The Arms Maker of Berlin, page 12
Only a few feet in, he picked up a scent that was strangely out of place—a faint trace of aftershave or cologne. Maybe Willis Turner’s warning of a stranger from the Middle East was preying on his mind, because when he sniffed again the smell was gone. Nat scanned the path to the front and rear. Empty. He chased the thought from his mind and continued. He didn’t intend to walk far. No sense turning his ankle in the dark with so much work to be done.
After about a quarter mile, and just as he was hitting his stride, he stopped to turn back. As he did, he heard a muffled disturbance in the brush perhaps twenty yards behind. He listened intently, but there was nothing more. He started back slowly, then picked up the pace. If someone had been pursuing him, now he was in pursuit, so why not catch the quarry? Halfway to the trailhead he heard someone stumble. Ten yards before he reached the driveway a dark silhouette stepped into his path, blocking the way.
“Did you find it?” a man’s voice called out.
It was Holland. Still keeping tabs. Nat paused to let his pulse slow down.
“Find what?”
“Whatever you were looking for down there on the trail.”
“I was taking a walk.”
“Alone?”
“Except for you.”
“You’re sure?”
“Why, did you see somebody? I was stretching my legs, that’s all. It’s been a long day.”
“Thanks to you.”
“What do you want?” Nat was getting irritated with talking uphill to a shadow.
“We examined the memory chips from your cameras. They were clean. Not a single shot.”
“Guess we were in too much of a hurry when we took them out. Must have erased everything by mistake.”
“Or maybe you had another pair of chips, which you hid somewhere.”
“Care to search me?”
“Not really. Like you said, it’s been a long day. Besides, if anybody knows how to handle that kind of information, maybe even put it to good use, it’s someone like you, a professional historian.”
Uh-oh. It sounded like Holland wanted to make a deal.
“Provided that I do what?”
“We’d like you to keep working for us. Just in a slightly different capacity. Come up to the driveway. We’ll talk while you give me a ride to my car.”
Nat slid past him at the top of the trail. No scent of any aftershave, just the odors of sweat and the wool of his suit. Holland hadn’t even taken off his jacket. Nat unlocked the car and tried to look casual as he put Gordon’s old box on the floor in the back.
“What’s in the box?”
“Notes for a eulogy. Plus a guest list from Viv for a memorial service.”
To Nat’s relief, Holland didn’t pursue the matter further. He started the engine and put the car in gear before the agent could change his mind.
“I take it you didn’t find anything significant in the last of the boxes,” Holland said.
“Only those gaps, which I’d mentioned to you earlier.”
“The four missing folders?”
“If they’re numbered correctly.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised. All the more reason we still need your help. Oh, and here are your cameras. Figured you’ll need them.”
“If I agree to work for you, I’ll have to be able to proceed in my own way.”
“As long as your methods are legal.”
“Of course. What would I receive for my trouble?”
“Same rate you’re already getting. Plus expenses, within reason. Logistical help, if necessary. And first dibs on the recovered materials, once we’re finished with them.”
“Meaning after they’re declassified, which might be never.”
“It won’t be never. Of course, if you find them, you’ll certainly get a peek then. And chances are we’d be grateful enough to arrange for some sort of limited premature use.”
“Sounds wonderfully vague. The sort of agreement you might welsh on in seconds.”
“Are you in or not?”
“You’re going to have to tell me more. What is this all about?”
There was a long pause, no sound but the growl of the engine in low gear and the pop of gravel against the wheel wells. They reached Holland’s Suburban at the bottom of the lane, where a driver waited patiently in the dark. Nat stopped the car.
“First,” Holland said, “there are a few things you should know about Gordon Wolfe. None of them fit for the eulogy, I’m afraid. To begin with, he was a thief.”
“He said the boxes were planted.”
“Which means he was also a liar. Worse, he was a blackmailer. Had been for years. Decades. Quarterly payments to a numbered Swiss account. Puts all this nice mountain acreage of his in a new light, don’t you think?”
“And you know this how?”
“From the man he was blackmailing.”
“Let me guess. One of the surviving members of the Bauer family in Berlin?”
Holland gave him a long, probing look, and Nat realized he might have goofed.
“It’s not that hard to figure, from what you’ve already told me and what I’ve already seen,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t have to bring Berta’s name into it. “And I’m guessing you think the incriminating material is in the missing folders. But you must also believe there are clues to their whereabouts in the rest of the material. The kind of clues that only a historian might notice.”
“That’s why we want you to continue. Start tracking down any leads you can come up with, either from the materials here or from your own sources. Or, hell, from whatever you know about Gordon. You knew him for twenty years.”
“Why worry now that the blackmailer is dead?”
“As long as the information’s still out there, the subject might still be vulnerable.”
“And why’s that so important to you?”
“Because the subject is important. And we want to keep him happy. We’ve been seeking his cooperation for quite some time.”
“I’m presuming you mean Kurt Bauer.”
Holland said nothing.
“He must be what, in his eighties by now?”
Holland sighed.
“Eighty-one.”
“So he probably doesn’t even run the family business anymore.”
“It’s not a commercial issue. Unless you’re talking about the buying and selling of information, of contacts.”
“What kind of information?”
“I’ve already said more than I should have. Let’s just say he was once a very big player in a very important field, one that has our utmost attention at the moment. If we help him, then he’ll help us. Unfortunately, the competition is just as interested, and it’s winner take all.”
“Who’s the competition?”
“A smart fellow like you could probably go online and answer all these questions in about ten minutes, or I wouldn’t have said a word of this to begin with. Just don’t dig any deeper in the wrong places. Stick to the 1940s and everything will be fine between us.”
“When did Gordon start blackmailing him?”
“See? Already digging in the wrong place.”
“Well, I thought Viv might like to know.”
“You’re not to discuss this with his wife. For all we know she’s part of it.”
“I haven’t exactly noticed you arresting her.”
“We’re keeping an eye on things.”
“On her?”
“We’re doing our job. Now you do yours. Just find it. We’ll take care of the rest. And I expect daily progress reports. You can reach me anytime at this number.”
He put a card on the seat between them. Then he handed over a folded sheet of paper.
“Take this, too. It’s a letter of introduction, signed by me. Sometimes it opens doors. Other times it slams them, so use it sparingly.”
Holland unlatched the door, but Nat had one more question.
“Are you sure Gordon’s death was an accident?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Maybe we don’t know the answer yet.”
“Well, if it wasn’t, who’s to say they won’t try the same thing with me?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be keeping an eye on you. You won’t always see us, but we’ll be around.”
“How come that only bothers me more?”
“Look, I won’t sugarcoat it. The competition isn’t exactly known for playing by the rules. But let’s not make this worse than it is.”
“Speaking of which, what’s up with this Middle Eastern fellow you’re looking for? Is he with the competition?”
“Who told you about him?”
“Willis Turner.”
Holland snorted.
“Now there’s a piece of work. He’s freelancing for someone. Him and that sleazeball judge. Guarantee it.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet. But you should regard him and anyone else who crosses your path as competition.”
Too bad Nat had already copied the documents for Turner, but a deal was a deal. And Nat couldn’t rat out the cop without admitting to having his own set of copies. Holland obviously suspected as much, but it would be foolhardy to come out and say so.
“Sounds like a pretty crowded field of people who are looking for this,” Nat said. “Some unspecified foreign government, which may or may not include this loose character from the Middle East, plus whoever Willis Turner is working for, and now me.”
“Don’t forget your German. Actually, maybe you should forget her.”
“Why? She might be a big help.”
“We don’t know her background. Neither do you.”
“Historian. Ph.D. from the Free University of Berlin. She’s a pro, too, you know.”
“So she says. Growing up in East Berlin isn’t exactly a point in her favor.”
“Still fighting the Cold War?”
“They had some pretty strong and unsavory Middle Eastern connections on their side of the Wall. Especially among students.”
“She was fifteen when the Wall came down.”
“Just saying. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Try not to share too much. Keep her at arm’s length.”
It was a little disturbing hearing the agent say exactly what he had been thinking only moments ago, while looking through Gordon’s little treasure box.
“Sharing is the way it works,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as Holland. “It’s the only way you make progress as a team.”
“Slept with her yet?”
“None of your business. But no.”
“I expect that’s about to change.”
“Are you guys experts on relationships now?”
“You’ll see.”
Holland smiled and slipped out of the car. Nat waited for the Suburban to drive off, so the agent wouldn’t be tempted to follow. Then Nat, too, headed down the mountain. Ten minutes later, weary and dazed from the long and emotional day, he slowly climbed the stairs to his garret.
He opened the door to find Berta Heinkel waiting on the bed in the dark.
She was awake, eyes glimmering in the moonlight. Just as in his dream, she wore a short nightgown of white silk. Sleek and smooth, like her skin.
So much for keeping her at arm’s length.
ELEVEN
NAT SWITCHED on the light to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. In the instant glare from the overhead bulb Berta threw an arm across her face and pulled up the sheets.
“I tried to reach you,” she said through her fingers. “I was scared. There was nowhere else to go, so I came here.”
“Scared of what?”
“Someone had searched my room. I think they were looking for the memory chips.”
“You sure it wasn’t just the innkeeper tidying up? These B&Bs are pretty finicky.”
“They’d picked the lock. Things were missing from my suitcase.”
Nat saw her suitcase now, lying open on the floor. The nightgown wasn’t the only silky item. She had packed well for this kind of scene. He was tempted to sit on the bed, then thought better of it and opted for the chair, still clutching the wooden box. Maybe it was that Berta’s ambition made him wary, or that Gordon had called her a damned nuisance and then dropped dead. Or maybe it was that he would have enjoyed nothing better right now than to snuggle up next to her on the bed.
Her eyes had adjusted to the light and she looked better than ever. Shoulders bare, except for the white silk straps. Hair in suggestive disarray.
“You’re good at this, aren’t you?” he said.
“Good at what?”
“Manipulating people.”
He had expected to get a rise out of her, but she took it in stride.
“I can be. When there’s something I want badly enough. But not with you.”
“How do you see that?”
“Because we both want the same thing. You might just as easily manipulate me.”
He smiled, admiring her skill.
“Holland returned our cameras, by the way. I don’t know if you were able to tell yet from our work this afternoon, but you were right about the boxes. Four folders are missing. The feds have asked me to find the missing items. On their tab. Interested?”
She nodded, but surprised him by showing no sign of excitement.
“Where do you think we should start?” she asked.
The sheet slipped farther down her torso, showing some cleavage. Healthy tone to her skin for this early in the spring, yet no hint of a tan line. Of course, topless sunbathing wasn’t exactly taboo in Europe. Nat cleared his throat, hoping to also clear his head.
“I was thinking Baltimore.” He figured that would get a reaction, but her face remained blank. He opened the old box in a way that kept her from seeing the contents, and pulled out the key. “This fits a storage locker there. It’s our first stop.”
“All right. Are they paying my way, too?”
“Long as I’m in charge.”
“Good. I’ve maxed out my credit cards. We’d better get some sleep. Shall you take the floor, or I?”
Well, he supposed that answered one question.
“Throw me a pillow.”
She nodded and complied, somehow managing to make the toss without letting the sheet drop a stitch farther. Then she lay back down and shut her eyes. Oh, definitely no manipulation going on here, he thought, smiling to himself as he turned out the light.
As he tried to get comfortable in the dark, he wondered anew what it was that drove her. Scholarly zeal, of course. All the best historians were competitive. But there had to be something more. He was about to drift off when she spoke up from the bed.
“I have some names I can share. Old contacts of Gordon Wolfe’s and Kurt Bauer’s, people who might have once handled the records, or have some leads.”
Throwing him a bone. It was a start.
“Living or dead?”
“Living. In Bern and Berlin. We can visit them, now that we have a budget.”
“Great. But with any luck the trail will end in Baltimore.”
Her silence told him she thought otherwise, which troubled him because it suggested she knew more than she was letting on. He had better check out her credentials, first chance he got. Until then, or until she opened up more, perhaps “arm’s length” was indeed the best policy. Funny how sensible that sounded down there on the cold, hard floor.
TWELVE
NAT’S GREAT HOPES for Baltimore died with the swipe of a card, the turn of a key, and the opening of an iron door. There before him on the concrete floor, looking lost and forlorn in the five-by-five storage locker, was a single item, barely bigger than a fist. It was wrapped in bubble plastic and smothered in tape. Definitely not the missing folders.
Berta said nothing, but Nat sensed an I-told-you-so chill.
At least they hadn’t wasted much time getting there. He had planned on using Sunday to drive Viv back to Wightman for a Wednesday memorial service. She instead decided to wait on her sister, which freed Berta and him to catch a midday flight from Albany to Baltimore. They drove straight to Fairfield, rattling down its potholed lanes among the rail yards and chemical plants of an industrial waterfront. Fittingly, they wound up briefly on Tate Street, where Viv and Gordon had lived after the war. Only one house remained on the block, and it was boarded up. The trail ended at a fenced compound with a “U-Store-Em” sign out front. Nat bounded from the car, but his excitement was short-lived.
“Well, let’s see what it is,” he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
He slit the tape with a car key and unwrapped the plastic. Inside was an old book with a red cloth cover and a German title, Der Unsichtbare Henker (The Invisible Hangman), by Wolf Schwertenbach. Was this the crime novel that had made Viv so jealous? He doubted Viv had been familiar with the author, but Nat certainly was. Wolf Schwertenbach was the pen name of the late Paul Meyer, a Swiss diplomat who during the war opened a secret back channel between the Swiss and German intelligence agencies. He was also an OSS source who met Dulles several times. But none of that seemed to explain why Gordon had gone to the trouble of putting the book into storage.
The publication date was 1933, although this was a 1937 printing. Nat checked inside the front jacket. Sure enough, a girl’s name was penned in cursive in an upper corner, just as Viv had said. “Sabine Keller.”
“Noir pulp by a hack diplomat,” Berta said. “Not even a first edition. You might get five euros for it. Shall we go?”
“Hold on.”
Nat flipped carefully through the brittle pages. No hidden note. No scribbles in the margins. No cryptic inscriptions from the famed author. But on page 186 he found the very wildflower Viv must have seen. Crushed yellow blossom, bent stem. Nothing special, like edelweiss. Just a buttercup plucked from a field. He left it in place, feeling that somehow Gordon would have preferred that.
