Fatherland

the sunburst of blood and brain.
    A beat. A beat and a half. Then the crack of a high- velocity rifle howled around the Platz, scooping up the pigeons, scattering them like gray litter across the square.
    People started to scream.
    March threw the car into gear, flashed his indicator and cut sharply into the traffic, ignoring the outraged hooting—across one lane, and then another. He drove like a man who believed himself invulnerable, as if faith and willpower alone would protect him from collision. He could see a little group forming around the body, which was leaking blood and tissue down the steps. He could hear police whistles. Figures in black uniforms were converging from all directions—Globus and Krebs among them.
    Nightingale had Charlie by the arm and was propelling her away from the scene, toward the road, to where March was braking to a halt. The diplomat wrenched open the door and threw her into the backseat, crammed
    himself in after her. The door slammed. The Volkswagen accelerated away.

    We were betrayed.
    Fourteen men summoned; now fourteen dead.
    Luther's hand outstretched, the fountain bursting from his neck, his trunk exploding, toppling forward. Globus and Krebs running. Secrets scattered in that shower of tissue; salvation gone . . .
    Betrayed. . .
    He drove to an underground parking lot just off Rosen-Strasse, close to the Börse, where the Synagogue had once stood—a favorite spot of his for meeting informers. Was there anywhere more lonely? He took a ticket from the machine and pointed the car down the steep ramp. The tires cried out against the concrete; the headlights picked out ancient stains of oil and carbon on the floors and walls, like cave paintings.
    Level two was empty—on Saturdays, the financial sector of Berlin was a desert. March parked in a central bay. When the engine died, the silence was complete.
    Nobody said anything. Charlie was dabbing at her coat with a tissue. Nightingale was leaning back with his eyes closed. Suddenly March slammed his fists down on the top of the steering wheel.
    "Whom did you tell?"
    Nightingale opened his eyes. "Nobody."
    "The ambassador? Washington? The resident spy master?"
    "I told you: nobody." There was anger in his voice.
    "This is no help," said Charlie.
    "It's also insulting and absurd. Christ, you two—"
    "Consider the possibilities." March counted them off on his fingers. "Luther betrayed himself to somebody— ridiculous. The telephone booth in Bülow-Strasse was
    tapped—impossible: even the Gestapo does not have the resources to bug every public telephone in Berlin. Very well. So was our discussion last night overheard? Unlikely, as we could hardly hear it ourselves!"
    "Why does it have to be this big conspiracy? Maybe Luther was just followed."
    "Then why not just pick him up? Why shoot him in public, at the very moment of contact?"
    "He was looking straight at me." Charlie covered her face with her hands.
    "It needn't have been me," said Nightingale. "The leak could have come from one of you two."
    "How? We were together all night."
    "I'm sure you were." He spat out the words and fumbled for the door. "I don't have to take this sort of shit from you. Charlie—you'd better come back to the embassy with me. Now. We'll get you on a flight out of Berlin tonight and just hope to Christ no one connects us with any of this." He waited. "Come on."
    She shook her head.
    "If not for your sake, then think of your father."
    She was incredulous. "What's my father got to do with it?"
    Nightingale hauled himself out of the Volkswagen. "I should never have let myself be talked into this insanity. You're a fool. As for him"—he nodded toward March— "he's a dead man."
    He walked away from the car, his footsteps richocheting around the deserted lot—loud at first, but fast becoming fainter. There was the clang of a metal door banging shut, and he was gone.
    March looked at Charlie in the mirror. She seemed very small, huddled up in the backseat.
    Far away: another noise. The barrier at the top of the ramp was being raised. A car was coming. March felt suddenly panicky, claustrophobic. Their refuge could equally well serve as a trap.
    "We can't stay here," he said. He switched on the engine. "We have to keep moving."
    "In that case, I want to take more pictures."
    "Do you have to?"
    "You assemble your evidence, Sturmbannführer, and I'll assemble mine."
    He glanced at her again. She had put aside her tissue and was staring at him with a