There’s nothing you can say.”
Terrific.” She took out a cigarette and lit it. “Well, would you look at that? My hands are trembling.”
It was almost seven. Time to go.”
THE hotel was beginning to wake. As they passed the lines of flimsy doors they heard water splashing, a radio, children laughing. Somewhere on the second floor, a man snored on regardless.
They had handled the package with care, at arm’s length, as if it were uranium. She had hidden it in the centre of her suitcase, buried in her clothes. March carried it down the stairs, across the empty lobby and out the narrow fire exit at the rear of the hotel. She was wearing a dark blue suit, her hair hidden by a scarf. The hired Opel stood next to his Volkswagen. From the kitchens came shouts, the smell of fresh coffee, the hiss of frying food.
“When you leave the Bellevue, turn right. The road follows the line of the valley. You can’t miss the bridge.”
“You’ve told me this already.”
Try and see what level of security they’re operating, before you commit yourself. If it looks as if they’re searching everything, turn round and try and hide it somewhere. Woods, ditch, barn — somewhere you can remember, a place where someone can go back and retrieve it. Then get out. Promise me.”
“I promise you.”
There’s a daily Swissair flight from Zurich to New York. It leaves at two.”
“At two. I know. You’ve told me twice.”
He took a step towards her, to hold her, but she fended him away. “I’m not saying goodbye. Not here. I shall see you tonight. / shall see you.”
There was a moment of anti-climax when the Opel refused to start. She pulled out the choke and tried again, and this time the engine fired. She reversed out of the parking space, still refusing to look at him. He had one last glimpse of her profile — and then she was gone, leaving a trail of blue-white vapour hanging in the chilly morning air.
MARCH sat alone in the empty room, on the edge of the bed, holding her pillow. He waited until an hour had passed before putting on his uniform. he stood in front of the dressing-table mirror, buttoning his black tunic. It would be the last time he wore it, one way or the other.
“We’ll change history…”
He donned his cap, adjusted it. Then he took his thirty sheets of paper, his notebook and Buhler’s pocket diary, folded them together, wrapped them in the remaining sheet of brown paper, and slipped them into his inside pocket.
Was history changed so easily? he wondered. Certainly, it was his experience that secrets were an acid — once spilled, they could eat their way through anything: if a marriage, why not a presidency, why not a state? But talk of history — he shook his head at his own reflection — history was beyond him. Investigators turned suspicion into evidence. He had done that. History he would leave to her.
He carried Luther’s bag into the bathroom and shovelled into it all the rubbish that Charlie had left behind — the discarded bottles, the rubber gloves, the dish and spoon, the brushes. He did the same in the bedroom. It was strange how much she had filled these places, how empty they seemed without her. He looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. She should be well clear of Berlin by now, perhaps as far south as Wittenberg.
In the reception, the manager hovered.
“Good day, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. Is the interrogation finished?”
“It is indeed, Herr Brecker. Thank you for your patriotic assistance.”
“A pleasure.” Brecker gave a short bow. He was twisting his fat white hands together as if rubbing in oil. “And if ever the Sturmbannfuhrer feels the desire to do a little more interrogation…’His bushy eyebrows danced. “Perhaps I might even be able to supply him with a suspect or two…?”
March smiled. “Good day to you, Herr Brecker.”
“Good day to you, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”
HE sat in the front passenger seat of the Volkswagen and thought for a moment. Inside the spare tyre would be the ideal place, but he had no time for that. The plastic door panels were securely fastened. He reached under the dashboard until his fingers encountered a smooth surface. It would serve his purpose. He tore off two lengths of sticky tape and attached the package to the cold metal.
Then he dropped the roll of tape into Luther’s case and dumped the bag in one of the rubbish bins outside the kitchens. The brown leather looked too incongruous lying on the surface. He found a broken length of broom-handle and dug a grave for it, burying it at last beneath the coffee dregs, the stinking fish-heads, the lumps of grease and maggoty pork.
TWO
Yellow signs bearing the single word Fernverkher -long-distance traffic — pointed the way out of Berlin, towards the race-track autobahn that girdled the city. March had the southbound carriageway almost to himself- the few cars and buses about this early on a Sunday morning were heading the other way. He passed the perimeter wire of the Tempelhof aerodrome and abruptly he was into the suburbs, the wide road pushing through dreary streets of red-brick shops and houses, lined by sickly trees with blackened trunks.
To his left, a hospital; to his right, a disused church, shuttered and daubed with Party slogans. “Marienfelde,” said the signs. “Buckow.” “Lichtenrade.”
At a set of traffic lights he stopped. The road to the south lay open — to the Rhine, to Zurich, to America… Behind him someone hooted. The lights had changed. He flicked the indicator, turned off the main road and was quickly lost in the gridiron streets of the housing estate.
IN the early “fifties, in the glow of victory, the roads had been named for generals: Student Strasse, Reichenau Strasse, Manteuffel Alice. March was always confused. Was it right off Model into Dietrich? Or was it left into Paulus, and then Dietrich? He drove slowly along the rows of identical bungalows until at last he recognised it.
He pulled over in the familiar place and almost sounded the horn until he remembered that this was the third Sunday in the month, not the first — and therefore not his -and that in any case his access had been revoked. A frontal assault would be needed, an action in the spirit of Hasso Manteuffel himself.
There was no litter of toys along the concrete drive and when he rang the bell, no dog barked. He cursed silently. It seemed to be his fate this week to stand outside deserted houses. He backed away from the porch, his eyes fixed on the window beside it. The net curtain flickered.
“Pili! Are you there?” -
The corner of the curtain was abruptly parted, as if some hidden dignitary had pulled a cord unveiling a portrait, and there it was — his son’s white face staring at him.
“Can I come in? I want to talk!”
The face was expressionless. The curtain dropped back.
A good sign or bad? March was uncertain. He waved to the blank window and pointed to the garden. “I’ll wait for you here!”
He walked back to the little wooden gate and checked the street. Bungalows on either side, bungalows opposite. They extended in every direction, like the huts of an army camp. Old folks lived in most of them: veterans of the First War, survivors of all that followed — inflation, unemployment, the Party, the Second War. Even ten years ago, they were grey and bowed. They had seen enough, endured enough. Now they stayed at home, and shouted at Pili for making too much noise, and watched television all day.
March prowled around the tiny handkerchief of lawn. Not much of a life for the boy. Cars passed. Two doors down an old man was repairing a bicycle, inflating the tyres with a squeaky pump. Elsewhere, the noise of a lawnmower… No sign of Pili. He was wondering if he would have to get down on his hands and knees and shout his message through the letter box when he heard the door being opened.
“Good lad. How are you? Where’s your mother? Where’s Helfferich?” He could not bring himself to say “Uncle Erich”.