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to follow him. Behind them, the theme tune of the Reichsrundfunk's nightly soap opera began to play.
    Swing doors led on to a corridor identical to a dozen others back in Werderscher-Markt. Somewhere, thought March, there must be a Reichsdirektor for green linoleum. He followed the attendant into an elevator. The metal grille closed with a crash and they descended into the basement.
    At the entrance to the storeroom, beneath a NO SMOKING sign, they both lit cigarettes—two professionals taking the same precaution, not against the smell of the bodies (the room was refrigerated; there was no stink of corruption) but to blot out the stinging fumes of the disinfectant.
    "You want the old fellow? Came in just after eight?"
    "Right," said March.
    The attendant pulled a large handle and swung open the heavy door. There was a whoosh of cold air as they stepped inside. Harsh neon strips lit a floor of white tiles, slightly sloping on either side down to a narrow gutter in the center. Heavy metal drawers like filing cabinets were set into the walls. The attendant took a clipboard from a hook by the light switch and walked along them, checking the numbers.
    "This one."
    He tucked the clipboard under his arm and gave the drawer a hard tug. It slid open. March stepped over and pulled back the white sheet.
    "You can go now, if you like," he said, without looking around. "I'll call when I've finished."
    "Not allowed. Regulations."
    "In case I tamper with the evidence? Do me a favor."
    The body did not improve on second acquaintance. A hard, fleshy face, small eyes and a cruel mouth. The scalp was almost entirely bald, apart from the odd strand of white hair. The nose was sharp, with two deep indentations on either side of the bridge. He must have worn spectacles for years. The face itself was unmarked, but there were symmetrical bruises on either cheek. March inserted his fingers into the mouth and encountered only soft gums. At some point a complete set of false teeth must have been knocked loose.
    March pulled the sheet back. The shoulders were broad, the torso that of a powerful man, just beginning to run to fat. He folded the cloth neatly a few centimeters above the stump. He was always respectful of the dead. No society doctor on the Kurfürstendamm was more tender with his clients than Xavier March.
    He breathed warmth onto his hands and reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat. He pulled out a small tin case, which he opened, and two white cards. The cigarette smoke tasted bitter in his mouth. He grasped the corpse's left wrist—so cold ; it never ceased to shock him—and pried open the fingers. Carefully, he pressed each tip onto the pad of black ink in the tin. Then he put the tin down, picked up one of the cards and pressed each finger onto that. When he was satisfied, he repeated the process on the old man's right hand. The attendant watched him, fascinated.
    The smears of black on the white hands looked shocking; a desecration.
    "Clean him up," said March.
    The headquarters of the Reich Kripo are in Werderscher-Markt, but the actual hardware of police business—the forensic laboratories, criminal records, armory, workshops, detention cells—are in the Berlin Police Presidium building in the Alexander-Platz. It was to this sprawling Prussian fortress, opposite the busiest U-bahn station in the city, that March went next. It took him fifteen minutes, walking briskly.
    "You want what ?"
    The voice, edged high with incredulity, belonged to Otto Koth, deputy head of the fingerprint section.
    "Priority," repeated March. He took another draw on his cigarette. He knew Koth well. Two years ago they had trapped a gang of armed robbers who had killed a policeman in Lankwitz. Koth had gained a promotion on the strength of it. "I know you've got a backlog from here to the Führer's hundredth birthday. I know you've got the Sipo on your back for terrorists and God knows what. But do this for me."
    Koth leaned back in his chair. In