The Arms Maker of Berlin (6 page)

“Hmm. Could’ve been Sobelsky. His carrel’s next to mine, and he’s Polish. Maybe he was sleuthing on my behalf. I should call him.”

“Better cancel your service before somebody runs up the bill.”

“As if you’d know anything about that.”

“No comment. When do you get back?”

“Another day or two, probably. Meaning I won’t be there to help you move in. Can you get your stuff over from the dorm okay?”

“Don’t worry. Dave said he’d help.”

Dave, her campus boyfriend. Meaning they’d be alone in Nat’s house. Great.

“I know what you’re thinking, Dad. I won’t be stupid.”

“Just as long as Dave isn’t. Say hello to your mom for me. But I wouldn’t mention the moving arrangements if I were you.”

“Like I said, I won’t be stupid.”

He smiled as they hung up. But something about the news of the hang-up didn’t sit well, not with the skittish way Holland was acting—as if this really
was
some sort of big deal concerning national security. Nat would have dialed up his cell number to see who answered, but he was out of quarters.

Instead, he scanned the diner for the mystery woman. No sign. He slid back into his booth to find that his coffee was going cold. Finally he could relax, and he felt the weariness of the long night settling into the backs of his eyes. It would have been quite easy to stretch out on the banquette for a nap, and he was on the verge of nodding off when someone sat down in the opposite seat.

He opened his eyes to see the woman from the courthouse sitting directly across the table. Again he was struck by the intensity of her eyes, which gave him a jolt as potent as the coffee. Her blouse smelled like cigarettes. From that, and from the choppy hairstyle, he deduced that she was European. When she spoke, her accent confirmed it.

“Hello, Dr. Turnbull. My name is Berta Heinkel.”

“Heinkel? Same as the aircraft?”

“Yes. No relation.”

German name, German accent. He thought immediately of the hang-up call to Karen, but that had been a man.

“So I guess you’re not one of the feds after all.”

“Feds?”

“The FBI.”

“No.” She glanced behind her. “Will they be joining you?”

“Not if I can help it. Who are you, then?”

“A historian, like yourself. I have an interest in the materials.”

She handed him a business card: Professor Doktor Berta Heinkel from the Free University of Berlin.

“How do you even know about ‘the materials,’ Dr. Heinkel?”

“Please, call me Berta. I was in College Park doing research. A friend at the archives told me. He said there had been an arrest and that they were bringing in an expert.”

“The National Archives?”

She nodded.

“And you just dropped everything to come up here?”

“The first available flight. I rented a car at the airport.”

“Wow. That’s dedication.”

“It’s my life’s work.”

“Your life’s work,” he said, marveling at the phrase.

“I knew right away they would choose you. As their expert, I mean.”

“Did you, now?”

Ingrid Bergman. That’s who her eyes reminded him of, especially up close. The question was whether they were more like Ingrid’s eyes in
Casablanca
—liquid and warm, brimming with promise—or in
Notorious
—burning with intent, a troubled soul who knew what she wanted and would soon have it.

“Of course. You were the natural choice. The only choice.”

Such flattery. He was leaning toward
Notorious
.

“And what’s your particular interest in this discovery? Which, by the way, I’m not supposed to discuss.”

“You are probably also not supposed to discuss that you have not yet found what you are looking for. Yet I am sure this is true.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because what you are looking for is not there. The materials have been sanitized. Or that is what I think.”

“You sound like you’ve been talking to Gordon Wolfe. Or maybe you just overheard us in the courtroom.”

Her eyes flared, but she didn’t deny it.

“I couldn’t hear everything, of course. But neither of you said a word about the White Rose, yet I know that is the main object of your search, and it is mine as well.”

He was amazed, and a little alarmed.

“Look, I shouldn’t be having this conversation. You could be anyone.”

“What do you need to know about me? I am a scholar, quite qualified. I am single, thirty-three, have lived in Berlin all my life.”

“Where in Berlin?”

“Prenzlauer Berg.”

“East Berlin?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not since ‘89.”

“I only want to help. I already know more than you ever will on this subject. Or the feds, either.”

The way she said “feds” was almost comical, like some Euro sophisticate trying to play the role of Chicago gangster.

“I’ll be happy to pass along your name and number to the FBI.”

She shook her head disdainfully, as if such work was beneath her.

“Then why have you come here?”

“To offer my assistance to you. For afterward. When you are done with your review, you will want to know more. That is the nature of materials like these. They develop their own attraction.”

Like you, he thought.

“That is when I will be able to help you. Because there is more material out there, waiting to be found. More than those four boxes.”

So she knew the number of boxes. Her friend at the archives had been indiscreet, and somehow Nat wasn’t surprised that the friend was a “he.”

“How do you know there’s more?”

“I have been studying this puzzle long enough to learn all its missing pieces.”

“Just because they’re missing doesn’t mean they still exist. There was a war going on. Things got burned, bombed, or looted.”

“Not in Switzerland.”

Good point.

“So you say you want to help me. But I’m guessing what you really want is for me to help you.”

“Describe it that way if you wish. I am convinced that between the two of us we can find what I’m looking for. When that happens, I will be happy to share the credit. And since you are far better known in our field, you will end up winning most of the glory. That is fine. It is not my concern. I am only interested in locating the information.”

“I take it that your specialty is the White Rose?”

She nodded.

“Since I was fifteen.”

“Goodness. It really
is
your life’s work.”

“My grandmother was a friend of a member when she was a girl. She told me all the stories. She said the friend was killed when the Berlin cell collapsed, or maybe ‘imploded’ is a better word. She said there were arrests, and even executions, but that all the official records were destroyed. She was determined to prove they had happened, but she was never able to travel into the West. A month after she died, the Wall came down. I took it as a sign that I was meant to continue the job for her.”

So, another believer in the so-called Berlin cell. But at least this one seemed to have some firsthand information, even if a bit vague.

“Nice story. And I’d love to hear more about your grandmother’s stories. But I’m afraid I still can’t help you. Not yet, anyway.” She nodded briskly, as if she expected nothing less from such a narrow thinker. “I do have one question, though. Any idea why Gordon Wolfe would refer to you as a ‘damned nuisance’?”

For the first time Berta seemed knocked off balance, but she recovered quickly.

“I suppose it’s because I approached him once as well. Several times. He, too, said no, and look where it got him. If you change your mind, my mobile number is on my card.”

She gathered her handbag and briefcase and stood to leave. Nat had a vague sense of having narrowly avoided involvement in a very complicated venture. He wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

But like any good salesman, Berta Heinkel hadn’t really finished. She had saved her best pitch for last.

“It’s not just the White Rose that is of interest to them, you know.”

“No?”

“No. It is the Berlin chapter in particular. Maybe they aren’t willing to tell you that. But I am certain.”

He shrugged and didn’t say a word, although his expression probably told her all she needed to know.

“I even have a name,” she said, reeling him in further. “Someone who is apparently mentioned in the materials.”

“Yes?”

“Kurt Bauer, the arms merchant. Quite famous now, but he was practically a boy then, not even old enough for the army. But there will be no trace of him in those boxes, either. Unless it is some passing reference to his father.”

“Reinhard Bauer?” It slipped out before he knew it.

“Yes. So you have already found it. They met, you know.”

“Who did?”

“Reinhard Bauer and your colleague, Gordon Wolfe. Kurt met Professor Wolfe, too, although they were both very young at the time.”

“In Switzerland?”

“Yes. It happened because your friend was a spy, and not a very good one. At least, that’s my theory. So you see? Already you know more than when I met you. Keep working with me and you will have a far better chance of getting all that you want.”

The remark was stirring on several levels. Then she turned and slipped out the door, baggy blouse and all, although at that moment she couldn’t have been more alluring to Nat if she’d been wearing high heels and a strapless gown. He watched her through the window all the way to her car, but she never once looked back. A virtuoso performance, he had to admit. He was breathless.

SIX

W
AS IT REAL
or was he dreaming?

Berta Heinkel crawled toward Nat across the bed in the half-light before dawn. She wore a short nightgown of antique silk, the kind of precious material that might once have been traded for war ration coupons or black-market Luckies. Slinky and smooth, like her skin. He stroked his fingers down her back, the perfect start to his day.

A sharp knock at the door rudely answered Nat’s question. He awoke to full daylight, an empty bed, and a painful erection. The innkeeper shouted crankily through the keyhole.

“Mr. Turnbull?”

“Yes?”

“You’re wanted downstairs. A Mr. Holland. He says it’s urgent.”

“Tell him five minutes.”

The bedside clock read 6:07 a.m. He knew Holland was in a hurry for him to finish the boxes by this afternoon, but this was ridiculous, seeing as how he had worked until almost ten o’clock the night before.

The innkeeper’s footsteps receded down the stairs, but their sound was soon drowned out by the brusque approach of a heavier tread. Nat barely had time to pull his trousers over the bulge in his briefs before the door flew open. In stepped Clark Holland, suit pressed, tie knotted.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Gordon Wolfe is dead. We’ve got work to do.”

“What? Gordon’s
dead?
How?”

“Heart attack, less than an hour ago. They found him on the floor of his cell. An EMT revived him for a minute or two, but that was it. Pronounced dead at 5:23 a.m.”

Nat sagged onto the bed and took a deep breath. His voice emerged from high in his throat, as if someone were squeezing his windpipe.

“His medication. Viv said—”

“That wasn’t the problem. He got his pills yesterday.”

“Does she know yet?”

“You’re going to tell her. It’s our first stop. But first I need some answers.”

Holland swung himself onto the room’s one and only chair, facing backward. He folded his arms on the top of it while Nat absorbed the blow. Nat was sitting where Berta had just been on all fours in his dream, and he was annoyed that he still couldn’t shake the image, even in the face of this terrible news. Gordon was dead. Impossible. It felt as if twenty years of his life had just been wrenched loose, thrown into a box, and abruptly carted away before he could even catalog the contents.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“How did he seem when you spoke to him yesterday?”

He wished Holland would slow down with the questions.

“Well?”

“Same as always, I guess. Only sober. In a way he was almost happy spoiling for a fight. He looked pretty good. Or I thought he did.”

“Was he especially agitated about anything?”

“He wasn’t thrilled to be in jail, if that’s what you mean. But I wouldn’t say he was overwrought. Viv’s the one I would have pegged for a breakdown. And you want
me
to tell her?”

“Did you visit him last night?”

“No.”

“Or any other time since you saw him in the courtroom?”

“No. That’s the only time.”

“Any phone calls between you?”

“None.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. What are you getting at?”

“What about the girl, the German you met at the diner at lunch yesterday? Did she visit him?”

At the mention of Berta he hunched over to hide the lingering evidence of his dream.

“Doubtful. You’ll have to ask her.”

“Did she relay any messages between you, either oral or written?”

“As far as I know she hasn’t even spoken to him.”

“Answer the question.”

“No.”

Holland stared for a few seconds, as if waiting for Nat to break. Then he stood quickly.

“Get dressed. We’re going.”

“There was one thing.” It had just occurred to Nat, along with a nasty stab of guilt.

“Yes?”

“Gordon told me yesterday to ask you guys for better protection. And I never did, of course. I thought it was just more of his usual dramatics.”

“Protection? Against what?”

“He said you’d know.”

Holland shook his head, irritated.

“He was talking nonsense. Just like this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“In his only moment of consciousness, the EMT asked what he’d had for dinner the night before. He smiled and said he’d been to the Metropolitan Club in Washington. Those were his last words. The doctor figured it was some kind of private joke. Maybe you’d know the context?”

“The Metropolitan Club? Never heard of it.”

“You’re certain?”

“He must have been delirious.”

Yet the phrase tugged at some old memory, just out of reach. Not from his shared experiences with Gordon—they had never been to Washington together—but from somewhere. Viv might know. Ugh. Telling her was going to be an ordeal for both of them.

But it wasn’t Viv he was thinking of by the time Holland and he reached the bottom of the stairs. It was Berta Heinkel. Obviously he had been impressed by her performance in the diner. But now he was upgrading his review, because she had seemed to know things about Gordon that the old man had never told him. And now he would never be able to ask.

Over the next few days he would continue to be impressed. Because, by day’s end, Berta Heinkel’s peculiar expertise would be in great demand. And within a week she and Nat would be seated together on a Swissair nonstop from Washington to Bern—the very place where, long ago, Gordon Wolfe had begun assembling the makings of his own destruction.