Fatherland: A Novel
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Fatherland is set in an alternative world where Hitler has won the Second World War. It is April 1964 and one week before Hitler's 75th birthday. Xavier March, a detective of the Kriminalpolizei, is called out to investigate the discovery of a dead body in a lake near Berlin's most prestigious suburb.
As March discovers the identity of the body, he uncovers signs of a conspiracy that could go to the very top of the German Reich. And, with the Gestapo just one step behind, March, together with an American journalist, is caught up in a race to discover and reveal the truth -- a truth that has already killed, a truth that could topple governments, a truth that will change history.
From the Paperback edition.
might have added. ‘This is my day off. Look again at your list.’ There had been a pause at the other end, then Krause had come back on the line, grudgingly apologetic. ‘You are in luck, March. I was looking at last week’s rota. You can go back to sleep. Or . . .’ He had sniggered: ‘Or whatever else it was you were doing.’ A gust of wind had slashed rain against the window, rattling the pane. There was a standard procedure when a body was discovered: a pathologist, a police photographer and an
was a fortress. The gates were solid metal, three metres high, flanked on either side by a stone wall. A security camera scanned the entrance. March took Charlie’s arm and they strolled past, like lovers taking the air. They crossed the road and waited in a driveway on the other side. March looked at his watch. It was just after nine o’clock. Five minutes passed. He was about to suggest they leave when, with a clank and a hum of machinery, the gates began to swing open. Charlie whispered:
laughing, holding on to him. ‘Enough. Stop. I’m starting to worry you only want me for my mind.’ IN his hotel room, she unknotted his tie and reined him to her once more, her mouth soft on his. Still kissing him, she smoothed the jacket from his shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt, parted it. Her hands skimmed over his chest, around his back, across his stomach. She knelt and tugged at his belt. He closed his eyes and coiled his fingers in her hair. After a few moments he pulled away gently, and
eighth of July 1942. The seventeenth of December 1942. The ninth of August 1943. The thirteenth of April 1964.’ April the thirteenth! March barely suppressed a cry of triumph. His guess had been right. Luther had flown to Zürich at the start of the week. He scribbled the dates in his notebook. ‘Only four times?’ he asked. ‘Correct.’ ‘And until last Monday, the box had not been opened for nearly twenty-one years?’ ‘That is what the dates indicate.’ Zaugg closed the file with a flick of
three strangers meeting. And if something did go wrong, the throngs of visitors offered the ideal cover for escape. March lit a cigarette. Twelve minutes to go. He watched as Charlie climbed the long flight of steps. She paused at the top for breath, then turned and disappeared inside. Everywhere: activity. White taxis and the long, green Mercedes of the Wehrmacht High Command circled the Platz. The television technicians checked their camera angles and shouted instructions at one another.