The Arms Maker of Berlin (36 page)

“Old documents. A bunch of OSS materials. The key to the past for a lot of people. Gordon. Kurt Bauer. You and your son, too, if I had to guess. Am I right in making that connection?”

“Yes,” she said faintly, looking very prim, even a little chastened.

“Does Bernhard know that Gordon was his father?”

She shook her head as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Don’t worry,” Nat said. “I won’t tell him.”

“But I should. And I should tell you about all that happened. But I’m afraid that my version is incomplete, and now there are parts of it that I will never find out. Things that Gordon always kept from me. That’s why I had high hopes for that parcel as well. You wouldn’t believe how many times I nearly opened it to take a peek.”

Bernhard clomped back upstairs with Nat’s bags. Sabine hurriedly wiped her eyes and turned away so her son wouldn’t see her face.

“I am going home for a while,” she announced over her shoulder, her voice barely under control. She paused at the threshold and seemed to gather herself. “Bernhard, please take good care of our guest until I return. I think he would probably like to rest now.”

N
AT TOOK A LONG SHOWER
, then wrapped a towel around his waist and unpacked his suitcase. He removed Gordon’s box of keepsakes and placed it on the dresser next to the typewritten letter, as if letting them mingle might somehow produce a new and better outcome. He stared at the items in the gloom of early evening and tried to feel something—a presence or a clue, anything that might tell him what to do next.

There was only exhaustion. No spirit call and no flash of inspiration. Just the dead, dull feeling that Gordon was gone forever, silenced for all time.

He lay down on the bed, afloat on weariness and frustration, although Berta’s decision to leave the package behind was oddly touching. He attributed it to the personal nature of Gordon’s note. Even she hadn’t been able to overlook that. Or maybe she simply still wanted his help, having implied as much. Now that they were again at a dead end, he might even consider her offer. Truly, this business of theirs was a shared sickness.

Shutting his eyes, he gave in to jet lag and drifted off. Sleep was dreamless, and it was dark when he awakened. The towel was dry, the room chilly. He was debating whether to dress for dinner or call it a night when the answer came to him, making him sit up so quickly that the bed shook.

It was a moment of sudden insight, much in the way that someone stumped by a crossword puzzle puts it down for an hour and then clearly sees every answer the moment he returns. Nat now realized what he had been missing before, and it was so easy that he laughed.

He stepped to the dresser, refreshed. Then he gathered up Gordon’s letter and the box of keepsakes and took everything back to the bed, too excited now to even consider eating or sleeping. He flipped on the bedside light, and as he reread the letter everything seemed obvious. The key words leaped out like a playground taunt:

Read between the lines … hidden meanings … Look no further
. And, then, Gordon’s most obvious hint of all:
The rest vanishes forever, and none of our tools can rescue it from obscurity
.

Holding the letter at a low angle, Nat peered across it like a landscape and saw that it had a pebbly look, as if it had been moistened and then allowed to dry. He opened the wooden box and took out the bottle of “secret ink powder” along with the folded instructions that Gordon had written just after the war.

He read quickly. If Gordon really had used this stuff, or, more likely, something a lot like it but much newer, then all Nat had to do now was find a fluorescent light to read the hidden message. None here, and none in the bathroom. He was on the verge of racing downstairs when he realized he was practically naked. So he dressed and clattered down to the lobby with his shoes untied, taking the stairs two at a time while shouting for Bernhard.

“Phone your mother! And find me a fluorescent light, quick as you can!”

The devilish old goat, he thought. The damned troublemaker. Still provoking his old student with tricks and challenges, even after death. And thank God he had, or Berta would have gotten everything and run straight to Berlin with her treasure.

Nat could barely contain himself as they waited for Sabine. Bern-hard took him to the back office and switched on a fluorescent desk lamp. The three of them crowded around as Nat held the letter beneath the lamp.

His elation turned quickly to despair as rows of faint characters appeared. It was all numbers and hyphens.

“Well, damn.”

“What is it?” Sabine asked, sidling around for a better view.

“Another of his gags, I guess. See for yourself.”

Sabine gasped and clapped her hands to her cheeks. Then she giggled, sounding a little like the young woman she must have been.

“It’s our old book code,” she said. “I’d swear on it. Unfortunately, I no longer have the book.”

“The Invisible Hangman?”
Nat asked. “By Wolf Schwertenbach?”

She put a hand to her heart and nodded, speechless.

“I have a copy upstairs.
Your
copy. Gordon left it for me. At least now I know why.”

He retrieved it with care and returned slowly down the stairs. With Sabine there to help, their efforts took on a ceremonial air, and he tried not to rush her. She sat at the desk with pencil in hand and a blank sheet of paper, ready to get started.

“It was how we always communicated from afar,” she said, “so that my father couldn’t read our messages.”

He handed her the book.

“We always used page 186.”

She thumbed to the right page, where the dried wildflower was lying in wait. She set the book down and looked away, blinking quickly.

“My old bookmark.” So faintly that he barely heard her. “The one I was using the day we met.”

She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. Then she showed Nat how the cipher worked, and it was blessedly simple. The message was a series of hyphenated numbers—12-09, 23-17, 05-11, etc. The first number in each couplet represented a line on page 186. The second stood for a letter on that line. Twelfth line—ninth letter, and so on. You couldn’t have cracked it without the book.

Sabine worked steadily, pausing only once to wipe away tears.

“I knew there would be memories,” she said, “but I never expected it would be quite like this. This was his gift to me, you know, his way of making sure I would remember him from his best days.”

Five minutes later she was finished. The message made it obvious that, for Nat, there was still more work to be done:

Go to gun shop address. Box stored in your name
.

“Something new to figure out,” Sabine said. “I am sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know the address. It’s in Zurich. And, actually, all of this makes perfect sense.”

He wasn’t just being kind. Because even though Gordon was still having his fun, it struck Nat that this was the only way he could have kept the hiding place secure. It was a location that only he—not Berta, not Holland or the Iranians, and not any of Bauer’s old pals or minions—could have discovered. You had to have the book and the box, and, even more important, you needed Sabine’s trust. Even the blunder by Bernhard hadn’t come close to giving away Gordon’s last, best secret. The old man had constructed the perfect labyrinth, tailored for one.

And if Sabine had died before Nat found her? Well, in that case Gordon must not have thought the folders would still be worth finding. Nat figured their contents would soon tell him why.

He made plans to leave for Zurich first thing in the morning on an early train. Bernhard fetched a twenty-three-year-old bottle of champagne from the cellar so they could celebrate the discovery in style. When it was nearly empty, Nat retrieved Gordon’s box and showed them the odd assortment of items. The German officer’s hat took Bernhard by surprise, but not Sabine. She fingered the brim reverently.

“I never thought I would see this again,” she said.

“I was kind of hoping you’d know something about it.”

“He actually looked quite good in it, believe it or not. It was a little unnerving to see him in full uniform like that.”

“Gordon wore it?”

“For that terrible mission we went on.”

“You
were with him?”

“Start to finish. A wartime infiltration across the border. All the way to Munich and back.”

Nat’s mouth dropped open. Bernhard’s, too.

“Mother, is this true?”

“Yes. An operation called Fleece.” She turned to Nat. “You’ll see. Or that’s my guess, once you have the documents you’re looking for. We can talk about it more then. I only hope you’ll be able to answer all my questions. Some of it I don’t even want to tell you, unless Gordon chooses to first.”

Nat wanted to know more, of course, but he respected her wishes. Soon enough, he supposed. They shared a simple dinner and another bottle. Then Nat went upstairs while Sabine lingered for a long talk with her son. Already the contents of the box had changed their lives. He wondered how Bernhard would feel about everything in the morning.

Nat slept soundly and woke early in a state of excitement. He shared a quick breakfast with a very quiet Bernhard.

“Your father was a great man, the best in his field,” Nat said.

Bernhard nodded, but said nothing in reply. Obviously this was going to take some getting used to. Nat packed his camera and tripod. He left his laptop and suitcase with Bernhard for safekeeping, but took along his empty laptop bag and set out for the Bahnhof. His spirits were high, but he was wary, and after only a block he began to sense he was being followed. Paranoia? Perhaps. The signs were small but disturbing. A face that seemed familiar, a lingering rearward presence that seemed to stop whenever he did.

On the train the sensation persisted. Averted eyes when he turned. A hastily raised newspaper. They were here—someone was, anyway—and he wasn’t sure he could shake them. Worse, he didn’t know whose side they were on.

He tried a few evasive measures as soon as he reached Zurich, ducking down alleys and into shops, speeding up and then slowing down. None of it seemed to do much good until, by chance, he spotted a place he remembered from one of the OSS documents he had seen in the National Archives. The name, Cafe William Tell, had stuck with him because Dulles had favored the location for its rear entrance—a door near the restrooms that led to a narrow alley out back. The alley in turn, emptied onto the next block.

Nat played it cool, taking a table and ordering a cappuccino and a croissant. Then he excused himself to the men’s room and ambled casually toward the back. Five minutes later he was free and clear, no one else in sight as he exited the alley one block over from the cafe. Had he lost them? Maybe. But it was the best he was likely to do. Two blocks later he stood at the door of Lowenstrasse 42, former location of the W Glaser Waffen Shop, the one advertised on the lid of Gordon’s wooden box.

The address was now home to a branch of Zurcher Bank AG, and Nat was among the day’s first customers. He went straight to the information desk, where a young woman in prim glasses and a navy business suit smiled and asked in English what she could do for him. The name-plate on her desk said she was Monique Binet.

Trying to act like he knew what he was doing, he handed her his passport.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle Binet. I am here to check on the contents of a safety deposit box.”

“Please, call me Monique. I shall check the status of your account.”

He held his breath while Monique made a few clicks on a mouse and typed in his name.

“Here we are. Yes, you are the co-holder of the account. I’ll summon the assistant manager, Mr. Schmidt. He will take care of you right away.”

Nat glanced toward the glass door at the entrance. No one appeared to be waiting outside.

Herr Schmidt, grave in manner and portly in build, approached in a charcoal suit and motioned toward the back of the bank, like a maitre d’ gesturing toward a prime table. Nat didn’t say a word as they marched down a rear corridor to a small carpeted room with soundproofed walls, a tidy, square table, and a pair of black leather swivel chairs. Herr Schmidt double-checked Nat’s identification and then nodded.

“Please wait here, Mr. Turnbull. I will return in a few moments with your account box.”

Shortly afterward, Monique entered with a silver tray bearing a crystal glass and a bottle of mineral water. Herr Schmidt followed. He carried a long, flat metal box of stainless steel, or maybe titanium. Nat stood, partly out of politeness, but also because he could barely contain himself. The box—a drawer, really—was about nine by fifteen inches, and roughly four inches deep. Herr Schmidt placed it gently on the table, laid a key on top, and turned to go. He paused just before shutting the door.

“Will there be anything else for now, Mr. Turnbull?”

“How much time do I have?”

“As much as you need, sir. We close at four thirty.”

Roughly seven hours. More than enough.

“Thank you. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Nat sighed in anticipation as the door shut. He was so giddy he nearly broke into laughter. Then he checked himself. For all he knew, Gordon had one last gag up his sleeve.

He turned the key and slid open the drawer. No jokes this time. Four gray folders with faded labels stared up at him. Each was fairly thin. Beneath them were two letter-sized envelopes—one new, one old—and some sort of multipage memo, typed in German, with a swastika in the letterhead.

The new envelope was unsealed and bright white, and had Nat’s name on it in Gordon’s handwriting. The old one, yellowed with age, had a Swiss airmail stamp from long ago, and was addressed to Vivian Sherman, on Brady Avenue in Baltimore, MD, USA. It was sealed but not postmarked. Gordon had never mailed it.

Nat set the envelopes and the German memo aside and checked the headings on the folders: “Fleece,” “Magneto II,” “Stuckart, Erich,” and “Icarus Expenses—January 1945.”

It was all here.

He coughed nervously and opened the expenses file, just to see how much was there. There were three sheets of paper, each with columns of numbers and notations, nothing more. Hardly surprising. He shut it and quickly checked inside the other three folders. He was dying to read the contents, especially Fleece, the fattest of the bunch, but he needed to follow his plan to the letter, no matter how great the temptation for detours. If he was sidetracked now he might lose everything, because he was certain that Holland’s men—or somebody else’s men—were out there, probably still closing in.