March sat back and contemplated his half-finished puzzle. It was a version of events, as valid as any other.

Charlie sighed and stirred in her sleep, twisted to rest her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair. Today was Friday. The Fuhrertag was Monday. He had only the weekend left. “Oh, my dear Fraulein Maguire,” he murmured. “I fear we have been looking in the wrong place.”

“LADIES and gentlemen, we shall shortly be beginning our descent to Flughafen Hermann Goering. 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, towards 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 faeces. 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 towards 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 seatbelt. “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 for a moment. “Yes, I’m sure. I remember it made me realise: 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 ringing you a course of action he had discussed with the others?”

“Does it matter?”

“Very much. Think about it. If he agreed 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 direct 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 Zurich, 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 felt suddenly deflated. In truth, he hardly knew her, despite everything. He said: The reason he would have waited is to try and 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, the moisture scudded across the window, leaving threads of droplets. The swastika above the terminal building hung limp in the wet.

There were two queues 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 would 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. An awkward silence. Then abruptly she stood on tiptoe and brushed her cheek against his. She was gone before he could think of a response.

THE line of returning Germans shuffled one at a time, in silence, into the Reich. March waited patiently with his hands clasped behind his back while his passport was scrutinised. In these last few days before the Fuhrer’s birthday, the border checks were always more stringent, the guards more jittery,

The eyes of the Zollgrenzschutz officer were hidden in the shade of his visor. The Herr Sturmbannfuhrer is back with three hours to spare.” He drew a thick black line through the visa, scrawled Void” across it, and handed the passport back. “Welcome home.”

In the crowded customs hall March kept a. look out for Charlie, but could not see her. Perhaps they had refused to let her back into the country. He almost hoped they had: it would be safer for her.

The Zollgrenzschutz were opening every bag. Never had he seen such security. It was chaos. The passengers milling and arguing around the mounds of clothes made the hall look Hike an Indian bazaar. He waited his turn.

It was after three by the time March reached the left-luggage area and retrieved his case. In the toilets he changed back into his uniform, folded his civilian clothes and packed them away. He checked his Luger and slipped it into his holster. As he left, he glanced at himself in the mirror. A familiar black figure.

Welcome home.

When the sun shone the Party called it “Fuhrer weather”. They had no name for rain. Nevertheless, it had been decreed, drizzle or not, that this afternoon was to be the start of the three-day holiday. And so, with dogged National Socialist determination, the people set about their celebrations.

March was in a taxi heading south through Wedding. This was workers” Berlin, a communist stronghold of the 1920s. The factory whistles, in a festive gesture, had sounded an hour earlier than usual. Now the streets were dense with damp revellers. The Blockwarts had been active. From every second or third building, a banner hung -mostly swastikas, but also the occasional slogan, strung between the iron balconies of the fortress-tenements. WORKERS OF BERLIN SALUTE THE FUHRER ON HIS 75TH BIRTHDAY! LONG LIVE THE GLORIOUS NATIONAL SOCIALIST REVOLUTION! LONG LIVE OUR GUIDE AND FIRST COMRADE ADOLF HITLER! The back streets were in a delirium of colour, throbbing to the oohm-pah! of the local SA bands. And this was only Friday. March wondered what the Wedding authorities had planned for the day itself.

During the night, on the corner of Wolff Strasse, some rebellious spirit had added a piece of graffiti, in white paint:

ANYONE FOUND NOT ENJOYING THEMSELVES WILL BE SHOT.

A couple of anxious-looking brownshirts were trying to clean it off.

March took the taxi as far as Fritz-Todt Platz. His Volkswagen was still outside Stuckart’s apartment, where he had parked it the night before last. He looked up at the fourth floor. Someone had drawn all the curtains.