Fatherland

harder to see it. In Zürich, the money's so old, it's invisible."
    Beneath the paving stones and tramlines of Bahnhof-Strasse ran the catacomb of vaults in which three generations of Europe's rich had buried their wealth. March looked at the shoppers and tourists pouring along the street and wondered upon what ancient dreams and secrets, upon what bones they were treading.
    These banks were small, family-run concerns: a dozen or two employees, a suite of offices, a small brass plate. Zaugg & Cie. was typical. The entrance was in a side street, behind a jewelers, scanned by a remote camera identical to the one outside Zaugg's villa. As March rang the bell beside the discreet door, he felt Charlie brush his hand.
    A woman's voice over the intercom demanded his name and business. He looked up at the camera.
    "My name is March. This is Fräulein Maguire. We wish to see Herr Zaugg."
    "Do you have an appointment?"
    "No."
    "The Herr Direktor sees no one without an appointment."
    "Tell him we have a letter of authorization for account number 2402."
    "One moment, please."
    The policemen were lounging at the entrance to the side street. March glanced at Charlie. It seemed to him her eyes were brighter, her skin more lustrous. He supposed he flattered himself. Everything looked heightened today—the trees greener, the blossoms whiter, the sky bluer, as if washed with gloss.
    She was carrying a leather shoulder bag, from which she now produced a camera, a Leica. "I think a shot for the family album."
    "As you like. But leave me out of it."
    "Such modesty."
    She took a photograph of Zaugg's door and nameplate. The receptionist's voice snapped over the intercom, "Please come to the second floor." There was a buzz of bolts being released, and March pushed at the heavy door.
    The building was an optical illusion. Small and nondescript from the outside, inside a staircase of glass and tubular chrome led to a wide reception area decorated with modern art. Hermann Zaugg was waiting to meet them. Behind him stood one of the bodyguards from last night.
    "Herr March, is it?" Zaugg extended his hand. "And Fräulein Maguire?" He shook her hand, too, and gave a slight bow. "English?"
    "American."
    "Ah, good. Always a pleasure to meet our American friends." He was like a little doll: silver hair, shiny pink face, tiny hands and feet. He wore a suit of immaculate black, a white shirt, a pearl-gray tie. "I understand you have the necessary authorization?"
    March produced the letter. Zaugg held the paper swiftly to the light and studied the signature. "Yes, indeed. The hand of my youth. I fear my script has deteriorated since those years. Come."
    In his office, he directed them to a low sofa of white leather. He sat behind his desk. Now the advantage of height lay with him: the oldest trick.
    March had decided to be frank. "We passed your home last night. Your privacy is well protected."
    Zaugg had his hands folded on his desk. He made a noncommittal gesture with his tiny thumbs, as if to say, You know how it is . "I gather from my associates that you had protection of your own. Do I take it this visit is official, or private?"
    "Both. That is to say, neither."
    "I am familiar with the situation. Next you will tell me it is 'a delicate matter.' "
    "It is a delicate matter."
    "My speciality." He adjusted his cuffs. "Sometimes it seems to me that the whole history of twentieth-century Europe has flowed through this office. In the 1930s, it was Jewish refugees who sat where you now sit—often pathetic creatures, clutching whatever they had managed to salvage. They were usually followed closely by gentlemen from the Gestapo. In the 1940s, it was German officials of—how shall we say?—recently acquired wealth. Sometimes the very men who had once come to close the accounts of others returned to open new ones on their own behalf. In the 1950s, we dealt with the descendants of those who had vanished during the 1940s. Now, in the 1960s, I anticipate an increase in American custom, as your two great countries come together once more. The 1970s I shall leave to my son."
    "This letter of authorization," said March. "How much access does it give us?"
    "You have the key?"
    March nodded.
    "Then you have total access."
    "We'd like to begin with the account records."
    "Very well." Zaugg studied the letter, then picked up his telephone. "Fräulein Graf, bring in the file for 2402."
    She appeared a minute later, a middle-aged woman carrying a thin sheaf of