The Arms Maker of Berlin (35 page)

“And not that you’d notice.”

Dulles gently intervened.

“You see, there’s this Swiss fellow named Gustav who is paid to follow our friend Gordon, so chances are that someone has been assigned to you as well, or will be soon. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Fortunately this fellow Gustav isn’t very good.” He turned toward Gordon. “Didn’t you say he’s been getting a bit lazy?”

“He does like his beer,” Gordon said. “Walk past enough cafes and eventually he’ll stop off for a cold one. I’m pretty sure I lost him before the gazebo.”

“Very good,” Dulles said. “Shall we begin?”

The younger men nodded. Kurt again felt called before the headmaster. But, all in all, the atmosphere was to his liking. Dulles had a pleasant manner, a polished ease. It didn’t hurt that the room was nice and toasty on such a sharp autumn night, and the firelight cast a conspiratorial glow, conducive to sharing secrets. To complete the effect, Dulles decanted a fine brandy from the side table and filled three snifters.

“How about some of this while we’re working? Don’t suppose your mother would mind, would she, Kurt? I know Gordon’s old enough, even though he doesn’t look it. That’s one thing war does. Makes early drinkers of us. That was certainly my experience when I was posted here in 1917. I had a room then at the Bellevue Palace, just like you. Not bad waking up to a view of the Jungfrau every morning, is it?”

“My room looks onto an air shaft.”

Dulles found this extremely funny, and laughed generously. Gordon sulked.

“So, then, young man. What do you have for us?”

Kurt went through his rehearsed spiel on the logistics of travel inside Germany. To his surprise, no one took notes. He found out why when Dulles began asking questions.

“Is the maximum limit for travel without special authorization papers still thirty kilometers?”

“Uh, yes. I think so.”

“On the matter of food rations. I’m told that a good alternative to the monthly cards, especially for someone hoping to stay longer, is a special traveler’s coupon, an urlauber Lebensmittelkarte, good for up to six months. Know where we might get one?”

“Not at the moment.”

As the questions continued, their detail and precision made him realize the Americans had plenty of sources like him, and probably many that were better. He realized that his information on Gollner was the only way he had gotten in to see Dulles.

Appropriately enough, Gollner was the next subject. Dulles quizzed Kurt for several minutes before assuming a pensive expression and standing up from his chair. He poked the logs, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney while the embers whined. Then he sat, sipped his brandy, and leaned forward until his face was only a few feet from Kurt’s.

“You know this fellow Gollner personally, correct?”

“We’ve met several times.”

“Enough to make a judgment on his character?”

Yes, and his judgment was that Gollner was a slimy opportunist who would duck out at the first hint of real danger. But that wouldn’t sell it the way he needed to, so Kurt nodded instead.

“Speak up, young man. A nod isn’t going to suffice on a matter like this.”

“Yes,” Kurt said. “Well enough to judge his character.”

“And?”

“You can take him at his word. If he says he’ll help, he’ll help. And I am certain he wishes to cross over. He was recently transferred from Berlin against his wishes, and I am told he is pretty much his own boss down there. All he really wants at this point is to gain favor with the Americans.”

“Him and a thousand others, half of them con artists,” Dulles said distractedly. “But if we’re going to take the plunge, this is the time to do it. So here’s what we want from him. We’d like him to help an infiltrator, one of our own people, get established and settled in. To provide enough support for our operative to stay in the area for maybe two weeks, or at least long enough to get a good look at the lay of the land and find out where the assets are and who’s guarding what. That sort of thing. Then, and only then, will we be able to assist him in crossing over. Do you think he’s capable of all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. I can’t say I’m a great believer in this type of operation. Never have been. I’ve always believed that if you have an inside source, it is best to keep them in place, rather than endangering your own people. But apparently this is what they’re eager for now in Washington.”

Gordon, who hadn’t said a word in minutes, spoke up.

“It’s our best bet, sir. And it sounds solid to me, which should count for something, seeing as how it’s my neck that will be on the block.”

He let the phrase hang.

Kurt was stunned to learn that Gordon was going to be the infiltrator, but he supposed he should have figured as much. Gordon’s fluency in German, his age, and his eagerness made him an obvious choice. The funny thing was, up to then Kurt had regarded him as an American version of Dieter—all talk and no action. But as he studied the young man’s face he decided there was a lot of Christoph in him as well. If they had been on the same side, then who knows, they might even have become friends. Although all he could recall now was the man’s arrogance in dealing with the Bauer family. If Gordon became a casualty of Kurt’s machinations against Gollner, then so be it, as long as someone besides him got the blame.

Dulles stood to pour more brandy.

“The way I see it,” he finally said, “the biggest problem for any male agent in Germany is that his cover has to explain his military status, or lack of it. All the controls on the train lines are now directed toward combing out every available man for the Wehrmacht and the Volkssturm. Unless you can account for why you’re not serving, then you’re apt to have trouble. Don’t you agree, Kurt?”

“Yes, I do.” He was pleased to see that this made Gordon angry.

“If I went in civilian clothes,” Gordon said, “I could pose as Gestapo, or SD. Or maybe some sort of engineer.”

“Possibly.” Dulles relit his pipe. “Or you could always go in uniform. Of course, then you’d have to worry about running afoul of the MPs, unless you’ve got some good excuse for being away from your unit. And you’d be out there with no backup, no radio. Completely isolated. Still, with the right cover it could work, as long as young Bauer’s information here is as good as he says.”

“I certainly wouldn’t do anything to damage my family’s prospects, not with the way things stand now,” Kurt said.

Dulles gave him a long look.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. And if I wasn’t prepared to trust you, then I wouldn’t be sharing any of this. But since you’re going to be the one to relay it to Gollner, then I suppose I have no choice.”

Dulles turned to Gordon.

“I hate to say this, Gordon, because I know how gung ho you are. But in some ways we’d be better off sending a woman. Plenty of good covers available for them—confidential secretary to some Party functionary, or to a war-important businessman, like Mr. Bauer’s father here. They never have to explain why they’re not off at the front.”

Gordon was crestfallen. Then his eyes lit up in the glow of the flames.

“Or you could send a pair of us,” he said. “A man in uniform, me, with some sort of cover to explain why he’s in transit. Plus a woman traveling as his wife, who would also be a built-in backup in case something happened to me.”

“She would also double the possibility for something to go wrong,” Dulles said. “But I see your point. We could spare Evelyn, but she might not be available for a while.”

“I can think of someone even better,” Gordon said, grinning slyly.

“You’re not thinking of that waitress friend, the one we helped out of a jam?”

“She speaks the language, knows the area, and better still, she knows me.”

“I’ll bet, and in every sense of the word. Still, it’s your neck. As long as you think she would be up to it. Do you trust her?”

“As much as I trust anyone.”

“That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

“Yes, I trust her. More to the point is whether she trusts me. It would be asking a lot. But she does owe us, which for our purposes makes her useful. That is what you’re always looking for, isn’t it, sir? Useful people?”

Dulles smiled.

“You’re a fast learner, Gordon. And with what we’re planning tonight, you’re going to have to be. You sure you’re ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what about you, young Mr. Bauer? Can you keep a few more secrets along with the ones already stuffed in your head?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. We will call this operation Fleece. And it’s not going to happen overnight. Both of you must be prepared to participate in a lot of advance planning.”

Exactly what Kurt wanted to hear. The more time he had, the better the chances his own machinations would succeed.

“Then let’s get down to work,” Dulles said. “And do pay attention. From here on out, we can’t afford to have a single thing go wrong.”

THIRTY

A
LL HOPES
of overtaking Berta evaporated as Nat’s plane idled on the runway in Frankfurt. A one-hour delay had already turned into three. Now something else had apparently gone wrong.

Cell phone use was banned on the taxiway but calling ahead to the Hotel Jurgens would make little difference now. Berta had probably gotten there as early as eight thirty this morning, and it was now one in the afternoon. Even after arriving in Zurich he would have a train to catch, meaning he would be lucky to make it to Bern by five. If there was anything to be found, she would have found it, although he did wonder what sort of approach she must have used at the hotel, given her usual lack of tact.

Had she bullied the staff? Demanded to see the manager? Asked for Sabine by name? And what had she told them about herself and her curious mission? For that matter, what was Nat going to say? All he remembered from his previous visit was a wary chambermaid, eyeing him over a stack of towels.

There was also Holland to worry about. The FBI agents in Florida had doubtless discovered by now that he was gone, and although he technically hadn’t broken any laws, he had certainly disobeyed a direct order. The delays had given them plenty of time to track him down. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find federal agents waiting in Zurich.

To make matters worse, he hadn’t slept at all during the flight. By now he must look like hell. He vowed to shave and brush his teeth at the first opportunity, or else he might scare away the staff of the Hotel Jurgens before he even made his pitch.

And what, exactly,
was
his pitch?
Hi, I’m looking for Sabine Jurgens, because I’m convinced my old dead mentor sent her some valuable documents, and I know this because he left behind a matchbook with the name of this hotel
. For all the certainty he had felt while sitting in Murray Kaplan’s Florida room, he was having plenty of second thoughts. For all he knew, the Hotel Jurgens was now owned by some impersonal hospitality conglomerate, or the Russian mafia.

Nonetheless, he was anxious and excited as he cleared customs. There was no sign of anyone waiting for him, and no one seemed to be following as he moved briskly toward the airport Bahnhof to catch the next train to Bern.

The hotel was only three blocks from the station, so he walked straight there. His laptop and camera equipment hung from one shoulder, his overnight bag from the other. The luggage was heavier than it should have been, thanks to Gordon’s box of keepsakes, still tucked between his shirts. Stupid to have brought it, perhaps, especially since by now he had memorized its contents. He was beginning to feel like a Shakespearean witch with a bagful of charms and amulets.
Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog
. The luggage straps cut painfully into his shoulders, and he paused to rest. Then he heaved everything back into place, rounded the curve, and saw the modest red sign for the Hotel Jurgens just ahead on the right. Blood rushed to his fingertips. He didn’t pause again until he had shoved awkwardly through the door and stood before the front desk.

This time, a pleasant-looking man in his sixties was there to greet him. The fellow looked strangely familiar, which was worrisome.

“Do you have a reservation?” the man said, eyeing Nat’s luggage.

“I’m afraid not.”

“In that case, you are in luck. We have just had a cancellation.”

“Actually, I’m not here for a room. In fact, I’m not quite sure where to begin. Maybe I should just ask if anyone named Sabine Jurgens is still associated with this hotel?”

The deskman cocked his head.

“May I ask your name, please?”

“Nathaniel Turnbull.”

The fellow broke into a grin. He raced breathlessly around the partition and thrust out a hand in greeting while Nat clumsily dropped his bags to the floor.

“Dr. Turnbull! But of course! I am Bernhard Jurgens. We have been expecting you. Your assistant indicated you would be here by noon, so we were beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong. I hope your journey was not too stressful?”

“My assistant?” Nat had a sinking feeling about this.

“Yes. Miss Larkin? She presented your letter of introduction.”

Christa Larkin. Berta’s alias.

“And did, uh, Miss Larkin do any work on my behalf while she was here?”

“She spoke with my mother, and said that you would probably wish to do the same. We then entrusted to her care the parcel which Mr. Wolfe sent us some months ago, with instructions to hold it for you. She signed for it, thanked us very graciously, and took it upstairs to her room. She said she wanted to rest until you arrived.”

“She’s here?”

“Of course. My mother would not have been very comfortable giving her the parcel if she had simply taken it away into the streets. Although both of us are certainly curious to learn what is inside. As was Mss Larkin.”

“Yes, I’m sure she was.”

“She asked me to phone her room when you arrived. Shall I do that now, or would you rather check in first? You will be staying with us for the night, I hope?”

“Uh, sure. But why don’t you go ahead and phone her?”

The deskman nodded and went back behind the counter.

Surely it was too good to be true. Nat kept telling himself that as the old fellow punched in the number. He watched with resignation as the deskman’s expression slowly changed to one of puzzlement, then disappointment, while the phone rang and rang.

“She doesn’t seem to be answering. Perhaps she is a very sound sleeper. Or maybe she is in the shower.”

“Do you have a rear entrance?”

“Yes, but that is only for use after closing hours.”

“Maybe we should go up there.”

A look of concern crossed the deskman’s face.

“Surely you don’t think that—I had better phone my mother. She lives around the corner.”

“What’s the room number?”

“Three-ten. But, please, wait.”

Sure. What was another five minutes when Berta had probably been gone for hours? By now she might even be in Berlin, already writing up her results for some scandal sheet, or one of the less reputable historical journals. He saw it all clearly now, every reason for why she had become so driven. She had pursued Bauer a bit aggressively, and he had retaliated by digging up her Stasi file, which pushed her off the deep end. Her search then became a ruthless quest of personal vengeance, nothing more. She was determined to ruin Bauer just as he had ruined her. Nat felt soiled just by being a party to it, and now his bumbling had allowed her to succeed. It was not a result worthy of his calling, and certainly not of Gordon’s legacy, which would perhaps also be ruined as a result. Sickening, really, now that he saw everything so plainly. He sagged into an easy chair in the lobby while the deskman punched in another number, and for the next several minutes he was lost in thought. The chase had finally done him in.

“Sir? Dr. Turnbull?”

It was the deskman, leaning over him like an orderly in an emergency ward.

“My mother is on the way. Shall we go upstairs now?”

Looking closely at the man’s face, he again noted the odd familiarity of the features. And that’s when everything clicked into place, striking him like a splash of cold water.

“Your mother’s name is Sabine, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I thought you understood that.”

“And you were born in, what, 1945?”

“Yes, the last year of the war. How did you know that?”

Because you were the crying baby on the bench
, he almost said. The one held by the sad young Sabine as she turned away in misery from Murray Kaplan, all those years ago in the streets of Bern. This old fellow, Bernhard, staring at him with such concern, was the son of Gordon Wolfe. Same eyes, same forehead, same ears. Nat also recalled the pseudonym that Gordon had used to rent the storage locker in Baltimore: Gordon Bernhard. Another bread crumb dropped along the way.

“Are you all right, Dr. Turnbull? Can I get you something? You’ve had such a long journey.”

“I could use some water. Anything without caffeine.”

“I shall fetch it this instant.”

As he watched Bernhard hustle back around the counter, the door opened and a sweet voice called out his name.

“Dr. Turnbull?”

It was Sabine, wrinkled and a little stooped, but clear-eyed and trim, and flushed with health. Like an aging farm girl in a meadow, or, perhaps, for the sake of historical accuracy, more like a busy waitress at an Alpine retreat. He stood to greet her, beginning to feel like himself again as he took her hand in his.

“I’m here for Gordon,” he said.

“Yes, I know. It is a pleasure to at last meet you, after all that Gordon has told me.”

A terrible thought occurred to him.

“Are you aware that Gordon is, well …”

“Yes,” she said. “We heard the news last week.” She lowered her eyes and gently released his hand. “A terrible blow. But seeing as how it has been years since I’ve actually seen him, well … Ours was not exactly an ordinary relationship.”

“No, I don’t suppose it was.”

“Had he told you much about me?”

Nat shook his head.

“Nothing at all. But I’ve been finding out a few things the last week or so. Enough to lead me here.”

She frowned, seemingly puzzled.

“He did not leave specific instructions for you to come here?”

“Not as such. If you really want to know the truth, I think he wanted to make it a challenge. A test, teacher to student.”

“That sounds like Gordon. He never explained to me when or why you might come here. He just said to give you the parcel if you did, at whatever hour of the day.”

“And now, I’m sorry to say, I might have arrived too late to claim it.”

Sabine furrowed her brow in apparent confusion. This time her son supplied the answer—a bit sheepishly, Nat thought.

“Dr. Turnbull believes that Miss Larkin may have left through the back entrance. She is not answering her phone. We were about to go up and check her room.”

Sabine shook her head disapprovingly.

“You see, Bernhard?”

“I know, Mother. You were right.”

“Bernhard gave her the parcel before I arrived, or I never would have allowed it. But by then she was preparing to check in to her room, and I decided it would be impolite to ask for it back. She did seem very tired, but I’m afraid it was her pretty face that won him over.”

Like father, like son. Because, for all of Sabine’s wrinkles, the contours of past beauty remained. She must have been a stunner.

They climbed the stairs in brooding silence. Bernhard knocked loudly, and there was no answer. He unlocked the door.

The bed was still perfectly made. No luggage was in sight. Through the bathroom door Nat saw that every towel was folded in place on the rack. Even the paper seal on the toilet was unbroken.

“Oh, dear,” Bernhard said. “I am such a fool.”

“But look,” Sabine said. “On the dresser!”

It was a small padded mailing envelope, five by seven inches, the kind you can buy in any U.S. post office. Tape had been peeled back from one end, and a flap was open.

“That’s the parcel,” she said.

Nat was stunned.

“All of it?”

“I don’t know if everything is still inside. But it’s certainly the envelope we’ve been holding for you.”

It was too small. There was no way four folders, or even their contents, could be squeezed inside it. Even Berta must have realized that right away. Maybe that explained her convincing look of weariness. She would have been devastated. Unless, of course, Gordon had somehow shrunk everything to a more manageable size—microdots, for instance, approaching the job as a spy might have.

Nat stepped to the dresser and reached inside the envelope. There were two pieces of paper, that’s all. On the first one he recognized Berta’s handwriting. It was a note on hotel stationery, scribbled only hours ago:

We have come for nothing, as you can see. But to once again prove my good intentions I have decided to let you share in the bounty of our disappointment. I still have my own leads to pursue, and will be willing to share them if you are willing to share your own findings with me. I believe that I am not the only one who has been hoarding secrets. If this is your desire, then I suspect you will know where to find me soon, on the fourth day of the new month
.

At the Plotzensee Memorial, she meant, when she would presumably be stalking Bauer yet again. She must have realized he had rummaged through her photographs.

He checked the second page. It was typed on an old sheet of onion-skin, just like the stuff in the OSS archives. But it was dated only a few months ago:

Dear Nat
,

Given the various neuroses associated with our profession, I suppose you will be trying to read between the lines here for all sorts of hidden meanings. But my message to you is blessedly simple and straightforward: Look no further. Leave the past in the past. Because even when we do our work well, we can only fathom the faintest of outlines of purpose and intent. The rest vanishes forever, and none of our tools can rescue it from obscurity. Rest easy, then. Let Sabine take good care of you during your stay, and please accept my humblest regards, as well as my deepest apologies if you believe that I have led you astray
.

Fondly
,

Gordon

Nat sagged onto the bed. He handed the page to Sabine, who read it carefully while Bernhard looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed softly. “I assume this is not what you were hoping for.”

“No. Not at all.”

“I will get your bags,” Bernhard said quietly. He practically tiptoed out of the room.

Sabine waited until they could no longer hear his footsteps.

“If it is not too forward of me, may I ask what you did expect to find?”