heavily. Nebe was gazing out across the lake. Eventually, Globus muttered: “What this fancy theory doesn’t explain is why these mysterious killers didn’t just put a bullet in Buhler’s brain and have done with it.”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” said March. They wanted to make it look like suicide. But they bungled it.”

“Interesting” murmured Nebe. “If Buhler’s suicide was faked, then it is logical to suppose that Stuckart’s was, also.”

Because Nebe was still staring at the Havel, March did not realise at first that the remark was a question, addressed to him.

That was my conclusion. That was why I visited Stuckart’s apartment last night. Stuckart’s murder, I think, was a three-man operation: two in the flat; one in the foyer, pretending to repair the elevator. The noise from his electric drill was supposed to mask the sound of the shot, giving the killers time to get away before the body was discovered.”

“And the suicide note?”

“Forged, perhaps. Or written under duress. Or…”

He stopped himself. He was thinking aloud, he realised-a potentially fatal activity. Krebs was staring at him.

“Is that it?” asked Globus. “Are the Grimms” fairy stories over for the day? Excellent. Some of us have work to do. Luther is the key to this mystery, gentlemen. Once we have him, all will be explained.”

Nebe said: “If his heart condition is as bad as you say, we need to move quickly. I shall arrange with the Propaganda Ministry for Luther’s picture to be carried in the press and on television.”

“No, no. Absolutely not.” Globus sounded alarmed. The Reichsfuhrer has expressly forbidden any publicity. The last thing we need is a scandal involving the Party leadership, especially now, with Kennedy coming. God in heaven, can you imagine what the foreign press would make of this? No. I assure you, we can catch him without alerting the media. What we need is a confidential flash to all Orpo patrols; a watch on the main railway stations, ports, airports, border crossings…Krebs can handle that.”

Then I suggest he does so.”

“At once, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.” Krebs gave a slight bow to Nebe and trotted off along the verandah, into the house.

“I have business to attend to in Berlin,” said Nebe. “March here will act as Kripo liaison officer until Luther is caught.”

Globus sneered. That will not be necessary.”

“Oh, but it will. Use him wisely, Globus. He has a brain. Keep him informed. Jaeger: you can return to your normal duties.”

Jaeger looked relieved. Globus seemed about to say something, but thought better of it.

“Walk me to my car, March. Good day to you, Globus.”

When they were round the corner, Nebe said: “You are not telling the truth, are you? Or at least, not all of it. That is good. Get in the car. We need to talk.”

The driver saluted and opened the rear door. Nebe manoeuvred himself painfully into the back seat. March got in the other side.

“At six o’clock this morning, this arrived at my house by courier.” Nebe unlocked his briefcase and pulled out a file, a couple of centimetres thick. “It’s all about you, Sturmbannfuhrer. Flattering, isn’t it, to merit such attention?”

The windows of the Mercedes were tinted green. In the half-light, Nebe looked like a lizard in a reptile house.

“Born, Hamburg, 1922; father died of wounds, 1929; mother killed in a British air raid, 1942; joined the Navy, 1939; transferred to the U-boat service, 1940; decorated for bravery and promoted, 1943; given command of your own boat, 1946 — one of the youngest U-boat commanders in the Reich. A glittering career. And then it all starts going wrong.”

Nebe leafed through the file. March stared at the green lawn, the green sky.

“No police promotions for ten years. Divorced, 1957. And then the reports start. Blockwart: persistent refusal to contribute to Winter-Relief. Party officials at Werderscher Markt: persistent refusal to join the NSDAP. Overheard in the canteen making disparaging comments about Himmler. Overheard in bars, overheard in restaurants, overheard in corridors…”

Nebe was pulling pages out.

“Christmas 1963 — you start asking round about some Jews who used to live in your apartment. Jews! Are you mad? There is a complaint here from your ex-wife; one from your son…”

“My son? My son is ten years old…”

“Quite old enough to form a judgement, and be listened to — as you know.”

“May I ask what it is I am supposed to have done to him?”

“ "Shown insufficient enthusiasm for his Party activities." The point is, Sturmbannfuhrer, that this file has been ten years maturing in the Gestapo registry — a little here, a little there, year in, year out, growing like a tumour in the dark. And now you’ve made a powerful enemy, and he wants to use it.”

Nebe put the folder back in his briefcase.

“Globus?”

“Globus, yes. Who else? He asked to have you transferred to Colombia House last night, pending court martial from the SS.” Colombia House was the private SS prison in General-Pape Strasse. “I have to tell you, March, there is easily enough here to send you to a KZ. After that, you’re beyond help — from me or anybody else.”

“What stopped him?”

“To start court-martial proceedings against a serving Kripo officer, he first had to get permission from Heydrich. And Heydrich referred it to me. So what I said to our beloved Reichsfuhrer was this. ‘This fellow Globus,’ I said, ‘is obviously terrified that March has got something on him, so he wants him done away with.’ ‘I see,’ says the Reichsfuhrer, ‘so what do you suggest?’ ‘Why not,’ say I, ‘give him until the Fuhrertag to prove his case against Globus? That’s four days.’ ‘All right,’ says Heydrich. ‘But if he’s not come up with anything by then, Globus can have him.’ ” Nebe gave a smile of contentment. Thus are the affairs of the Reich arranged between colleagues of long standing.”

“I suppose I must thank the Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

“Oh no, don’t thank me.” Nebe was cheerful. “Heydrich genuinely wonders if you do have something on Globus. He would like to know. So would I. Perhaps for a different reason.” He seized March’s arm again — the same fierce grip — and hissed: These bastards are up to something, March. What is it? You find out. You tell me. Don’t trust anyone. That’s how your Uncle Artur has lasted as long as he has. Do you know why some of the old-timers call Globus "the submarine"?”

“No, sir.”

“Because he had a submarine engine hooked up to a Polish basement during the war, and used the exhaust fumes to kill people. Globus likes killing people. He’d like to kill you. You should remember that.” Nebe released March’s arm. “Now, we must say goodbye.”

He rapped on the glass partition with the top of his cane. The driver came round and opened March’s door.

“I would offer you a lift into central Berlin, but I prefer travelling alone. Keep me informed. Find Luther, March. Find him before Globus gets to him.”

The door slammed. The engine whispered. As the limousine crunched across the gravel, March could barely make out Nebe — just a green silhouette behind the bulletproof glass.

He turned to find Globus watching him.

The SS general started walking towards him, holding a Luger outstretched.

He is crazy, thought March. He is just about crazy enough to shoot me on the spot, like Buhler’s dog.

But all Globus did was hand him the gun. Tour pistol, Sturmbannfuhrer. You will need it.” And then he came very close — close enough for March to smell the sour odour of garlic sausage on his hot breath. “You have no witness” was all he whispered. “You have no witness. Not any more.”

March ran.

He ran out of the grounds and across the causeway and off, up, into the woods — right the way through them, until he came to the autobahn which formed the Grunewald’s eastern boundary.

There he stopped, his hands clutching his knees, his breath coming in sobs, as beneath him the traffic hurtled towards Berlin.

Then he was off again, despite the pain in his side, more of a trot now, over the bridge, past the Nikolassee S-bahn station, down Spanische Alice towards the barracks.

His Kripo ID got him past the sentries, his appearance -red-eyed, breathless, with more than a day’s growth of beard — suggestive of some terrible emergency which brooked no discussion. He found the dormitory block. He found Jost’s bed. The pillow was gone, the blankets had been stripped. All that remained was the ironwork and a hard, brown mattress. The locker was bare.

A solitary cadet, polishing his boots a few beds away, explained what had happened. They had come for Jost in the night. There were two of them. He was to be sent East, they said, for “special training”. He had gone without a word — seemed to have been expecting it. The cadet shook his head in amazement: Jost of all people. The cadet was jealous. They all were. He would see some real fighting.