Fatherland

shall shortly be beginning our descent into Flughafen Hermann Göring. Please return your seats to the upright position and fold away the tables in front of you ..."
    Carefully, so as not to wake her, March withdrew his shoulder from beneath Charlie's head, gathered up his pieces of paper and made his way, unsteadily, toward the back of the aircraft. A boy in the uniform of the Hitler Youth emerged from the lavatory and held the door open politely. March nodded, went inside and locked it behind him. A dim light flickered.
    The tiny compartment stank of stale air, endlessly recycled; of cheap soap; of feces. He lifted the lid of the metal lavatory basin and dropped in the paper. The aircraft pitched and shook. A warning light pinged, ATTENTION! RETURN TO YOUR SEAT! The turbulence made his stomach lurch. Was this how Luther had felt as the aircraft dropped toward Berlin? The metal was clammy to the touch. He pulled a lever and the lavatory flushed, his notes sucked from sight in a whirlpool of blue water.
    Lufthansa had stocked the toilet not with towels but with moist little paper handkerchiefs, impregnated with some sickly liquid. March wiped his face. He could feel the heat of his skin through the slippery fabric. Another vibration, like a U-boat being depth-charged. They were falling fast. He pressed his burning forehead to the cool mirror. Dive, dive, dive. . .
    She was awake, dragging a comb through her thick hair. "I was beginning to think you had jumped."
    "It's true, the thought did enter my mind." He fastened his seat belt. "But you may be my salvation."
    "You say the nicest things."
    "I said 'may be.' " He took her hand. "Listen. Are you sure Stuckart told you he came on Thursday to check out that telephone opposite your apartment?"
    She thought about it for a moment. "Yes, I'm sure. I remember it made me realize: this man is serious, he's done his homework."
    "That's what I think. The question is, was Stuckart acting on his own—trying to set up his own private escape route—or was calling you a course of action he had discussed with the others?"
    "Does it matter?"
    "Very much. Think about it. If he agreed on it with the others on Friday, it means Luther may know who you are and know the procedure for contacting you."
    She pulled her hand back in surprise. "But that's crazy. He'd never trust me."
    "You're right. It's crazy." They had dropped through one layer of cloud; beneath them was another. March could see the tip of the Great Hall poking through it like the top of a helmet. "But suppose Luther is still alive down there. What are his options? The airport is being watched. So are the docks, the railway stations, the border. He can't risk going directly to the American Embassy, not after what's happened about Kennedy's visit. He can't go home. What can he do?"
    "I don't believe it. He could have called me Tuesday or Wednesday. Or Thursday morning. Why would he wait?"
    But he could hear the doubt in her voice. He thought: you don't want to believe it. You thought you were clever, looking for your story in Zürich, but all the time your story might actually have been looking for you—in Berlin.
    She had turned away from him to stare through the window.
    March suddenly felt deflated. He hardly knew her, despite everything. He said, "The reason he would have waited is to try to find something better to do, something safer. Who knows? Maybe he's found it."
    She did not answer.
    They landed in Berlin in a thin drizzle, just before two o'clock. At the end of the runway, as the Junkers turned, moisture scudded across the window, leaving threads of droplets. The swastika above the terminal building hung limp in the wet.
    There were two lines at passport control: one for German and European Community nationals, one for the rest of the world.
    "This is where we part," said March. He had persuaded her, with some difficulty, to let him carry her case. Now he handed it back. "What are you going to do?"
    "Go back to my apartment, I guess, and wait for the telephone to ring. What about you?"
    "I thought I'd arrange myself a history lesson." She looked at him, uncomprehending. He said, "I'll call you later."
    "Be sure you do."
    A vestige of the old mistrust had returned. He could see it in her eyes, felt her searching it out in his. He wanted to say something to reassure her. "Don't worry. A deal is a deal."
    She nodded. There was an awkward silence. Then abruptly she stood on tiptoe and brushed her cheek against his.