Fatherland

authorities. We now have it. Art treasures removed from Warsaw alone: two thousand seven hundred paintings of the European school; ten thousand seven hundred paintings by Polish artists; fourteen hundred sculptures."
    Globus again: "We're digging up some of the sculptures in the garden right now. Most of this stuff went where it was intended: the Führermuseum, Reichsmarschall Göring's museum at Carinhall, galleries in Vienna, Berlin. But there's a big discrepancy between the Polish lists of what was taken and our lists of what we got. It worked like this. As state secretary, Buhler had access to everything. He would ship the stuff under escort to Stuckart at the Interior Ministry. Everything legal looking.
    Stuckart would arrange for it to be stored, or smuggled out of the Reich to be exchanged for cash, jewels, gold— anything portable and nontraceable."
    March could see that Nebe was impressed despite himself. His little eyes were drinking in the art. "Was anyone else of high rank involved?"
    "You're familiar with the former undersecretary of state at the Foreign Ministry, Martin Luther?"
    "Of course."
    "He is the man we seek."
    "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