The Arms Maker of Berlin, page 38
Outside the house Miss Keller found that the others had gone on patrol and had left the truck unattended. She helped me onto the seat, and we drove until we had nearly reached the spot of our ambush. We got out of the truck and entered the wood. I could move only with difficulty and was in great pain. We must have covered several hundred yards when I again blacked out. The next moment I remember was awakening in the back of another truck in Schaffhausen, in Switzerland. According to Miss Keller we had crossed the frontier at 03:52.
The narrative ended. It was devastating material—callousness and heroism hand in glove. Gordon had killed three men and had witnessed the gang rape of his lover. Viv was right. Part of Gordon had never come home from the war, and now Nat knew why. It had been forever left behind in a cell in Munich and a farmhouse at the border.
There was an appendix of seven pages that Loofbourow had also recorded, in which Gordon documented various details that Sabine and he had observed along the way, complete with sketches. Much of it concerned conditions in and around Munich—which factories were still running, what was available in the markets, the coal supply, observations on troop positions and gun emplacements.
But the most notable item came last, when Gordon weighed in on the reliability—or lack thereof—of Kurt Bauer. It was useful to Nat because it indicated which way the wind must have been blowing at the American legation with regard to the Bauer family. Its harsh tone also showed how desperate Gordon already was for vengeance. In a sense, Gordon was rendering his first judgment as a historian, and its strong opinions foreshadowed the style that would later mark his scholarly prose.
I am well aware that the inclination in this case will be to regard Magneto II’s misdeeds as youthful errors in judgment, if only because of his family’s perceived importance in rebuilding an industrial base for a new democratic Germany, as a bulwark against Soviet influence. But this forgiving attitude should not be allowed to obscure two important truths:
1) Magneto II’s story to us was a dangerous and intentional lie which led to the death of an OSS guide, plus the injury of one OSS operative and the brutal rape of another.
2) Magneto II’s purported role as a resistance figure has been severely compromised by his evident betrayal of his colleagues to the Gestapo. Although personal considerations may have clouded his judgment, and his young age was almost certainly a factor, it should not be forgotten that his actions resulted in the executions of three courageous individuals.
Good for you, Nat thought. Although it seemed clear that his recommendation had ultimately been ignored. No wonder Dulles had wanted these files shipped directly to Donovan in Washington. Already covering up for the new captain of industry in the fight against the Reds. It explained why Gordon had been so enraged when he came across the files, and why he decided to steal them. The only question now was whether his muttered exclamation—“the cocksucking bastard”—had been a reference to Bauer or to Dulles. It must have been infuriating to learn that the boss who had put your life on the line had sided with the man who almost killed you. It also explained why the CIA would still consider these items too hot to handle, as Steve Wallace had said. That told Nat the Agency probably had other documents, still classified, which must have at least offered an inkling of these events.
Next he read Göllner’s interrogation transcript. It was every bit as juicy as promised—more sticks of dynamite to obliterate the Bauer legacy. The rest of the items were mostly supporting documents for the main event. A flurry of memos between Dulles in Bern and Loofbourow in Zurich told him that Gordon had endured two surgeries on his leg after his return from Munich. There was also a Loofbourow memo on Sabine, saying that her father had been sent a lump-sum payment in Swiss francs to cover the expenses of hiding her after the Fleece fiasco, not only to keep her out of the hands of Swiss authorities and local German operatives but also to make her unavailable to Gordon.
Nat then turned to the two sealed envelopes. Being a historian, he opened the oldest first—Gordon’s unmailed letter to Viv. It was dated May 15, 1945, a week after the Germans surrendered. He must have still been recuperating at the Zurich safe house and hadn’t yet discovered that Sabine was “missing.”
Dear Viv,
I am writing to tell you that I was wounded in my right leg during an operation, but that I am healing nicely and soon expect to be up and about. The doctors promise that I will be almost as good as new. I have been invited to accompany a postwar reconstruction team into Germany, and will be doing so this summer.
It has been a strange experience to lay in bed all these months here in Zurich. Hours pass when all that I do is listen to the whine of the tram cars on the tracks, or the passing conversations of people in the streets. They sound much happier than they did a year ago. Laughter seems to be returning to the city now that the war has ended. You can sense a collective lifting of spirits.
This gladdens me, because in some small way my work may have played a role in helping to end the war, or, at least, more of a role than I would have played as a gunner on a Flying Fortress. Unfortunately, much of what I did will by necessity have to remain a secret.
Yet, in other ways my spirits are sinking. I suppose that my wounds are partly to blame, and also the knowledge that I might never be able to walk again without some degree of pain. But I must confess that my greater pains are emotional, due to a matter that is all too close and personal to us both. I regret to tell you that this matter is almost certain to cause you pain as well.
I have met a woman, Viv. And I do not say that lightly, or in the sense of some mere passing affair. It has developed into something quite serious and complex, and the experiences she and I have shared during these past months have at last convinced me that it will be impossible for me to leave her behind.
None of this has anything to do with any lacking in my feelings for you. I know that will not be any solace to you, but events here have stirred up feelings more powerful than any I have ever experienced before. My greatest regret is the pain you will feel as a result.
Because of this, I expect to be staying in Europe permanently in one capacity or another, even after my duties with the occupation forces have ended. I therefore bid you a regretful but hear felt farewell, in the fervent hope that someday you will find a way to forgive me.
If it is any consolation, I am no longer the high-spirited young man you knew before the war, cocksure and happy-go-lucky. I don’t believe that my experiences have made me a worse person, but I am indelibly changed, and perhaps you would not have recognized me or wanted me in any event.
With love and affection,
Gordon
Oh, my. What was Nat supposed to do with this? He was certainly never going to show it to Viv. He opened the next envelope.
Dear Nat,
So what do you think? Is this proper recompense for all that I’ve done to you in the past? I like to think so, but I need one last favor. Please share the findings with Sabine, especially the letter to Viv, which, as you can see, was never mailed. The rest is at your discretion. I’m trusting you’ll handle everything in the best interests of all concerned.
Fondly,
Gordon
A weighty statement, that last one. It made Nat responsible for the legacies of several people—Viv, Sabine and Bernhard, Bauer, perhaps even Holland and all the feds. Granting him that sort of power was the old man’s greatest possible gift, yet also his most burdensome. Nat had better get it right, beginning now.
The first order of business was some careful logistics. Fortunately, he had already given the matter a great deal of thought. He placed the two envelopes back in the steel drawer and locked it shut. The four folders went inside the bag for his laptop. Then he removed his right shoe and sock. He stuffed one of the flash drives, with all its important images, into the sock and put it back on along with the shoe. He stood, opened the door, and called for Herr Schmidt, who arrived promptly.
“I’m taking some of the items with me. The rest of them I’m leaving behind.”
“Very good, sir.” As if Nat had just chosen the perfect wine.
Nat handed over the key and walked out of the bank into the warm sunlight of late afternoon. It felt good to breathe fresh air again after being entombed with all those memories. Glancing in both directions, and detecting no sign of danger, he set out for the Bahnhof.
Two blocks later, Clark Holland stepped from a storefront and blocked his way.
“Greetings from sunny Florida, Nat. Sorry you couldn’t stick around.”
Before Nat could move a muscle, Neil Ford arrived at his right shoulder and a third agent sidled up on the left. Nat lunged at the gap between Holland and Neil, but six hands immediately clamped down.
They had him.
And what that really meant, of course, was that they had everything else, too.
THIRTY-TWO
HOLLAND WAS UNABLE to resist the temptation of a victorious sneer. “Your laptop bag looks a little heavy,” he said. “Neil, why don’t you take it off his hands.”
Neil rummaged through it, showed the four folders to Holland, and then took it to a black Mercedes that had just rolled to the curb. A rear door opened. Neil put the bag on the backseat and shut the door. The automatic locks slammed home.
“And now your camera, please,” Holland said.
Nat glumly handed it over.
Holland clicked through enough frames to satisfy himself that this time the flash drive actually had something on it.
“Very good,” he said, ejecting the wafer into his hand. “Next for the hard part. Neil, please take Mr. Turnbull into the men’s room of this fine establishment here and search him head to toe for anything he might still have on his person. Thoroughly, please, like they taught you at Quantico.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Nat said. “You’ve got your chip.”
“I’ve got a chip. Neil?”
The young agent nodded. Nat followed him inside the restaurant, and they trooped toward the restrooms in the rear.
“Your boss isn’t very trusting.”
“Sorry, sir. But it’s—”
“Stop. Don’t say it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bathroom smelled like those soap cakes that go in urinals. Neil locked the door behind them and frisked Nat efficiently—head to toe, just like Holland wanted. If the Swiss police had burst in, both men would have been arrested on morals charges, assuming that the Swiss still bothered with such things.
“You’re going to have to remove your trousers and shirt,” Neil said. “Also your socks and shoes.”
Nat undressed, but left his socks on. Neil rummaged through everything else.
“Socks, too.”
Nat sighed and did as he was told. As he peeled off the right sock he took care to keep the wafer from falling out.
“Hand them here, please.”
Neil held each sock by the toe and shook hard. When he shook the right one, the flash drive wafer clattered to the tile floor.
“Dr. Turnbull!”
“If you knew what was on it, you’d hardly blame me.”
Neil shook his head. Nat dressed without saying a word. By the time they stepped back onto the sidewalk they were both wearing such hangdog expressions that Holland burst into laughter. Neil handed over the second chip.
“Guess I can’t blame you for trying,” Holland said cheerily. “But look at it this way, Nat. You’ve done a great service to your country. And I mean that. We’ll be acting on this material immediately. Believe it or not, I do intend to uphold my end of the bargain on first dibs. Not that you haven’t already read some of the juicier stuff, I’m sure.”
“A lot of good that’ll do me without the copies to back it up.”
“As I said, first dibs.”
“When?”
“You know better than me the way those things work. However long it takes, I suppose.”
Years, in other words. If not decades.
“Can I at least have my camera back?”
“All in good time,” Holland said. “And don’t forget to submit your expenses. In fact, have a nice meal on us. Take that old Swiss woman and her son, too. You’ve earned it.”
The federal entourage climbed into the Mercedes, and the car pulled away from the curb. Nat made sure to offer his most forlorn expression to give Holland something to remember him by. He guessed they’d be heading straight to the airport to catch a flight to Berlin. Then on to Bauer’s house.
Good for them. Nat didn’t begrudge them their victory. In fact, as the car eased out of sight, he felt downright triumphant on their behalf, and he broke into a huge, relaxed grin.
He took his time before making his next move, in case they or anyone else had posted a tail. First he returned to the Café William Tell, where he apologized profusely for having walked out on his breakfast. He then enjoyed a fine lunch, tipping extra generously.
Heading south, he passed a leisurely hour by strolling to the Fraumünster for a look at the Chagall stained-glass windows. Impressive, even inspiring. Or maybe that was just the mood he was in. Finally convinced that the coast was clear, he returned to the Löwenstrasse branch of Zürcher Bank AG shortly after 4 p.m., where he sought out the unflappable Herr Schmidt and announced that he would like to retrieve a few more items and then close the account. It would take only a few minutes, he said.
Once the door had shut on the small room in the back, Nat unlocked the steel drawer and removed both envelopes. He pocketed the old one for delivery to Sabine. Then he pulled out Gordon’s note from the new one. When he unfolded it, out dropped the third and last of the flash drive wafers, the copy that even Holland hadn’t counted on.
Nat signed the proper forms for Herr Schmidt. Monique then escorted him to the glass door up front. It was 4:29 p.m. She had a set of keys, ready to lock up for the day.
“Au revoir,” Nat said cheerily to Monique. “Auf wiedersehen,” he called out to Herr Schmidt. Switzerland was such a wonderful place.
He set out for the Bahnhof, and this time no one stopped him. He detoured briefly to an Internet café, where he logged on just long enough to plug in the flash drive and copy the images onto an e-mail attachment. He sent one copy to his own address, and another to Karen for good measure. He told her that all was well and that he expected to be home within a week.
He bought a beer at the station just before boarding, and when the train was safely out of the Bahnhof he toasted his smiling reflection in the window of the railcar. For the moment, he could even live with the idea of letting Kurt Bauer think that he, too, had just won. Nat felt certain that very soon, perhaps as early as this evening, Bauer would be exulting in his triumph, believing that never again would he have to answer to anyone like Nat or Berta.
And that was fine with Nat. Because his newest hunch, the one he had developed while reading the “Fleece” report, plus other recent items, might yet provide enough leverage to make even a shamed Bauer break his silence. But only if his hunch was true—and there was only one way to find out. Nat took out his cell phone and punched in the number for Steve Wallace, his friend at the CIA. Wallace had told him not to call, but what were friends for?
Being a reliable employee, Wallace answered on the first ring.
“Hi. Don’t hang up.”
“Make it fast. Very fast.”
“I don’t need information, just a favor. An easy one.”
“Sure it is.”
But when Wallace heard Nat’s request, he actually agreed. Furthermore, he promised to do it. He knew just the person. One phone call to Berlin ought to do the trick, he said.
Nat then phoned Sabine.
“I have something important for you to read. Several things, actually, but some of it I need to download and print out on your office computer. Think you could get Bernhard out of the way for an hour or so? I doubt you’d want him to see any of this before you’ve both had a chance to talk things over.”
“Come straight to the hotel. I’ll take care of it and meet you there.”
She was waiting at the front desk. Within half an hour Nat had printed out the images from the pages of the “Fleece” report. He handed Sabine the copies along with Gordon’s aging letter. She nodded grimly when she saw the heading. Then she took everything back to the breakfast room along with her reading glasses and a cup of tea.
“Bernhard will be back soon. Please ask him to mind the store and not to disturb me.”
Nat waited quietly on a couch in the lobby. He heard her sob once, but the only other sound was the occasional shuffling of papers and the rattle of her teacup in its saucer. Bernhard arrived and accepted his marching orders without a word of protest. You could tell he sensed that something important was in the air. A few minutes later his mother emerged. Her eyes were clear, her expression resolute. Just the sort of woman you could depend on to get you back across the border when all the odds were against you.
“Come on back, Dr. Turnbull.”
Bernhard glanced over from the desk but didn’t say anything. Sabine shut the door behind them and Nat took a seat.
“Tea?” she said.
“Please.”
Sabine had just brewed a fresh pot, and she poured them both a cup. Then she sat down and looked into his eyes.
“Painful reading,” she said. “It made it all so fresh.”
“I can only imagine. So what happened between the two of you? Afterward, I mean.”
“Bernhard happened.”
“That I figured. But how come you didn’t, well …”
“Marry Gordon?”
He nodded.
“I would have. Happily. But by the time I learned I was pregnant, they were keeping me out of sight. And of course by then I was all in a panic. Because, you see, I was certain the baby was the spawn of one of those terrible SS men. A little Nazi incubus. They had raped me several times by the time Gordon shot them. There was a third soldier, too. He also raped me, but he had gone on patrol. It was a miracle we made it back at all, with the shape Gordon was in. Some farmer in the woods helped us those last few miles or I don’t know what I would have done.”
