“And threw him in the lake?”

“Not immediately. Despite his disability, according to his sister, Buhler was a strong swimmer. You could see that by the look of him: his shoulders were well-developed. But after he had been cleaned up, I inspected his body in the morgue. There was bruising here” — March touched his cheeks — “and on the gums at the front of his mouth. On the kitchen table yesterday was a bottle of vodka, most of it gone. I think the autopsy report will show alcohol in Buhler’s bloodstream. I think they forced him to drink, stripped him, took him out on their boat, and dumped him over the side.”

“Intellectual pigshit,” said Globus. “Buhler probably drank the vodka to give him the guts to kill himself.”

“According to his sister, Party Comrade Buhler was a teetotaller.”

There was a long silence. March could hear Jaeger breathing heavily. Nebe was gazing out across the lake. Eventually, Globus muttered: “What this fancy theory doesn’t explain is why these mysterious killers didn’t just put a bullet in Buhler’s brain and have done with it.”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” said March. They wanted to make it look like suicide. But they bungled it.”

“Interesting” murmured Nebe. “If Buhler’s suicide was faked, then it is logical to suppose that Stuckart’s was, also.”

Because Nebe was still staring at the Havel, March did not realise at first that the remark was a question, addressed to him.

That was my conclusion. That was why I visited Stuckart’s apartment last night. Stuckart’s murder, I think, was a three-man operation: two in the flat; one in the foyer, pretending to repair the elevator. The noise from his electric drill was supposed to mask the sound of the shot, giving the killers time to get away before the body was discovered.”

“And the suicide note?”

“Forged, perhaps. Or written under duress. Or…”

He stopped himself. He was thinking aloud, he realised-a potentially fatal activity. Krebs was staring at him.

“Is that it?” asked Globus. “Are the Grimms” fairy stories over for the day? Excellent. Some of us have work to do. Luther is the key to this mystery, gentlemen. Once we have him, all will be explained.”

Nebe said: “If his heart condition is as bad as you say, we need to move quickly. I shall arrange with the Propaganda Ministry for Luther’s picture to be carried in the press and on television.”

“No, no. Absolutely not.” Globus sounded alarmed. The Reichsfuhrer has expressly forbidden any publicity. The last thing we need is a scandal involving the Party leadership, especially now, with Kennedy coming. God in heaven, can you imagine what the foreign press would make of this? No. I assure you, we can catch him without alerting the media. What we need is a confidential flash to all Orpo patrols; a watch on the main railway stations, ports, airports, border crossings…Krebs can handle that.”

Then I suggest he does so.”

“At once, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.” Krebs gave a slight bow to Nebe and trotted off along the verandah, into the house.

“I have business to attend to in Berlin,” said Nebe. “March here will act as Kripo liaison officer until Luther is caught.”

Globus sneered. That will not be necessary.”

“Oh, but it will. Use him wisely, Globus. He has a brain. Keep him informed. Jaeger: you can return to your normal duties.”

Jaeger looked relieved. Globus seemed about to say something, but thought better of it.

“Walk me to my car, March. Good day to you, Globus.”

WHEN they were round the corner, Nebe said: “You are not telling the truth, are you? Or at least, not all of it. That is good. Get in the car. We need to talk.”

The driver saluted and opened the rear door. Nebe manoeuvred himself painfully into the back seat. March got in the other side.

“At six o’clock this morning, this arrived at my house by courier.” Nebe unlocked his briefcase and pulled out a file, a couple of centimetres thick. “It’s all about you, Sturmbannfuhrer. Flattering, isn’t it, to merit such attention?”

The windows of the Mercedes were tinted green. In the half-light, Nebe looked like a lizard in a reptile house.

“Born, Hamburg, 1922; father died of wounds, 1929; mother killed in a British air raid, 1942; joined the Navy, 1939; transferred to the U-boat service, 1940; decorated for bravery and promoted, 1943; given command of your own boat, 1946 — one of the youngest U-boat commanders in the Reich. A glittering career. And then it all starts going wrong.”

Nebe leafed through the file. March stared at the green lawn, the green sky.

“No police promotions for ten years. Divorced, 1957. And then the reports start. Blockwart: persistent refusal to contribute to Winter-Relief. Party officials at Werderscher Markt: persistent refusal to join the NSDAP. Overheard in the canteen making disparaging comments about Himmler. Overheard in bars, overheard in restaurants, overheard in corridors…”

Nebe was pulling pages out.

“Christmas 1963 — you start asking round about some Jews who used to live in your apartment. Jews! Are you mad? There is a complaint here from your ex-wife; one from your son…”

“My son? My son is ten years old…”

“Quite old enough to form a judgement, and be listened to — as you know.”

“May I ask what it is I am supposed to have done to him?”

“ "Shown insufficient enthusiasm for his Party activities." The point is, Sturmbannfuhrer, that this file has been ten years maturing in the Gestapo registry — a little here, a little there, year in, year out, growing like a tumour in the dark. And now you’ve made a powerful enemy, and he wants to use it.”

Nebe put the folder back in his briefcase.

“Globus?”

“Globus, yes. Who else? He asked to have you transferred to Colombia House last night, pending court martial from the SS.” Colombia House was the private SS prison in General-Pape Strasse. “I have to tell you, March, there is easily enough here to send you to a KZ. After that, you’re beyond help — from me or anybody else.”

“What stopped him?”

“To start court-martial proceedings against a serving Kripo officer, he first had to get permission from Heydrich. And Heydrich referred it to me. So what I said to our beloved Reichsfuhrer was this. ‘This fellow Globus,’ I said, ‘is obviously terrified that March has got something on him, so he wants him done away with.’ ‘I see,’ says the Reichsfuhrer, ‘so what do you suggest?’ ‘Why not,’ say I, ‘give him until the Fuhrertag to prove his case against Globus? That’s four days.’ ‘All right,’ says Heydrich. ‘But if he’s not come up with anything by then, Globus can have him.’ ” Nebe gave a smile of contentment. Thus are the affairs of the Reich arranged between colleagues of long standing.”

“I suppose I must thank the Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

“Oh no, don’t thank me.” Nebe was cheerful. “Heydrich genuinely wonders if you do have something on Globus. He would like to know. So would I. Perhaps for a different reason.” He seized March’s arm again — the same fierce grip — and hissed: These bastards are up to something, March. What is it? You find out. You tell me. Don’t trust anyone. That’s how your Uncle Artur has lasted as long as he has. Do you know why some of the old-timers call Globus "the submarine"?”

“No, sir.”

“Because he had a submarine engine hooked up to a Polish basement during the war, and used the exhaust fumes to kill people. Globus likes killing people. He’d like to kill you. You should remember that.” Nebe released March’s arm. “Now, we must say goodbye.”

He rapped on the glass partition with the top of his cane. The driver came round and opened March’s door.

“I would offer you a lift into central Berlin, but I prefer travelling alone. Keep me informed. Find Luther, March. Find him before Globus gets to him.”

The door slammed. The engine whispered. As the limousine crunched across the gravel, March could barely make out Nebe — just a green silhouette behind the bulletproof glass.