The Arms Maker of Berlin (30 page)

Nat was irritated about oversleeping, but he was also refreshed, and for the first time in days his mind was lodged firmly in the twenty-first century. His thoughts were of anything but Nazis, or even Germany. Instead, he wondered if Karen’s grades had come in, if the Wightman police had yet recovered his phone, and whether he would still be welcome on campus if his current work dismantled what was left of Gordon Wolfe’s legacy.

A call to Holland was overdue, but Karen was who he really wanted to talk to. Alas, it was 2 a.m. in the States, and even she wasn’t that much of a night owl. So he brewed a cup of instant coffee while watching television, feeling lonely and far from home.

Then his phone rang. Karen’s number popped onto the display. Serendipity.

“Hi! I was just—”

“Dad! He’s in the house!” She was breathless.

“Who is? Where are you?”

“Someone broke in. I heard him downstairs, so I climbed out the window, onto the roof above the porch. Now I’m in the yard, but I can see him in your study. He’s looking for something.”

“Jesus, Karen! Call 9-1-1.”

“I did. The police are coming, but I’m scared. He’s at the window now. Omigod, I think he sees me!”

“Get out! Now. Run to a neighbor’s, or down the street. Go!”

“He’s opening the window! He’s coming!”

“Go, Karen! Just go!”

The call ended. Nat was frantic for more. He dialed back and got a recording, Karen’s cheerful voice asking him to please leave a message. His imagination filled in the blanks, and in his mind’s eye a man who looked like Qurashi chased the barefoot Karen across a dewy lawn while the neighbors slept, oblivious. The man grabbed a hank of her hair and wrestled her through the backyard to his car in a rear alley, while the cops pulled up cluelessly out front and shined flashlights at an empty house. Nat saw an equipment bag on the backseat, unzipped. Electrodes and a blowtorch.

He tried the number again with no success. Then a third time. Nothing but the maddening recording, Karen’s voice so full of youth and optimism. And here he was, jaded old Dad, unable to raise a finger because he was off in Berlin, dabbling in someone else’s history while his own needed him so urgently. For want of a nail. Posterity would deem him a no-show in this disaster, a failure to his daughter. Damn, damn, and damn. And where were the feds? Damn Holland and his promises, and damn himself.

Nat paced the tiny room. He banged his fist on the wall and cursed loudly. He needed fresh air, but he didn’t dare leave for fear his cell phone would lose its signal in the hall or the elevator. Three minutes passed without a word. Then four, then five. He considered calling his ex-wife from the room’s bedside phone, but he couldn’t face that yet. He was too certain of her reproach, and knew he deserved it.

Eight minutes. He tried Karen’s number, knowing he would never again be able to bear listening to this recording if the worst came to pass. He couldn’t even stand it now.

“This is Karen,” she chirped. “Please leave your name at—”

“Call, goddamn it!” he shouted.

Someone in the next room pounded on the wall for silence.

“Fuck off! Call. Please just
call.”

Nine minutes.

Then his phone rang, her number on the display.

“Karen?”

A man’s voice: “Dr. Turnbull?”

“Who is this? Where’s Karen?” In his panic, Nat imbued the man’s words with a heavy accent and the worst of intentions.

“This is Sergeant Wilcox, Wightman Police. Your daughter’s fine, and the suspect is in custody. Would you like to speak to her?”

“Yes.” The clouds lifted. The storm passed. Nat exhaled with something between a laugh and a sob. “Put her on, please.”

He sank with relief onto the narrow bed. For the moment, history had decided to give him a pass.

TWENTY-SIX

N
AT DIDN’T CALM DOWN
until two hours into his flight across the Atlantic. A call from Holland an hour after the break-in hadn’t exactly helped matters.

“Where were your men?” Nat asked right away.

“We had just canceled the detail. When a week passed and no one came poking around, we figured they must not be interested. If it’s any comfort, it was your papers they wanted. They weren’t after Karen.”

“I guess that’s why he came through the window, chasing her.”

“He thought she was a nosy neighbor. He didn’t even know anyone was home.”

“What are you, his attorney?”

“Look, I’m sorry. We screwed up, but it worked out. We even got your phone back. Any way you look at it, it’s another player off the board.”

“But how many are still on it?”

Silence.

Nat hung up before Holland could ask for an update. The news of his trip to Florida could wait. Holland’s German surrogates were probably still following him anyway.

Karen, at least, was now safely accounted for. Nat had asked Viv Wolfe to take her in for the rest of the evening, and Viv had seemed grateful to have someone else’s needs to attend to.

“Just keep her away from Gordon’s cognac,” he said. “On second thought, maybe she could use a shot. I’ve talked to her mom. She’ll come by for her at noon.”

“Susan, you mean? As in, your ex-wife and the woman I’ve known for twenty years?”

“Yes, Susan. Karen will be staying with her in Pittsburgh till I’m back for good. Hopefully with some better goddamn security.”

“You never should have relied on those people, Nat. Not that they’ve stopped keeping an eye on me, of course. Every time I go to the bank it’s like a presidential motorcade.”

Karen, for her part, tried to act like the whole thing had been some wacky summer adventure. But Nat wasn’t fooled. She was even too flustered to come up with an appropriate verse—although not for lack of trying. As she spoke by phone from the back of a police cruiser, Nat was amazed to hear her turning pages of a book.

“Did you actually take
The Complete Poems
with you when you left the house?”

“It’s the one thing I had time to grab before I jumped out the window.”

“Next time try for a butcher knife.”

He finally mastered his own emotions about the time the stewardess brought his second complimentary drink—he had upgraded to business class, figuring the FBI owed him at least that much. But his day never quite got back on track. When he landed in Miami he discovered that his connection was canceled and another flight wasn’t available for hours. He didn’t pull into the parking lot of the Sea Breeze Motor Lodge in Daytona until almost midnight. Jet-lagged, he then slept until 10 a.m.

He awoke to realize that the room was a bit more depressing than he’d bargained for, with rust spots and torn wallpaper. At least there was a balcony with a sliding door to let in the salt breeze and the sound of the breakers, and when he flipped back the curtains there were no lurking Iranians or prying lawmen. Just him, alone with his rattled nerves and a lingering sense of foreboding.

Or so he thought until he left for breakfast.

Standing on the breezeway was Berta Heinkel, smoking a cigarette and wearing an unseasonable sweater. She spoke before Nat could recover from the shock.

“What time are you going to see him?” she asked.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since seven. Answer my question. When is your appointment with Murray Kaplan?”

“How in the hell do you know that name? When did you fly over? How’d you even know where to find me?”

“Like you said, I am a woman of many talents. I simply put one of them to use. Haven’t you wondered why your laptop is so sluggish?”

It took him a few seconds to add it up.

“Jesus, what did you do, put something on that farewell e-mail?”

“A spyware program that sent me your keystrokes. But at least I have the decency to tell you. I’ll even clean it out for you. Interested in breakfast?”

Amazing. She was better than either the FBI or the ham-handed Iranians. And as he watched her trying to maintain her coolness, he couldn’t help but have mixed emotions. Sure, he was angry. But he also pitied her. She looked tired, beleaguered. The cloud of cigarette smoke lent her features the wispy grayness of an apparition, some Euro ghost far removed from its usual haunts. He was beginning to understand why, now that he knew more about her background as a zealous teen. She had been duped by the state into believing that snooping was not just okay but a civic duty. Then her grandmother had died before she could apologize, or maybe even before she realized that she
should
apologize. Bad enough to have done that at all, much less having it revealed to all your West German colleagues. And now she was broke, homeless. Yet here she was anyway, ready to resume the chase.

“Well? Are you hungry or not? And I really will fix your laptop for you. But only if I’m allowed to sit in on your talk with Kaplan. I’m following you out there, either way, so you might as well let me.”

Nat shook his head, half in amazement, half in exasperation.

“C’mon, then. The appointment’s at noon. We’ll talk about it while we eat.”

The best they could do was a Denny’s, but at least it wasn’t crowded. And was it his imagination or was the fellow at the next table the same guy he had just seen back at the Sea Breeze? At least he wasn’t Middle Eastern, and there was certainly no law against eating at the same place as another motel guest. Maybe he was an FBI tail. Or maybe Nat was just getting paranoid.

Berta left to use the washroom, and Nat took the opportunity to phone Willis Turner for an update. He got a recording instead, and when he started to leave a message the tape ran out. Typical, he supposed, but it left him a little unsettled. Mickey Mouse town or not, Turner didn’t seem like the type who went very long without checking in.

“Hand me your laptop,” Berta said as she slid back into their booth. He hesitated. For all he knew, she would install something even more intrusive. “You can watch, if you like. Maybe you’ll even learn something.”

He took her up on the offer and moved to her side of the booth, looking over her shoulder as she worked. He was mildly unsettled to find that he still found it arousing to be this close, bunched up against the softness beneath her sweater.

She tutted at the state of his security software.

“You’re about three years overdue for an update. You made it way too easy for some snoop to get in.”

You should know, he thought, wondering again what must be in her Stasi file. Their eggs arrived just as she finished, and he moved back to his side of the table with a sense of relief.

“Tell me the background on Kaplan,” she said.

“Don’t you already know?”

“All I learned from your keystrokes was that you Googled his name and made travel arrangements to come see him. In that sense, I suppose I am still at your mercy.”

He considered telling her nothing and then asking the Kaplans not to let her in. But a scene like that would probably scare them off.

“He was an OSS man in Bern. All I know is that he worked with Gordon in shipping the records. If any funny business went on, maybe he’ll know.”

Shortly before noon they drove out to Candalusa, Berta following Nat in a rented red Chevy. Kaplan’s house was long and low, white stucco and jalousie windows, with a carport at one end. They headed up the sidewalk, scattering a gecko. A short, lively woman with gray hair in a bun answered the door. Looming behind her was a tall, paunchy fellow with a slight stoop. Both were tanned to the point of leathery.

“Doris Kaplan,” she said. “And this is Murray. Oh, there are two of you!”

“Nathaniel Turnbull. And this is Berta Heinkel, my, um, graduate assistant.”

“So you want to talk about Gordon Wolfe,” Murray said. “I had a feeling somebody might be calling about him as soon as I saw his obit. We used to live in New York, and still get the
Times
. This is about those records, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah. Mostly.”

“I’ve been telling Murray for years he ought to get this stuff off his chest,” Doris said.

“Maybe I don’t have anything to get off my chest,” Kaplan said, not looking pleased.

“Oh, maybe not, Murray. But you two make yourselves comfortable. Then we’ll see.”

She led them to a Florida room in the back, wall-to-wall windows, all of them cranked open, with a view of a canal behind the back lawn. A rowboat that had seen better days was overturned in the grass.

“Lemonade or iced tea?” Doris asked.

“Tea, please.”

Berta nodded in agreement. So far she hadn’t said a word. Maybe she was worried about her accent. To some American vets it was an instant turnoff.

“And I hope you brought an appetite, ‘cause I’ve got fresh shrimp salad.”

This, at least, was a subject Kaplan could warm to.

“Caught the shrimp last night. You just hang a Coleman lantern on the dock and dip a net. Twenty years ago you could fill it in ten minutes, but the water’s not what it used to be. Wouldn’t matter so much if you didn’t have to watch for gators. One of ‘em got a jogger just last week. Young lady down by the golf course.”

Berta glanced with alarm toward the canal, as if a gator might emerge any second.

“Sounds creepy,” Nat said.

“Florida’s
creepy,” Kaplan replied.

“But you came from New York?”

“I was a dentist in Queens.”

“That’s not where I would have pegged the accent.”

“Grew up in West Virginia. Hartwell Springs. My dad kept the books for the local mining company. We were the only Jews in town. It’s where I met Doris.”

As if summoned by her name, Doris carried in a tray laden with plates, forks, a bowl of gloppy-looking shrimp salad, and slices of white bread. She set it on a folding TV table. Kaplan waited until she was gone before commenting.

“Sorry ‘bout all the mayo. Doris has a very high opinion of Miracle Whip.”

But it wasn’t bad, and Nat was grateful that at least one of the Kaplans was already in their corner. Murray might need some coaxing.

“So, where would you like to begin?” Nat said.

“I went over all this business of these missing records a long time ago, with an OSS board of inquiry. Gordon did, too. They swore us to secrecy, I might add.”

“It’s been more than fifty years. You’re free to speak now.”

Doris piped up from around the corner.

“See, honey? I told you that was the case.”

“Yeah, well, there’s things besides secrecy laws. Loyalty to your friends, for one.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Nat said, “I think he really would want you to talk to me.”

“You did say some nice things about him at the service. I looked up the coverage on the Internet.”

If Kaplan had gone to that much trouble, he probably also knew about their falling-out, so Nat decided to level with him.

“We had our problems toward the end, but when it came to history we were always after the same thing.”

Kaplan nodded but said nothing.

“How long had you known him when you two were assigned to this records detail?”

“He’d come on board in late ‘43, the first of our flyboys. Dulles liked him ‘cause his German was good. I’d been with the OSS about a year. I was in dental school there when the war started, and I got stuck when the borders closed. I met Dulles on a train to Geneva and he offered me a job on the spot. I figured, what the hell, serve my country while I’m biding my time. Worked out pretty good, I guess.”

“Did you work with Gordon much?”

“We downed a few beers now and then, but professionally I hardly ever saw him.”

“Is that because he was out in the field a lot?”

“That was part of it, I guess. Plus those months in the hospital.”

“Hospital?”

“He never mentioned his leg injury?”

“I, uh, always thought he got that from a flak wound.”

“Hell, no. He came down without a scratch. Healthy as a mule. This was toward the end of the war. Some half-assed infiltration operation that went FUBAR on him.”

“Infiltration? Into Germany?”

“That was the word around the legation. Don’t know if it was true. I was never privy to that stuff.”

Finally something to flesh out some of the cryptic items from the National Archives.

“This operation, was it called ‘Fleece’ by any chance?”

“Coulda been. Never heard a name, though. All I know is that everyone said it was a cock-up from the get-go, and that he came back with a pretty nasty wound.”

“From a firefight?”

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Doris shouted the question from the next room.

“Can’t
, dear. And you’re not helping. Let the young man ask his questions.”

“So you don’t know any more details, like what it was about, or who was involved?”

“That’s right. None of that was in my bailiwick.”

“Does the name Kurt Bauer ring a bell? Or Erich Stuckart?”

“Neither.”

He said it without hesitation. Nat studied Kaplan’s face and concluded he was telling the truth.

“So Gordon never mentioned either of them to you later?”

“Not to me.”

Doris piped up again.

“How ‘bout to anyone else?”

“Honey,
please!”

Nat offered a smile of commiseration, but hoped she would keep it up. She seemed convinced her husband had something to hide.

“Okay, so Gordon was in the hospital. Do you remember the dates?”

“Must have been around February of ‘45. Got out around the end of April. Yes, that’s right, ‘cause it was the day Hitler shot himself. The news had just come in over the radio.”

The dates matched perfectly with the Loofbourow memo that had mentioned Gordon’s transfer to the Zurich safe house.

“I guess he must have healed up pretty good, because in July, of course, we both went into Germany as part of Dulles’s staff. For the occupation forces.”

“What were your duties?”

“I was deskbound. Pushing papers. He was out in the ruins, poking around. Beyond that, who knows? None of those guys ever said.”