Fatherland

came the war," said Charlie. They had reached the end of the Neuersee and were walking back. From beyond the trees came the hum of the traffic on the East- West Axis. The dome of the Great Hall rose above the trees. Berliners joked that the only way to avoid seeing it was to live inside it.
    "After 1939, the demand for Swiss accounts increased dramatically, for obvious reasons. People were desperate to get their property out of Germany. So banks like Zaugg devised a new kind of deposit account. For a fee of 200 francs, you received a box and a number, a key and a letter of authorization."
    "Exactly like Stuckart."
    "Right. You simply needed to show up with the letter and the key, and it was all yours. No questions. Each account could have as many keys and letters of authorization as the holder was prepared to pay for. The beauty of it was, the banks were no longer involved. One day, if she could get the travel permit, some little old lady might turn up with her life savings. Ten years later, her son could turn up with a letter and a key and walk off with his inheritance."
    "Or the Gestapo might turn up—"
    "—and if they had the letter and the key, the bank could give them everything. No embarrassment. No publicity. No breaking the banking code."
    "These accounts—they still exist?"
    "The Swiss government banned them at the end of the war, under pressure from Berlin, and no new ones have been allowed since. But the old ones—they still exist, because the terms of the original agreement have to be honored. They've become valuable in their own right. People sell them to one another. According to Henry, Zaugg developed quite a specialty in them. God knows what he's got locked in those boxes."
    "Did you mention Stuckart's name to this Mr. Nightingale?"
    "Of course not. I told him I was writing a piece for Fortune about 'the lost legacies of the war.' "
    "Just as you told me you were going to interview Stuckart for an article about 'the Führer's early years'?"
    She hesitated and said quietly, "What's that supposed to mean?"
    His head was throbbing, his ribs still ached. What did he mean? He lit a cigarette to give himself time to think.
    "People who encounter violent death—they try to forget it, run away. Not you. Last night: your eagerness to go back to Stuckart's apartment, the way you opened has letters. This morning: turning up information about Swiss banks . . ."
    He stopped speaking. An elderly couple passed on the footpath, staring at them. He realized they must look like an odd pair: an SS Sturmbannführer, unshaven and slightly bashed around, and a woman who was clearly a foreigner. Her accent might be perfect, but there was something about her, in her expression, her clothes, her stance—something that betrayed that she was not German.
    "Let's walk this way." He led her off the path toward the trees.
    "Can I have one of those?"
    In the shadows, as he lit her a cigarette, she cupped the flame. Reflections of the fire danced in her eyes.
    "All right." She stepped back a pace, hugging herself as if she were cold. "It's true my parents knew Stuckart before the war. It's true I went to see him before Christmas. But I didn't call him. He called me."
    "When?"
    "On Saturday. Late."
    "What did he say?"
    She laughed. "Oh, no, Sturmbannführer. In my business information is a commodity, exchangeable on the open market. But I'm willing to trade."
    "What do you want to know?"
    "Everything. Why you had to break into that apartment last night. Why you're keeping secrets from your own people. Why the Gestapo almost killed you an hour ago."
    "Oh, that ." He smiled. He felt weary. He leaned back against the rough bark of the tree and stared across the park. It seemed to him he had nothing to lose.
    "Two days ago," he began, "I fished a body out of the Havel."
    He told her everything. He told her about Buhler's death and Luther's disappearance. He told her what Jost had seen, and what had happened to him. He told her about Nebe and Globus, about the art treasures and the
    Gestapo file. He even told her about Pili's statement. And—something he had noticed about criminals confessing, even those who knew that their confessions would one day hang them—when he finished, he felt better.
    She was silent a long time. "That's fair," she said. "I don't know how this helps, but this is what happened to me."
    She had gone to bed early on Saturday night. The weather had been foul—the start of that great bank of rain that had