Fatherland

stipulated the presence of a doctor. There had been a conversation in Werderscher-Markt a few weeks ago. Someone had heard a rumor about the torturers' latest trick: a thin glass catheter inserted into the suspect's penis, then snapped.

Strings are playing

Hear them saying

"I love you."...
    He shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to clear his mind.
    Think.
    He had left a paper trail of clues, any one of which would have been enough to lead the Gestapo to Stuckart's apartment. He had requested Stuckart's file. He had discussed the case with Fiebes. He had rung Luther's home. He had gone looking for Charlotte Maguire.
    He worried about the American woman. Even if she had managed to get clear of Fritz-Todt-Platz, the Gestapo could pull her in tomorrow. "Routine questions, Fräulein ... What is this envelope, please?... How did you come by it?... Describe the man who opened the safe..." She was tough, with an actressy self-confidence, but in their hands she would not last five minutes.
    March rested his forehead against the cold pane of glass. The window was bolted shut. There was a sheer drop of fifteen meters to the ground.
    Behind him, the door opened. A swarthy man in shirtsleeves, stinking of sweat, came in and set two mugs of coffee on the table.
    Jaeger, who had been sitting with his arms folded looking at his boots, asked, "How much longer?"
    The man shrugged—an hour? a night? a week?—and left. Jaeger tasted the coffee and pulled a face. "Pig's piss." He lit a cigar, swilling the smoke around his mouth before sending it billowing across the room.
    He and March stared at each other. After a while, Max said, "You know, you could have escaped."
    "And left you to it? Hardly fair." March tried the coffee. It was lukewarm. The fluorescent light was flickering, fizzing, making his head throb. This was what they did to you. Left you until two or three in the morning, until your body was at its weakest, your defenses at their most vulnerable. He knew this part of the game as well as they did.
    He swallowed the filthy coffee and lit a cigarette. Anything to stay awake. Guilt about the woman, guilt about his friend.
    "I'm a fool. I shouldn't have involved you. I'm sorry."
    "Forget it." Jaeger waved away the smoke. He leaned forward and spoke softly. "You have to let me carry my share of the blame, Zavi. Good Party Comrade Jaeger, here. Brownshirt. Blackshirt. Every goddamn shirt. Twenty years dedicated to the sacred cause of keeping my backside clean." He grasped March's knee. "I have favors to call in. I'm owed."
    His head was bent. He was whispering. "They have you marked down, my friend. A loner. Divorced. They'll flay you alive. Me, on the other hand? The great conformer Jaeger. Married to a holder of the Cross of German Motherhood. Bronze Class, no less. Not so good at the job, maybe—"
    "That's not true."
    "—but safe . Suppose I didn't tell you yesterday morning that the Gestapo had taken over the Buhler case. Then when you got back I said let's check out Stuckart. They look at my record. They might buy that, coming from me."
    "It's good of you."
    "Christ, man—forget that."
    "But it won't work."
    "Why not?"
    "Because this is beyond favors and clean sheets, don't you see? What about Buhler and Stuckart? They were in the Party before we were even born. And where were the favors when they needed them?"
    "You really think the Gestapo killed them?" Jaeger looked scared.
    March put his fingers to his lips and gestured to the picture. "Say nothing to me you wouldn't say to Heydrich," he whispered.
    The night dragged by in silence. At about three o'clock, Jaeger pushed some of the chairs together, lay down awkwardly and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was snoring. March returned to his post at the window.
    He could feel Heydrich's eyes drilling into his back. He tried to ignore it, failed, and turned to confront the picture. A black uniform, a gaunt white face, silver hair—not a human countenance at all but a photographic negative of a skull; an X ray. The only color was in the center of that death-mask face: those tiny pale blue eyes like splinters of winter sky. March had never met Heydrich or seen him; had only heard the stories. The press portrayed him as Nietzsche's Superman sprung to life. Heydrich in his pilot's uniform (he had flown combat missions on the eastern front). Heydrich in his fencing gear (he had fenced for Germany in the Olympics). Heydrich with his violin (he could reduce