sentry studied it and returned it. He saluted. "That's fine, Herr Sturmbannführer."
"What's the procedure here?"
"Stop every car. Check the papers and ask where they're going. If they look suspicious, we phone the house, see if they're expected. Sometimes we search the car. It depends on whether the Reichsminister is in residence."
"Do you keep a record?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do me a favor. Look and see if Doctor Josef Buhler had any visitors on Monday night."
The sentry hitched his rifle and went back into his hut. March could see him turning the pages of a ledger. When he returned he shook his head. "Nobody for Doctor Buhler all day."
"Did he leave the island at all?"
"We don't keep a record of residents, sir, only visitors. And we don't check people going, only coming."
"Right." March looked past the guard, across the lake. A scattering of seagulls swooped low over the water, crying. Some yachts were moored to a jetty. He could hear the clink of their masts in the wind.
"What about the shore? Is that watched at all?"
The guard nodded. "The river police have a patrol every couple of hours. But most of those houses have enough sirens and dogs to guard a KZ. We just keep the sightseers away."
KZ: pronounced kah-tsett . Less of a mouthful than Konzentrationslager . Concentration camp.
There was a sound of powerful engines gunning in the distance. The guard turned to look up the road behind him, toward the island.
"One moment, sir."
Around the bend, at high speed, came a gray BMW with its headlights on, followed by a long black Mercedes limousine and then another BMW. The sentry stepped back and pressed a switch, the barrier rose and he saluted. As the convoy swept by, March had a glimpse of the Mercedes' passengers—a young woman, beautiful, an actress perhaps, or a model, with short blond hair; and next to her, staring straight ahead, a wizened old man, his rodentlike profile instantly recognizable. The cars roared off toward the city.
"Does he always travel that quickly?" asked March.
The sentry gave him a knowing look. "The Reichsminister has been screen-testing, sir. Frau Goebbels is due back at lunchtime."
"Ah. All is clear." March turned the key in the ignition and the Volkswagen came to life. "Did you know that Doctor Buhler is dead?"
"No, sir." The sentry gave no sign of interest. "When did that happen?"
"Monday night. He was washed up a few hundred meters from here."
"I heard they'd found a body."
"What was he like?"
"I hardly noticed him, sir. He didn't go out much. No visitors. Never spoke. But then, a lot of them end up like that out here."
"Which was his house?"
"You can't miss it. It's on the east side of the island. Two large towers. It's one of the biggest."
"Thanks."
As he drove down the causeway, March checked in his mirror. The sentry stood looking after him for a few seconds, then hitched his rifle again, turned and walked slowly back to his hut.
Schwanenwerder was small, less than a kilometer long and half a kilometer wide, with a single loop of road running one-way clockwise. To reach Buhler's property, March had to travel three quarters of the way around the island. He drove cautiously, slowing almost to a halt each time he glimpsed one of the houses off to his left.
The place had been named after the famous colonies of swans that lived at the southern end of the Havel. It had become fashionable toward the end of the last century. Most of its buildings dated from then: large villas, steep roofed and stone fronted in the French style, with long drives and lawns, protected from prying eyes by high walls and trees. A piece of the ruined Tuileries Palace stood incongruously by the roadside—a pillar and a section of arch carted back from Paris by some long-dead Wilhelmine businessman. No one stirred. Occasionally, through the bars of a gate, he saw a guard dog, and—once—a gardener raking leaves. The owners were at work in the city, or away, or lying low.
March knew the identities
"What's the procedure here?"
"Stop every car. Check the papers and ask where they're going. If they look suspicious, we phone the house, see if they're expected. Sometimes we search the car. It depends on whether the Reichsminister is in residence."
"Do you keep a record?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do me a favor. Look and see if Doctor Josef Buhler had any visitors on Monday night."
The sentry hitched his rifle and went back into his hut. March could see him turning the pages of a ledger. When he returned he shook his head. "Nobody for Doctor Buhler all day."
"Did he leave the island at all?"
"We don't keep a record of residents, sir, only visitors. And we don't check people going, only coming."
"Right." March looked past the guard, across the lake. A scattering of seagulls swooped low over the water, crying. Some yachts were moored to a jetty. He could hear the clink of their masts in the wind.
"What about the shore? Is that watched at all?"
The guard nodded. "The river police have a patrol every couple of hours. But most of those houses have enough sirens and dogs to guard a KZ. We just keep the sightseers away."
KZ: pronounced kah-tsett . Less of a mouthful than Konzentrationslager . Concentration camp.
There was a sound of powerful engines gunning in the distance. The guard turned to look up the road behind him, toward the island.
"One moment, sir."
Around the bend, at high speed, came a gray BMW with its headlights on, followed by a long black Mercedes limousine and then another BMW. The sentry stepped back and pressed a switch, the barrier rose and he saluted. As the convoy swept by, March had a glimpse of the Mercedes' passengers—a young woman, beautiful, an actress perhaps, or a model, with short blond hair; and next to her, staring straight ahead, a wizened old man, his rodentlike profile instantly recognizable. The cars roared off toward the city.
"Does he always travel that quickly?" asked March.
The sentry gave him a knowing look. "The Reichsminister has been screen-testing, sir. Frau Goebbels is due back at lunchtime."
"Ah. All is clear." March turned the key in the ignition and the Volkswagen came to life. "Did you know that Doctor Buhler is dead?"
"No, sir." The sentry gave no sign of interest. "When did that happen?"
"Monday night. He was washed up a few hundred meters from here."
"I heard they'd found a body."
"What was he like?"
"I hardly noticed him, sir. He didn't go out much. No visitors. Never spoke. But then, a lot of them end up like that out here."
"Which was his house?"
"You can't miss it. It's on the east side of the island. Two large towers. It's one of the biggest."
"Thanks."
As he drove down the causeway, March checked in his mirror. The sentry stood looking after him for a few seconds, then hitched his rifle again, turned and walked slowly back to his hut.
Schwanenwerder was small, less than a kilometer long and half a kilometer wide, with a single loop of road running one-way clockwise. To reach Buhler's property, March had to travel three quarters of the way around the island. He drove cautiously, slowing almost to a halt each time he glimpsed one of the houses off to his left.
The place had been named after the famous colonies of swans that lived at the southern end of the Havel. It had become fashionable toward the end of the last century. Most of its buildings dated from then: large villas, steep roofed and stone fronted in the French style, with long drives and lawns, protected from prying eyes by high walls and trees. A piece of the ruined Tuileries Palace stood incongruously by the roadside—a pillar and a section of arch carted back from Paris by some long-dead Wilhelmine businessman. No one stirred. Occasionally, through the bars of a gate, he saw a guard dog, and—once—a gardener raking leaves. The owners were at work in the city, or away, or lying low.
March knew the identities
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