Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

Now that the excitement was over, Nat was drained, and all he could think about was Gordon’s death, looming out there like a void. They said little during the meal. Nat and Willis Turner plowed through a platter of the meat loaf special. Neither of them could help noticing that Berta ate only about half of a chef’s salad. By the time they were done it was well after sundown.

“Where does your investigation stand, now that you’ve got all your, um, evidence?” Nat asked.

Turner shrugged.

“Damn near finished, I guess. The doc didn’t seem to think it was anything out of the ordinary.”

“Poor Gordon. Not to mention Viv. Shit. What time is it?”

“Half nine.” Berta offered.

“A German’s way of saying eight thirty,” Nat explained to the puzzled Turner. “I’ve got an appointment to keep. See you guys later.”

Berta wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye. She followed him to his car, which was still parked outside the inn, and after he climbed into the driver’s seat she hung on to the open door like a teenager angling for an invitation home.

“My offer is still good,” she said, “and those folders are still missing. You saw that stuff we were going through today. Junk. You need my help.”

“Maybe. I have to let this sink in first.”

“I understand. With Gordon Wolfe gone, you’ve lost that guiding voice in your head. The one that always tells you what to do next. I understand that completely.”

“Who’s your guiding voice?”

She gave him a smile but said nothing more. Then she pushed his door shut and backed away. He watched in the side mirror as she walked slowly down the street. A complicated woman on a private crusade. Maybe he did need her help, but he wasn’t yet sure it would be worth the extra baggage.

Of course, there might also be fringe benefits. But he was trying not to think about those.

There were no lights on at the Wolfes’ house, but a full moon was rising over the treetops. Now that the FBI was gone, the place had the weary air of a sacked castle.

Nat smelled wood smoke as he got out of the car. Had Viv lit a fire? On a mild spring night the mere idea seemed oppressive. Yet that was the scene he found inside: Viv hunched forward on the living room couch, face aglow before the hearth. She had on the same flannel nightgown she’d worn that morning. A half-empty bottle of Gordon’s favorite cognac, Pierre Ferrand, sat before her on the coffee table. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand.

She looked up, saw Nick, then patted the spot beside her on the couch.

“Have a seat.”

“I thought you hated cognac?”

“I hate fires, too. They were always another excuse for him to get drunk. I guess it’s my idea of a tribute. Or maybe I thought it would help me commune with his soul.”

“Any luck?”

“My vision’s a little blurred. That’s a start.”

But her speech was crisp. Either she was taking it slow or Gordon had previously made a dent in the bottle.

“Pour me one of those,” he said, as much to prevent her from finishing it as to keep her company.

The first sip explained her craving. The pleasant blend of heat and grape instantly reproduced the essence of a firelit winter evening with Gordon Wolfe. By the second swallow Nat wouldn’t have been surprised to see the old fellow step from the shadows to began regaling them with some favored tale.

Viv’s thoughts must have been on a similar track, judging from her next remark.

“He told me once that he visited the bunker, you know. In Berlin, after the war.”

“Hitler’s bunker?”

She nodded.

“With Dulles himself. Just the two of them. A Russian officer gave them a tour. The furniture was still intact, right down to the bloodstained couch where he’d shot himself.”

“You’re kidding? How come I’ve never heard this? Gordon never told anybody.”

“He told me.”

“Yeah, but…”

“You mean, how come he never used it to show off? Or impress people in the department? Or get laid at some conference?”

“I don’t think Gordon ever did too much of that.”

“Maybe not after you met him. But there were a lot of things he never talked about, considering what a blowhard he could be about other stuff.”

So Gordon had toured the Führerbunker with Dulles. If true, it was quite an exalted excursion for someone who, by his own account, had been the lowliest of clerks.

“The doctor thinks it might have been an overdose,” Viv said.

“Hitler’s suicide?”

“Gordon’s death. He thinks Gordon might have been trying to make up for the doses he had already missed. Playing catch-up with his digitalis. It’s been known to happen.”

“How many pills were left?”

“Plenty. But I don’t know how many there were to begin with. Any way you add it up, the FBI killed him. They didn’t need to lock him up. It was pure spite.”

Nat didn’t know how to respond, so he let it go and waited for the smooth current of cognac to carry her further downstream.

“That fellow Holland was around this evening looking for you,” she said a while later. “Said you were looking over the documents with a Swiss girl.”

“She’s German.”

“Same difference. Can’t trust ’em, either way.”

Now where had that come from?

“Speaking of people you can’t trust,” Nat said, “I was talking to Turner, the local cop. He mentioned a break-in here a few weeks back.”

She nodded.

“The man’s an idiot, but he’s right. Gordon was all in a tizzy till he decided nothing important was gone. They hit our house in Wightman, too.”

“The same people?”

“That’s what Gordon figured.”

“How come?”

“He never said. But he seemed pretty certain. That reminds me. He left something for you. First thing he checked after the break-in. He kept it hidden under the insulation.”

“What is it?”

“Some box. He wouldn’t say what was in it. But after the break-in he showed me where he kept it. Said if anything ever happened to him, he wanted you to have it. Said you were the only one who’d know what to do with it.”

“Something to do with his work?”

Nat tried not to sound too excited. Who knew, maybe it was the four missing folders. Quest begun, quest ended. Just like that.

“He didn’t say. You want it now?”

“Might as well.”

She smiled.

“Figured you’d say that. Peas in a pod on that kind of thing.” She stood slowly and unsteadily. “Trouble is, this is my third drink. I can’t make it up those hideaway steps without breaking my neck. If you’ll do the climbing, I’ll talk you through it. Come on, I’ll get a flashlight.”

She fetched one from the kitchen, and they went down the hall to a cooler part of the house, where the night air coursed through screened windows. Nat pulled a lanyard from the ceiling to lower a folding staircase, which creaked as he climbed. He poked his head into stale air the temperature of midsummer as Viv handed the flashlight up to him. The beam fell first on a cardboard box with the title of Nat’s first book printed on the side. It was a publisher’s shipment of twenty-four copies-a significant number, considering that fewer than a thousand were ever printed. Nat opened a flap and got another surprise. Only four copies remained, meaning Gordon must have handed out quite a few.

“Found it yet?” Viv called out.

“No. You said it’s beneath the insulation?”

“Just to the left of the opening, between the first two joists.”

The insulation was foil-covered and fleecy pink. Nat rolled back the nearest strip like a blanket from a doll’s bed, and there it was-a square wooden container twice the size of a cigar box. It was heavier than he expected and smelled of machine oil. Emblazoned on top in German script was the name of a gun shop in Zurich: “W. Glaser, Löwenstrasse 42.” That alone might have meaning, he supposed.