Fatherland

papers in a manila binding. Zaugg took it. "What do you wish to know?"
    "When was the account opened?"
    He looked through the papers. "July 1942. The eighth of that month."
    "And who opened it?"
    Zaugg hesitated. He was like a miser with his store of precious information: parting with each fact was agony. But under the terms of his own rules he had no choice.
    He said at last, "Herr Martin Luther."
    March was making notes. "And what were the arrangements for the account?"
    "One box. Four keys."
    " Four keys?" March's eyebrows rose in surprise. That was Luther himself, and Buhler and Stuckart, presumably. But who held the fourth key? "How were they distributed?"
    "They were all issued to Herr Luther, along with four letters of authorization. Naturally, what he chose to do with them is not our concern. You appreciate that this was a special form of account—an emergency, wartime account—designed to protect anonymity, and also to allow ease of access for any heirs or beneficiaries, should anything happen to the original account holder."
    "How did he pay for the account?"
    "In cash. Swiss francs. Thirty years' rental. In advance. Don't worry, Herr March—there is nothing to pay until 1972."
    Charlie said, "Do you have a record of transactions relating to the account?"
    Zaugg turned to her. "Only the dates on which the box was opened."
    "What are they?"
    "July 8, 1942. December 17, 1942. August 9, 1943. April 13, 1964."
    April 13! March barely suppressed a cry of triumph. His guess had been right. Luther had flown to Zürich at the start of the week. He scribbled the dates in his notebook. "Only four times?" he asked.
    "Correct."
    "And until last Monday, the box had not been opened for nearly twenty-one years?"
    "That's what the dates indicate." Zaugg closed the file with a flick of annoyance. "I might add, there's nothing especially unusual about that. We have boxes here that have lain untouched for fifty years or more."
    "You set up the account originally?"
    "I did."
    "Did Herr Luther say why he wanted to open it, or why he needed these particular arrangements?"
    "Client privilege."
    "I'm sorry?"
    "That is privileged information between client and banker."
    Charlie interrupted, "But we are your clients."
    "No, Fräulein Maguire. You are beneficiaries of my client. An important distinction."
    "Did Herr Luther open the box personally on each occasion?" asked March.
    "Client privilege."
    "Was it Luther who opened the box on Monday? What sort of mood was he in?"
    "Client privilege, client privilege." Zaugg held up his hands. "We can go on all day, Herr March. Not only am I under no obligation to give you that information, it would be illegal under the Swiss Banking Code for me to do so. I have passed on all you are entitled to know. Is there anything else?"
    "Yes." March closed his notebook and looked at Charlie. "We would like to inspect the box for ourselves."
    A small elevator led down to the vault. There was just enough room for four passengers. March arid Charlie, Zaugg and his bodyguard, stood awkwardly pressed together. Up close, the banker reeked of eau de cologne; his hair glistened beneath an oily pomade.
    The vault was like a prison, or a mortuary: a white-tiled corridor that stretched ahead of them for thirty meters, with bars on either side. At the far end, next to the gate, a security guard sat at a desk. Zaugg pulled a heavy bunch of keys from his pocket, attached by a chain to his belt. He hummed as he searched for the right one.
    The ceiling vibrated slightly as a tram passed overhead.
    He let them into the cage. Steel walls gleamed in the neon light: banks of doors, each half a meter square.
    Zaugg moved in front of them, unlocked one at waist height and stood back. The security guard pulled out a long box the size of a metal footlocker and carried it over to a table.
    Zaugg said, "Your key fits the lock on that box. I shall wait outside."
    "There's no need."
    "Thank you, but I prefer to wait."
    Zaugg left the cage and stood outside with his back to the bars. March looked at Charlie and gave her the key.
    "You do it."
    "I'm shaking . . ."
    She inserted the key. It turned easily. The end of the box opened. She reached inside. There was a look of puzzlement on her face, then disappointment. "It's empty, I think." Her expression changed. "No . . ."
    She smiled and pulled out a flat cardboard box about fifty centimeters square, five centimeters deep. The lid was sealed with red wax and had a typewritten