Fatherland (18 page)

"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 around slowly, inspecting each wall in turn. "Extraordi
nary. 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 up, March could hear the ancient bones cracking. But the grip on his forearm was of steel.

Nebe walked with a stick—
tap, tap, tap
—along the veranda 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 1920s, 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 around. "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 sometime between six o'clock on Monday evening and six o'clock the following morning. We are awaiting 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 Obergruppenführer. Buhler received no visitors by
land
. But the woodwork on the jetty was recently scraped, suggesting that a boat may have moored there."

"Buhler's boat," said Globus.

"Buhler's boat has not been used for months, maybe years."

Now that 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. Go on, 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 into 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 teetotaler."

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 into 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 realize 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 realized—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'll 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 Reichsführer 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 do so."

"At once, Herr Oberstgruppenführer." Krebs gave a slight bow to Nebe and trotted off along the veranda, 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 around the corner, Nebe said, "You're not telling the truth, are you? Or at least, not all of it. That's good. Get in the car. We need to talk."

The driver saluted and opened the rear door. Nebe maneuvered himself painfully into the backseat. March got in on the other side.

"At six this morning, this arrived at my house by courier." Nebe unlocked his briefcase and pulled out a file a couple of centimeters thick. "It's all about you, Sturmbannführer. 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 around about some Jews who used to live in your apartment. Jews! Are you mad? There's a complaint here from your ex-wife; even one from your son..."

"My son? My son is ten years old."

"Quite old enough to form a judgment, 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, Sturmbannführer, 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 tumor in the dark. And now you've made a powerful enemy, and he wants to use it."

Nebe put the folder back into his briefcase.

"Globus?"

"Globus, yes. Who else? He asked to have you transferred to Colombia House last night, pending court-martial by the SS." Colombia House was the private SS prison in General-Pape-Strasse. "I have to tell you, March, there's 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 Reichsführer was this: 'This fellow Globus,' I said, 'is obviously terrified that March has something on him, so he wants him done away with.' 'I see,' says the Reichsführer. 'So what do you suggest?' 'Why not,' say I, 'give him until the
Führertag
to prove his case against Globus? That's four days.' 'All right,' says Heydrich. 'But if he hasn't 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 Oberstgruppenführer."

"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 good-bye."

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

"I'd offer you a lift into central Berlin, but I prefer traveling 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 toward him, holding a Luger outstretched.