Fatherland

of one retired state secretary, she might stumble across another."
    "A fair point." Krebs rubbed his chin and thought for a moment, then opened a fresh pack of cigarettes and gave one to March, lighting it for him from an unused box of
    matches. March filled his lungs with smoke. Krebs had not taken one for himself, he noticed—they were merely a part of his act, an interrogator's props.
    The Gestapo man was leafing through his notes again, frowning. "We believe that the traitor Luther was planning to disclose certain information to the journalist Maguire. What was the nature of this information?"
    "I have no idea. The art fraud, perhaps?"
    "On Thursday you visited Zürich. Why?"
    "It was the place Luther went before he vanished. I wanted to see if there was any clue there that might explain why he disappeared."
    "And was there?"
    "No. But my visit was authorized. I submitted a full report to Oberstgruppenführer Nebe. Have you not seen it?"
    "Of course not." Krebs made a note. "The Oberstgruppenführer shows his hand to no one, not even us. Where is Maguire?"
    "How should I know?"
    "You should know because you picked her up from Adolf-Hitler-Platz after the shooting yesterday."
    "Not me, Krebs."
    "Yes, you, March. Afterward, you went to the morgue and searched through the traitor Luther's personal effects—this we know absolutely from SS surgeon Eisler."
    "I was not aware that the effects were Luther's," said March. "I understood they belonged to a man named Stark who was three meters away from Maguire when he was shot. Naturally, I was interested to see what he was carrying, because I was interested in Maguire. Besides, if you recall, you showed me what you said was Luther's body on Friday night. Who did shoot Luther, as a matter of interest?"
    "Never mind that. What did you expect to pick up at the morgue?"
    "Plenty."
    "What? Be exact!"
    "Fleas. Lice. A skin rash from his shitty clothes."
    Krebs threw down his pencil. He folded his arms. "You're a brainy fellow, March. Take comfort from the fact that we credit you with that, at least. Do you think we'd give a shit if you were just some dumb fat fuck, like your friend Max Jaeger? I bet you could keep this up for hours. But we don't have hours, and we're less stupid than you think." He shuffled through his papers, smirked and then played his ace.
    "What was in the suitcase you took from the airport?"
    March looked straight back at him. They had known all along. "What suitcase?"
    "The suitcase that looks like a doctor's bag. The suitcase that doesn't weigh very much, but might contain paper. The suitcase Friedman gave you thirty minutes before he called us. He got back to find a telex, you see, March, from Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse—an alert to stop you from leaving the country. When he saw that, he decided— as a patriotic citizen—he'd better inform us of your visit."
    "Friedman!" said March. "A 'patriotic citizen'? He's fooling you, Krebs. He's hiding some scheme of his own."
    Krebs sighed. He got to his feet and came around to stand behind March, his hands resting on the back of March's chair. "When this is over, I'd like to get to know you. Really. Assuming there's anything left of you to get to know. Why did someone like you go bad? I'm interested. From a technical point of view. To try to stop it happening in the future."
    "Your passion for self-improvement is laudable."
    "There you go again, you see? A problem of attitude. Things are changing in Germany, March—from within— and you could have been a part of it. The Reichsführer himself takes a personal interest in the new generation— listens to us, promotes us. He believes in restructuring, greater openness, talking to the Americans. The day of men like Odilo Globocnik is passing." He stooped and whispered in March's ear, "Do you know why Globus doesn't like you?"
    "Enlighten me."
    "Because you make him feel stupid. In Globus's book, that's a capital offense. Help me, and I can shield you from him." Krebs straightened and resumed, in his normal voice, "Where is the woman? What was the information Luther wanted to give her? Where is Luther's suitcase?"
    Those three questions, again and again.
    Interrogations have this irony, at least: they can enlighten those being questioned as much as—or more than—those who are doing the questioning.
    From what Krebs asked, March could measure the extent of his knowledge. This was, on certain matters, very good: he knew March had visited the morgue, for example,