Free Fatherland by Robert Harris

of a few of them: party bosses; a motor industry tycoon, grown fat on the profits of slave labor immediately after the war; the managing director of Wertheim's, the great department store on Potsdamer-PIatz, which had been confiscated from its Jewish owners more than thirty years before; an armaments manufacturer; the head of an engineering conglomerate building the great Autobahnen into the eastern territories. He wondered how Buhler could have afforded to keep such wealthy company. Then he remembered Halder's description: luxury like the Roman Empire . . .
    "KP 17 , this is KHQ. KP 17 , answer, please!" A woman's urgent voice filled the car. March picked up the radio handset concealed under the dashboard.
    "This is KP 17 . Go ahead."
    "KP 17 , I have Sturmbannführer Jaeger for you."
    He had arrived outside the gates to Buhler's villa. Through the metalwork, March could see a yellow curve of drive and the towers, exactly as the sentry had described.
    "You said trouble," boomed Jaeger. "And we've got it."
    "Now what?"
    "I hadn't been back here ten minutes when two of our esteemed colleagues from the Gestapo arrived. 'In view of Party Comrade Buhler's prominent position, blah blah blah, the case has been redesignated a security matter.' "
    March thumped his hand against the steering wheel. "Shit!"
    " 'All documents to be handed over to the Security Police forthwith, reports required from investigating officers on current status of inquiry, Kripo inquiry to be closed, effective immediately.'"
    "When did this happen?"
    "It's happening now. They're sitting in our office."
    "Did you tell them where I am?"
    "Of course not. I just left them to it and said I'd try to find you. I've come straight to the control room." Jaeger's voice dropped. March could imagine him turning his back on the woman operator. "Listen, Zavi, I wouldn't recommend any heroics. They mean serious business, believe me. The Gestapo will be swarming over Schwanenwerder any minute."
    March stared at the house. It was utterly still, deserted. Damn the Gestapo.
    He made up his mind at that moment. He said, "I can't hear you, Max. I'm sorry. The line is breaking up. I haven't been able to understand anything you've said. Request you report radio fault. Out." He switched off the receiver.
    About fifty meters before the house, on the right side of the road, March had passed a gated track leading into the woods that covered the center of the island. Now he put the Volkswagen into reverse gear, rapidly backed up to it and parked. He trotted back to Buhler's gates. He did not have much time.
    They were locked. That was to be expected. The lock itself was a solid metal block a meter and a half off the ground. He wedged the toe of his boot into it and stepped up. There was a row of iron spikes, thirty centimeters apart, running along the top of the gate, just above his head. Gripping one in either hand, he hauled himself up until he was in a position to swing his left leg over. A hazardous business. For a moment he sat astride the gate, recovering his breath. Then he dropped down to the gravel driveway on the other side.
    The house was large and of a curious design. It had three stories capped by a steep roof of blue slate. To the left were the two stone towers the sentry had described. These were attached to the main body of the house, which had a balcony with a stone balustrade running the entire length of the first floor. The balcony was supported by pillars. Behind these, half hidden in the shadows, was the main entrance. March started toward it. Beech trees and firs grew in untended profusion along the sides of the drive. The borders were neglected. Dead leaves, unswept since the winter, blew across the lawn.
    He stepped between the pillars. The first surprise. The front door was unlocked.
    March stood in the hall and looked around. There was an oak staircase to the right, two doors to the left and a gloomy passage straight ahead, which he guessed led to the