The Arms Maker of Berlin (10 page)

Stuckart then rose from the table, his big frame suddenly menacing. He stepped over to the fireplace to toss on another log, levering it into place with an iron poker. Then he addressed Kurt without looking back toward the table.

“Speaking of the front, young Kurt. Erich will soon be turning eighteen and reporting for officer’s training. What about you?”

“Of course. As soon as I am eighteen.”

“When is your birthday?”

Liesl took his hand beneath the table and squeezed it.

“Late October, but I am still sixteen. I skipped a grade to enter university early.”

“Next October is a long way off. By then the conscription laws may have changed. You may be eligible earlier than you think, especially if, as your friend believes, we continue to fare so poorly in battle. As that date approaches, I urge you to try and be as judicious as possible in what you say out in public. You should also take care in the company you keep. Because when the time comes for your father to secure a favorable appointment on your behalf, all sorts of things will be weighed and measured.”

Kurt knew at that moment that if he did not somehow speak up on her behalf she would be deeply disappointed. But with almost everyone at the table seemingly imploring him to be on his guard, he was unable to come up with the right words. Instead, he simply nodded and said evenly, “Yes, sir.”

Liesl gently released his hand and looked down at her lap.

“More coffee for you, my dear?” Mrs. Stuckart asked.

She shook her head, saying nothing.

A few moments later, Erich cleared his throat and began talking about his foolhardy boat trip. Within seconds both his parents were chiding him companionably, as if nothing untoward had occurred, and not long afterward they all rose and placed their napkins on the table. Erich offered to drive Kurt and Liesl home.

Because of the blackout, the car’s headlights were covered in dark felt with tiny slits, meaning even the reckless Erich had to go slowly. To make matters worse, the roads were icing, and they poked along at an agonizing pace in awkward silence. After dropping them off at Liesl’s house, Erich sped away, the car fishtailing so much that he nearly struck a tree.

For a moment neither Liesl nor Kurt made a move. They just stood on the sidewalk, holding their skis, as if trying to fathom what came next.

“Well, I suppose you tried,” she said finally, wearily. “But I can’t say that you tried very hard.”

“And you,” he said, suddenly aggrieved, “tried much
too
hard! It is one thing to express your deepest feelings at Dr. Bonhoeffer’s house. But at the villa of someone who is practically a cabinet minister? Liesl, what were you thinking?”

“It was a harmless remark. And only an opinion.”

“Nothing is harmless to these people if they don’t agree with it. What you said may be true, but it won’t do your cause much good if people in power decide to silence you.”

“It
may
be true?
My
cause? Is it not your cause as well? Or is your only cause to unbutton my blouse and then run away at the first sign that someone disapproves of me? What does it matter if you are ‘silenced’ if you have nothing to say to begin with?”

“Of course I share your cause. Of course! I only want you to be more careful.”

“Your kind of careful is the way of cowards.”

“That’s not true!”

“Yes, it is. Why, you can’t even speak the truth to me.”

“That is simply not so!”

“Then why didn’t you tell me Traudl was engaged? The single biggest event in your family, maybe all year, but I don’t hear about it because, what? You think I’ll disapprove? Erich was right, wasn’t he?”

His silence told her all she needed to know.

“You are too careful in this way, Kurt. Too busy hiding pieces of yourself because you think it will please me, or worse, please some awful person in a red armband. You think you are doing it to build a safe foundation for your future, but can’t you see that the time for real action is now—or there might not even be a future?”

This kind of talk scared him even more, but he tried not to show it. So they went on in this fashion several minutes longer, fighting their way to a stalemate, until gradually their remarks began to lose some of their heat. But just as Kurt started to think they had weathered the storm, he made what would turn out to be a fatal error. Concerned that her parents might overhear them, he glanced nervously toward the windows of the Folkertses’ house, and Liesl saw the worry in his eyes.

“Look at you!” she said, her fury renewed. “Scared that my parents might have their ears to the keyhole. Even now you can’t stop worrying that someone will disapprove instead of trying to get to the heart of this trouble between us, this terrible split.”

He was alarmed by her words, and the worst was yet to come. When he reached out a chilled hand to take hers, she slapped it away. Then her eyes flared, as brightly as if she had struck a match in the darkness.

“This can never work!” she said. “Never! I kept waiting, kept thinking you would come around, and that your better instincts would prevail. But you are becoming exactly what your father wants—just another person to say yes to whoever he needs to please.”

“That’s not true. I—”

“I can’t see you anymore, Kurt. I don’t
want
to see you anymore. Not with all of the growing up you still have to do. Because some people never grow up, or not in a way that allows them to develop the courage of their convictions. And I am afraid that you are one of those people. I am sorry, Kurt. Good-bye.”

He felt like she had kicked him in the stomach, and he was momentarily incapable of answering as she turned to go. Instead of protesting, or pleading, or running after her, he just stood there in the snow, rooted to the spot, mutely confirming every terrible thing she had just said.

He would think of plenty of suitable answers later, of course, such as, “I’m only sixteen. Give me time to grow into this.” Or, “Please, don’t mistake foolhardiness for courage. If we don’t fight battles only of our own choosing, then they will pick us off, one by one, on the grounds of their choosing.”

But by then he was alone on the U-Bahn, staring gloomily at his skis and his dripping bicycle. When she slammed the door to the house he was still stranded on the sidewalk, a strangled cry of protest dead on his lips, with no company to console him except the moon, the forest, and the chill darkness of a winter night in Berlin.

NINE

D
ELIVERING THE NEWS
of Gordon’s death to Viv turned out to be worse than an ordeal. It was a fiasco. The first bad sign was Willis Turner’s police cruiser parked in the Wolfes’ driveway. Turner emerged from the driver’s side as Nat and Holland hopped out of the FBI Suburban. The fat policeman waved a sheet of paper at them while nodding toward the end of the dirt lane, where two New York State Police cruisers were just arriving, blue lights ablaze.

“Is this your idea of breaking it to her gently?” Nat asked Holland.

“I’ve got no idea what these clowns are up to. You better get in there.”

Nat hustled up the steps to where Viv was already throwing open the door. A breakfast cigarette burned between her lips. She looked primed for an outburst of foul temper as she surveyed the onslaught.

“What the hell do they want now? And why are you leading the charge?”

“I didn’t bring them.” He steered her back inside and shut the door behind them.

“But I’ve got bad news, Viv. About Gordon.”

Nat felt her sag as anger gave way to fear. He settled her into a chair at the kitchen table, then sat down beside her and took her hand.

“How bad?”

“It’s his heart.”

The cigarette fell from her lips.

“Where’d they take him?”

“I’m afraid he didn’t make it, Viv. They found him this morning, passed out on the floor. He regained consciousness for a few seconds, then they lost him.”

She sighed loudly and shuddered into a sob. He squeezed her hand. An odd little sound escaped her lips, like the moan of a leaking balloon. Then her face twisted, and she sobbed a second time before somehow regaining control. At exactly that moment Willis Turner and Clark Holland burst through the door, arguing at full volume.

“This is a court order!” Turner shouted, still waving the sheet of paper. “These archives are material evidence in the investigation of a suspicious death!”

“The court run by your grease monkey crony? That’s fucking worthless!”

“Not when it’s backed by the enforcement power of the New York State Police.”

Two troopers in sunglasses loomed into view, followed by a third, who toted a rifle.

Nat and Viv were still holding hands. Neither could believe what was taking place.

“The death is suspicious?” she asked, whispering as if they were watching a movie.

“I suspect it’s just a pretext. He wants the boxes.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? The way this town works, maybe he’s selling them on eBay.”

They giggled in spite of the moment, or perhaps because of it, and the release of tension restored enough of Viv’s composure for her to take command.

“Gentlemen!” she shouted, rising to her feet. “Don’t you think your behavior is a little inappropriate? Haven’t you done enough for one day? Out of my house, immediately!”

By then the first two troopers had collected the boxes from the sun-room and were lugging them out the door, one under each arm, like burglars with small televisions.

Holland seemed to realize that for the moment he was defeated, and either good sense or good breeding prompted him to nod respectfully and lower his voice.

“Sorry for the scene, Mrs. Wolfe. I was just delivering Mr. Turnbull to break the bad news. I’ll see that the others depart immediately.”

Turner was happy to oblige now that the goods were being loaded into the trunk of his cruiser. But he couldn’t quite hide a smirk of triumph even as he offered condolences.

“My respects, ma’am.” He dared to tip his hat. Then he nodded at Nat. “Mr. Turnbull? A word outside, if you don’t mind.”

Holland shot Nat a warning glance, and Viv again squeezed his hand. Even now, Nat was drawn irresistibly toward the departing archives, but there was no way he was going to leave Viv in the lurch like this. Then she dropped his hand.

“You’d better go see what he wants,” she said. “Heaven knows, that’s what Gordon would have wanted. But come back later, Nat. I’ll be needing you.”

Then she nodded her assent, which was benediction enough for Nat. Holland frowned as Nat scooted out the door to find Turner waiting by the cruiser, arms crossed.

“Holland will head straight to federal court, you know,” Nat said. “Albany, I’m guessing. They’ll be back before the close of business with a search and seizure order.”

“Maybe,” replied Turner. “But among the many conveniences this town has footed the bill for in recent years is a mighty fine copy machine. I figure I can get the better part of it duplicated in the next six, seven hours, especially if you’re there to help show me the good stuff.”

Nat had expected something like this. The state cops were ready to roll, engines idling for an armed escort into town, and now Turner was proposing to hire away the FBI’s handpicked expert. The feds sure had underestimated this dumb-looking prick.

“What’s your interest in this?” Nat asked.

“Like I said. Evidence.”

“Is there really anything suspicious about Gordon’s death?”

“How am I supposed to know until I’ve examined the evidence?”

“Who’s paying you, some collector?”

“Just doing my job as the town’s peace officer, Mr. Turnbull. The only person being asked to moonlight is you. You on board or not?”

“One condition. No, two.”

“Name ‘em.”

“I get copies of your copies. In fact, I’ve got a digital camera back at my room that will go twice as fast as your machine. Then I can burn everything onto a CD for you.”

Turner mulled that over for a second, as if deciding whether he was being conned.

“Fair enough. What else?”

“I need an assistant. With two cameras we can move twice as fast.”

“That German gal?”

“You know her?”

“This is a small place, Mr. Turnbull. If I didn’t know just about everybody, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”

“One other thing. After the arrest the FBI said something about you being tipped off.”

“That’s right.”

“What kind of tip?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re as bad as them.”

“I’ve met your conditions. Take it or leave it.”

He took it. Not that he wasn’t still wary of his new business partner. What was Turner’s real agenda, and who was he working for? But the man did have the boxes, and for the moment that was enough. Nat nodded and opened the door to the cruiser just as Holland emerged from the house.

“That material is still classified,” the agent warned. “You could go to jail for this.”

“While working under a court order at the behest of an officer of the law? I don’t think so. And I can finish the evaluation you wanted while you’re waiting to regain custody. Besides, you guys won’t decide what parts remain classified. That’s the CIA’s job.”

“I don’t get involved in those squabbles.”

“So it’s already a squabble? Interesting.”

Holland frowned and said nothing more.

B
ERTA DIDN’T NEED
to be asked twice, or even nicely, to join the unlikely new team. When Turner and Nat pulled up at the courthouse she was already waiting outside with her backpack and camera. Nat had retrieved his own. He had also done the necessary math.

The four narrow boxes held about two linear feet of material, which meant about four thousand pages. Both of them moving at top speed might need eight hours to photograph everything, and the feds might return with a court order in as little as four. Something had to give. Nat had already been through half the material, and he could sort out the stuff that wasn’t worth copying. The rest they could cull on the fly. It would be close.

Berta said little as they set up tripods on a long table beneath a fluorescent light. They opened the boxes and got to work, quickly easing into a rhythm and stopping only to change batteries. Turner made a run for coffee and kept an eye out for the feds.

Nat cringed at the way they were manhandling the pages. A professional archivist would have read them the riot act. But at the rate the CIA was declassifying material these days, some of this stuff might not again see the light for years. Even at that, he swore loudly when Turner placed a sweating Big Gulp cola only inches from a memo personally signed by Allen Dulles.

When Berta left for a bathroom break, Turner leaned across her tripod for a closer look and said, “Pardon me, Professor, ‘cause you’re the expert. But from what I’ve seen so far, this stuff looks pretty routine. Mind telling me what all the fuss is about?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Maybe your patron could offer some hints.”

Turner grinned slyly.

“Like I said. I’m just gathering evidence in an investigation.”

“Whatever you say.”

“But these boxes aren’t the first bit of funny business we’ve had up at the Wolfes’ place this spring.”

“No?”

“There was a break-in, ‘bout a week ago. A few doodads missing, but not much else. Just enough to let ‘em know someone had been poking around. When I was filling out the paperwork, the missus said their place in Wightman had also been burgled.”

“When?”

“Gordon hushed her up before she could say. But apparently we’re not the only ones around here who think this is hot stuff. Our friend Mr. Holland asked me last night if I’d noted the presence of any foreign nationals.”

“You mean like her?” Nat nodded toward the ladies’ room.

“Males.”

“Nationality?”

” ‘Middle Eastern origin’ was all I could get out of ‘em.”

“Middle Eastern? In a hunt for American files from Switzerland about a bunch of old Nazis?”

“That was pretty much my reaction.”

On second thought, Nat could certainly think of a few Israelis who might have a keen interest in acquiring some of this information. Nazi hunters, mostly, although that job description was dying out along with the Nazis themselves.

Also, Bern had been a popular wartime crossing point for all kinds of contacts—Italians, Yugoslavs, French, Bulgarians, Rumanians, and even a few shady travelers from Arab lands. He supposed anything was possible.

“So what did you tell him?” Nat asked.

“No trace. But I’ve put in calls to every inn and B&B within a twenty-mile radius, so we’ll see what turns up.”

He was about to ask Turner more, but Berta returned, and the lawman flashed him a warning look that said the discussion was over. Not American enough for him, Nat supposed. Just as well. There was work to be done.

By 4 p.m., with stomachs growling, they were only a folder or two from completion when Turner announced from the window, “Here they come!” Nat heard the rumble of engines and the slamming of doors. That was when an even bigger problem occurred to him.

“The cameras,” he said, looking over at Berta in horror. “They’ve probably got an order to seize any duplications.”

“Hand me your flash drive,” Berta said. He tossed it as voices approached. There was a sharp knock at the door, and Turner looked over in panic. Nat then watched in astonishment as Berta placed the first of the tiny memory chips onto her tongue like a communion wafer, paused, and then gulped hard, as if swallowing an oversized pill. Then she repeated the process with her own as a second knock sounded.

“Here,” she mumbled, looking a bit queasy. “Load fresh drives into the cameras. Give them something to confiscate.”

“Can’t hold ‘em off any longer,” Turner said.

Nat and Berta shoved in the new flash drives just as Holland barged in the door. Four other agents trailed in his wake. One was a woman Nat hadn’t seen before.

“Gentlemen, take everything you see, and look for whatever you don’t,” he said. “Officer Turner, since you’re such a stickler for paperwork, here are my marching orders. You three are damned lucky you’re not under arrest, given the presence of those tripods and cameras. But if you’ll hand them over along with any memory cards, I’ll be willing to call it even. Then I’m afraid all three of you are going to have to be searched. Thoroughly.”

The woman agent took Berta into the restroom for that chore. Turner complained loudly about having to strip, but Nat figured he might as well get it over with and complied as quickly as possible. Within a minute or two they were dressed again, and Holland kicked them out so his people could finish the job.

Berta came out the door with the hint of a smile and excused herself to a snack bar next door. From the sound of it, the feds seemed to be taking a greater-than-usual joy in rifling through Turner’s office. The cop moaned as he listened to the groaning of nails, presumably as the paneling was being peeled back from the studs.

Berta didn’t come out of the snack bar until the feds had packed up and driven away. Her face was flushed, but when she held out the palm of her right hand there sat both flash drives.

“Like coughing up a poker chip,” Turner said. “I’m impressed.”

“It wasn’t so hard. I was bulimic once.”

She said it as matter-of-factly as if mentioning she’d once had the measles. Somehow Nat wasn’t surprised, but he wondered about her use of the past tense. Berta Heinkel already struck him as a particularly complex specimen of the Tortured German Soul, and what else but a sort of mania could have driven her to pursue such a narrow strain of knowledge for so many years? Perhaps the bulimia was just another aspect of that kind of personality. And it was all the more reason she would try to hide all her soft curves beneath such baggy clothes. But Nat knew from years of experience with college students that something deeper and more complicated was often behind an eating disorder as serious as bulimia. A family crisis, perhaps, or some catastrophic event at a critical age.

“Better let me hang on to those,” he said. Fortunately she handed them over.

“All this talk of bulimia’s making me hungry,” Turner said with his usual tact.

“Me, too,” Berta answered, unfazed. “I could use something a little more filling.”

First they used Nat’s laptop to copy the contents of the flash drives onto CD-ROMS, one set for each of them. He then stopped by the B&B to hide the copies in his room, while Berta put hers in her rental car. At last they walked to the diner.

Now that the excitement was over, Nat was drained, and all he could think about was Gordon’s death, looming out there like a void. They said little during the meal. Nat and Willis Turner plowed through a platter of the meat loaf special. Neither of them could help noticing that Berta ate only about half of a chef’s salad. By the time they were done it was well after sundown.