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Zaugg Cie had been founded in 1877 by a Franco-German financier, Louis Zaugg. Hermann Zaugg, the signatory of Stuckart’s letter, was the founder’s grandson. He was still listed as the bank’s chief director. Berlin had followed his activities for more than two decades. During the 1940s, Zaugg had dealt extensively with German nationals of dubious reliability. He was currently suspected of harbouring millions of Reichsmarks in cash, art, bullion, jewellery and precious stones — all of which rightfully should have been confiscated, but to none of which could the Finance Ministry gain access. They had been trying for years.

“What do we have on Zaugg personally?”

“Only the bare details. He’s fifty-four, married, with one son. Has a mansion on the Zurichsee. Very respectable. Very private. Plenty of powerful friends in the Swiss government.”

March lit a cigarette and grabbed a scrap of paper. “Give me that address again.”

Max Jaeger arrived as March was writing him a note. He pushed open the door with his backside, came in carrying a stack of files, looking sweaty. Nearly two days” growth of beard gave him a menacing air.

“Zavi, thank Christ.” He peered over the top of the paperwork. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Where have you been?”

“Around. What’s this? Your memoirs?”

“The Spandau shootings. You heard Uncle Artur this morning.” He mimicked Nebe’s reedy voice. “ ‘Jaeger, you can return to normal duties.’ ”

He dropped the files on his desk. The window rattled. Dust shot across the office. “Statements of witnesses and wedding guests. Autopsy report — they dug fifteen bullets out of that poor bastard.” He stretched, rubbed his eyes with his fists. “I could sleep for a week. I tell you: I’m too old for scares like last night. My heart won’t stand it.” He broke off. “Now what the hell are you doing?”

March had lifted the dead plant from its pot and was retrieving the key to the safety deposit box.

“I have a plane to catch in two hours.”

Jaeger looked at his suitcase. “Don’t tell me — a holiday! A little balalaika music on the shores of the Black Sea…” He folded his arms and kicked out his legs in a dance, Russian-style.

March shook his head, smiling. “Do you feel like a beer?”

“Do I feel like a beer?” Jaeger had danced out of the door before March could turn round.

THE little bar in Ob-wall Strasse was run by a retired Orpo man called Fischer. It smelled of smoke and sweat, stale beer and fried onions. Most of its clientele were policemen. Green and black uniforms clustered around the bar, or lurked in the dimness of the wood-panelled booths.

The Fox and the Bear were greeted warmly.

Taking a vacation, March?”

“Hey Jaeger! Stand a little closer to the razor next time!”

Jaeger insisted on buying the drinks. March took a booth in the corner, stowed his suitcase under the table, lit a cigarette. There were men here he had known for a decade. The drivers from Rahnsdorf with their poker schools and dirty stories. The heavy drinkers from Serious Crimes in Worth Strasse. He would not miss them. Walther Fiebes sat alone at the bar, moping over a bottle of schnapps.

Jaeger returned and raised his glass. “Prost!”

“Prost.”

Max wiped the foam from his lips. “Good sausages, good engines, good beer- Germany’s three gifts to the world.” He always said this when they had a drink, and March always lacked the heart to point it out. “So. What’s this about a plane?” For Jaeger, the word seemed to conjure images of all that was exotic in the world. The furthest he had ever travelled from Berlin was to a family camp on the Black Sea — a holiday last summer near Gotenburg, organised by Strength-Through-Joy.

March turned his head slightly, glanced from side to side. The German look. The booths on either side were unoccupied. Shouts of laughter came from the bar.

“I have to go to Switzerland. Nebe’s given me a twenty-four-hour visa. That key you saw just now in the office -1 took it from Stuckart’s safe last night. It opens a safety deposit box in Zurich.”

Jaeger’s eyes opened wide. "That must be where they keep the art stuff. Remember what Globus said this morning: they smuggled it out and sold it in Switzerland.”

There’s more to it than that. I’ve been speaking to the American girl again. It seems that Stuckart called her at home on Saturday night, wanting to defect.”

Defect. The unmentionable act. It hung in the air between them.

Jaeger said: “But the Gestapo must know that already, Zavi. Surely her phone is tapped?”

March shook his head. “Stuckart was too clever for that. He used the call box opposite her apartment.” He sipped his beer. “You see how it goes, Max? I feel like a man descending stairs in the dark. First, the body in the lake turns out to be an alter Kampfer. Then, his death is linked to Stuckart’s. Last night, my one witness to Globus’s involvement — the cadet, Jost — was taken away by the SS, on Globus’s orders. Now it turns out that Stuckart wanted to defect. What comes next?”