Fatherland

take my chances in a KZ. And the moment you return to Berlin, you will tell me everything you have discovered. Right?"
    March nodded.
    "Good. The Führer calls the Swiss 'a nation of hotel keepers.' I recommend the Baur au Lac on Tal-Strasse, overlooking the See. Most luxurious. A fine place for a condemned man to spend a night."
    Back in his office, a parody of a tourist, March booked his hotel room and reserved a plane seat. Within the hour, he had his passport back. The visa had been stamped inside: the ubiquitous eagle and garlanded swastika, the blank spaces for the dates filled in by a crabbed and bureaucratic hand.
    The duration of an exit visa was in direct ratio to the applicant's political reliability. Party bosses got ten years; Party members, five; citizens with unblemished records, one; the dregs of the camps naturally got nothing at all. March had been given a day pass to the outside world. He was down there among the untouchables of society—the grumblers, the parasites, the work shy, the crypto-criminals.
    He called the Kripo's economic investigation division and asked for the resident Swiss expert. When he mentioned Zaugg's name and asked if the division had any information, the man at the other end laughed. "How long do you have?"
    "Start at the beginning."
    "Hold, please." The man put down the phone and went to fetch the file.
    Zaugg and 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 harboring millions of Reichsmarks in cash, art, bullion, jewelry 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 Zürichsee. 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 and 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 safe 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 around.
    The little bar in Oberwall-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-paneled 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