Fatherland

if Globus had discovered his mission and had arranged for the plane to be diverted. Perhaps they had been set down in some remote air base in southern Germany? But then he saw ZÜRICH on the terminal building.
    The instant the plane taxied to a halt, the passengers— professional commuters, most of them—rose as one. She was on her feet, too, pulling down her case and that ridiculous blue coat. He reached past her.
    "Excuse me."
    She shrugged on the coat. "Where to now?"
    "I'm going to my hotel, Fräulein. What you do is your concern."
    He managed to squeeze in front of a fat Swiss who was cramming documents into a leather attaché case. The maneuver left her trapped some way behind him. He did not look back as he shuffled down the aisle and off the aircraft.
    He walked briskly through the arrivals hall to passport control, overtaking most of the other passengers to station himself near the head of the queue. Behind him, he heard a commotion as she tried to catch up.
    The Swiss border official, a serious young man with a drooping mustache, leafed through his passport. "Business or pleasure, Herr March?"
    "Business." Definitely business.
    "One moment."
    The young man picked up the telephone, dialed three digits, turned away from March and whispered something into the receiver. He said, "Yes. Yes. Of course." Then he hung up and returned the passport to March.
    There were two of them waiting for him by the baggage carousel. He spotted them from fifty meters away: bulky figures with close-cropped hair, wearing stout black shoes and belted fawn raincoats. Policemen—they were the same the world over. He walked past them without a glance and sensed rather than saw them falling in behind him.
    He went unchallenged through the green customs channel and out into the main concourse. Taxis. Where were taxis?
    Clip-clop, clip-clop . Coming up behind him.
    The air outside was several degrees colder than in Berlin. Clip-clop, clip-clop . He wheeled around. There she was, in her coat, clutching her case, balanced on her high heels.
    "Go away, Fräulein. Do you understand me? Do you need it in writing? Go back to America and publish your stupid story. I have business to attend to."
    Without waiting for her reply, he opened the rear door of the waiting taxi, threw in his case, climbed in after it. "Baur au Lac," he said to the driver.
    They pulled out of the airport and onto the highway, heading south toward the city. The day was almost gone. Craning his neck to look out of the back window, March could see a taxi tucked in ten meters behind them, with an
    unmarked white Mercedes following it. Christ, what a comedy this was turning into. Globus was chasing Luther, he was chasing Globus, Charlie Maguire was chasing him and now the Swiss police wore on the tails of both of them. He lit a cigarette.
    "Can't you read?" said the driver. He pointed to a sign: THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.
    "Welcome to Switzerland," muttered March. He wound down the window a few centimeters, and the cloud of blue smoke was plucked into the chilly air.
    Zürich was more beautiful than he had expected. Its center reminded him of Hamburg. Old buildings clustered around the edge of the wide lake. Trams in a livery of green and white rattled along the front, past well-lit shops and cafes. The driver was listening to the Voice of America. In Berlin it was a blur of static; here it was clear. "I wanna hold your hand," sang a youthful English voice. "I wanna hold your ha-a-and!" A thousand teenage girls screamed.
    The Baur au Lac was a street's width from the lake. March paid the taxi driver in Reichsmarks—every country on the continent accepted Reichsmarks, it was Europe's common currency—and went inside. It was as luxurious as Nebe had promised. His room had cost him half a month's salary. "A fine place for a condemned man to spend a night..." As he signed the register he glimpsed a flash of blue at the door, swiftly followed by the fawn raincoats. I'm like a movie star, thought March as he caught the elevator. Everywhere I go, I have two detectives and a brunette in tow.
    He spread a map of the city on the bed and sat down beside it, sinking into the spongy mattress. He had so little time. The broad expanse of the Zürichsee thrust up into the complex of streets like a blue blade. According to his Kripo file, Hermann Zaugg had a place on See-Strasse. March found it. See-Strasse ran alongside the eastern
    shore of the lake, about four kilometers south of the