Fatherland

label gummed on top: PROPERTY OF THE REICH FOREIGN MINISTRY TREATY ARCHIVE, BERLIN. And underneath, in Gothic lettering: Geheime Reichssache . Top Secret State Document.
    A treaty?
    March broke the seal, using the key. He lifted the lid. The interior released a scent of mingled must and incense.
    Another tram passed. Zaugg was still humming, jingling his keys.
    Inside the cardboard box was an object wrapped in an oilcloth. March lifted it out and laid it flat on the desk. He drew back the cloth: a panel of wood, scratched and ancient; one of the corners was broken off. He turned it over.
    Charlie was next to him. She murmured, "It's beautiful."
    The edges of the panel were splintered, as if it had been wrenched from its setting. But the portrait itself was perfectly preserved. A young woman, exquisite, with pale brown eyes, was glancing to the right, a string of black beads looped twice around her neck. In her lap, in long, aristocratic fingers, she held a small animal with white fur. Not a dog, exactly; more like a weasel.
    Charlie was right. It was beautiful. It seemed to suck in the light from the vault and radiate it back. The girl's pale skin glowed—luminous, like an angel's.
    "What does it mean?" whispered Charlie.
    "God knows." March felt vaguely cheated. Was the deposit box no more than an extension of Buhler's treasure chamber? "How much do you know about art?"
    "Not much. But there's something familiar about it. May I?" She took it, held it at arm's length. "It's Italian, I think. You see her costume—the way the neckline of her dress is cut square, the sleeves. I'd say Renaissance, very old—and very genuine."
    "And very stolen. Put it back."
    "Do we have to?"
    "Of course. Unless you can think of a good story for the Zollgrenzschutz at Berlin airport."
    Another painting: that was all! Cursing under his breath, March ran the oilcloth through his hands, checked the cardboard container. He turned the safety deposit box on its end and shook it. Nothing. The empty metal mocked him. What had he hoped for? He did not know. But something to give him a better clue than this.
    "We must leave," he said.
    "One minute."
    Charlie propped the panel up against the box. She crouched and took half a dozen photographs. Then she rewrapped the picture, replaced it in its container and locked the box.
    March called, "We've finished here, Herr Zaugg. Thank you."
    Zaugg reappeared with the security guard—a fraction too quickly, March thought. He guessed the banker had been straining to overhear them.
    Zaugg rubbed his hands together. "All is to your satisfaction, I trust?"
    "Perfectly."
    The guard slid the box back into the cavity, Zaugg locked the door and the girl with the weasel was reinterred in darkness. "We have boxes here that have lain untouched for fifty years or more." Was that how long it would be before she saw the light again?
    They rode the elevator in silence. Zaugg shepherded them out at street level. "And so we say good-bye." He shook hands with each of them in turn.
    March felt he had to say something more, should try one final tactic. "I feel I must warn you, Herr Zaugg, that two of the joint holders of this account have been murdered in the past week, and that Martin Luther himself has disappeared."
    Zaugg did not even blink. "Dear me, dear me. Old clients pass away and new ones"—he gestured to them— "take their place. And so the world turns. The only thing you can be sure of, Herr March, is that whoever wins, still standing when the smoke of battle clears, will be the banks of the cantons of Switzerland. Good day to you."
    They were out on the street and the door was closing when Charlie shouted, "Herr Zaugg!"
    His face appeared, and before he could withdraw it, the camera clicked. His eyes were wide, his little mouth popped into a perfect O of outrage.
    Zürich's lake was misty blue, like a picture from a fairy story—a landscape fit for sea monsters and heroes to do battle in. If only the world had been as we were promised, thought March, then castles with pointed turrets would have risen through that haze.
    He was leaning against the damp stone balustrade outside the hotel, his suitcase at his feet, waiting for Charlie to settle her bill.
    He wished he could have stayed longer—taken her out on the water, explored the city, the hills; had dinner in the old town; returned to his room each night to make love to the sound of the lake ... A dream. Fifty meters to his left, sitting in their cars,