Zurich was more beautiful than he had expected. Its centre reminded him of Hamburg. Old buildings clustered around the edge of the wide lake. Trams in a livery of green and white rattled along the front, past well-lit shops and cafes. The driver was listening to the Voice of America. In Berlin it was a blur of static; here, it was clear. “I wanna hold your hand,” sang a youthful English voice. “I wanna hold your ha-a-and!” A thousand teenage girls screamed.
The Baur au Lac was a street’s-width from the lake. March paid the taxi driver in Reichsmarks — every country on the continent accepted Reichsmarks, it was Europe’s common currency — and went inside. It was as luxurious as Nebe had promised. His room cost him half a month’s salary. “A fine place for a condemned man to spend a night…” As he signed the register he glimpsed a flash of blue at the door, swiftly followed by the fawn raincoats. I am like a movie star, thought March, as he caught the elevator. Everywhere I go, I have two detectives and a brunette in tow.
HE spread a map of the city on the bed and sat down beside it, sinking into the spongy mattress. He had so little time. The broad expanse of the Zurich See thrust up into the complex of streets, like a blue blade. According to his Kripo file, Hermann Zaugg had a place on See Strasse. March found it. See Strasse ran alongside the eastern shore of the lake, about four kilometres south of the hotel.
Someone tapped softly on the door. A man’s voice called his name.
Now what? He strode across the room, flung open the door. A waiter was in the corridor, holding a tray. He looked startled.
“Sorry, sir. With the compliments of the lady in room 277, sir.”
“Yes. Of course.” March stood aside to let him through. The waiter came in hesitantly, as if he thought March might hit him. He set down the tray, lingered fractionally for a tip and then, when none was forthcoming, left. March locked the door behind him.
On the table was a bottle of Glenfiddich, with a one-word note. “Detente?”
HE stood at the window, his tie loosened, sipping the malt whisky, looking out across the Zurich See. Traceries of yellow lanterns were strung around the black water; on the surface, pinpricks of red, green and white bobbed and winked. He lit yet another cigarette, his millionth of the week.
People were laughing in the drive beneath his window. A light moved across the lake. No Great Hall, no marching bands, no uniforms. For the first time in — what was it? — a year, at least — he was away from the iron and granite of Berlin. So. He held up his glass and studied the pale liquid. There were other lives, other cities.
He noticed, along with the bottle, that she had ordered two glasses.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the telephone. He drummed his fingers on the little table.
Madness.
She had a habit of thrusting her hands deep into her pockets and standing with her head on one side, half-smiling. On the plane, he remembered, she had been wearing a red wool dress with a leather belt. She had good legs, in black stockings. And when she was angry or amused, which was most of the time, she would flick at the hair behind her ear.
The laughter outside drifted away.
“Where have you been the past twenty years?” Her contemptuous question to him in Stuckart’s apartment.
She knew so much. She danced around him.
“The millions of Jews who vanished in the war…”
He turned her note over in his fingers, poured himself another drink and lay back on the bed. Ten minutes later he lifted the receiver and spoke to the operator.
“Room 277.”
Madness, madness.
THEY met in the lobby, beneath the fronds of a luxuriant palm. In the opposite corner a string quartet scraped its way through a selection from Die Fledermaus.
March said: The Scotch is very good.”
“A peace offering.”
“Accepted. Thank you.” He glanced across at the elderly cellist. Her stout legs were held wide apart, as if she were milking a cow. “God knows why I should trust you.”
“God knows why I should trust you.”
“Ground rules,” he said firmly. “One: no more lies. Two: we do what I say, whether you want to or not. Three: you show me what you plan to print, and if I ask you not to write something, you take it out. Agreed?”
“It’s a deal.” She smiled and offered him her hand. He took it. She had a cool, firm grip. For the first time he noticed she had a man’s watch around her wrist.
“What changed your mind?” she asked.
He released her hand. “Are you ready to go out?” She was still wearing the red dress.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a notebook?”
She tapped her coat pocket. “Never travel without one.”
“Nor do I. Good. Let’s go.”
SWITZERLAND was a cluster of lights in a great darkness, enemies all around it: Italy to the south, France to the west, Germany north and east. Its survival was a source of wonder: “the Swiss miracle”, they called it.
