Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

“Do you remember a name? The memo seemed to make a point of not mentioning it.”

“Good for Icarus. Purposely keeping her out of the official record. Yes, I remember her well, and in the end we all agreed she was a pretty good egg. She did all right for herself with tips, of course, but she never charged a penny for taking anyone to the border. That’s one reason the charges were dropped. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Icarus intervened. He got some American lawyer to take her case.”

“And her name?” Nat prompted again.

“Sorry. It was Keller. Sabine Keller.”

“You’re joking.”

“You know of her?”

“Not really. But I have seen the name.”

Amazing, Nat thought. Sabine Keller. The signature in the book Gordon had put under lock and key. Even Berta looked startled. Nat now recalled the most striking thing about the “pretty waitress” memo-its affectionate tone. Gordon had not only given her the benefit of the doubt, he had taken her side. Quite a contrast to his dismissive reaction to other sob stories. No pity for anyone until the pretty waitress came along, toting her Swiss murder mystery with a wild-flower tucked between the pages.

“At first we were a little surprised when Icarus started spending so much time down there,” Molden said.

“You were surprised by love?” Berta asked, oddly animated. “The oldest and strongest emotion in the world? How could that have surprised you?”

Such an unlikely question, coming from her. Nat wondered what could have triggered it. Molden also seemed taken aback, but he recovered with a shrug and a sip of beer.

“Then maybe it is true what they say about us Swiss, that we are a cold and precise people, a nation of watchmakers. Whether or not he was in love, I cannot say for sure. But it certainly made my life easier, because my bosses didn’t care in the least about the doings of some mooning young couple. So it was always a breeze for me when Icarus went courting. I had some nice outings, down there in Adelboden.”

“When did all this take place?” Nat asked. “The memo was from July of ’44.”

“He really wasn’t down there much until November. But by Christmas, well, I am surprised he kept his job. A shame, really, because by then he had gotten quite good. Bad for the Americans, but good for me.” He raised his glass in tribute.

“So is that how Icarus almost cost you your job? Some minder found you lazing in an Alpine café?”

“Oh, no. He disappeared on me. I lost him completely.”

“For how long?”

“For the rest of the war. He went down to Adelboden one night just after the New Year, walked into her door, and, poof, I never saw him again.”

“So this was in January of ’45?”

“Yes.”

It was the same time Gordon had disappeared from OSS account books and official correspondence. His name hadn’t resurfaced until late April, in Loofbourow’s cryptic memo alluding to Gordon’s presence in a Zurich safe house, due to someone or something called “Fleece.” Eight days later, the war in Europe ended.

During the same blackout period, Kurt Bauer had been terminated as an OSS source. And Erich Stuckart had also been in the neighborhood at the time. Bauer’s file had then been sent straight to the top of the OSS-or would have been if it hadn’t disappeared, perhaps courtesy of Gordon.

“Any theories on where he went?” Nat asked.

“I argued at the time that he must have decided to escape. Along with his girlfriend, of course. She certainly would have known how to help him pull it off.”

“Except Gordon kept working for Dulles. In Germany, during the occupation.”

“So I heard, as did my bosses. That’s when they nearly fired me. They were convinced I must have missed something major.”

“And what do you think?”

“Maybe I did. Like I said, he was good by then.”

“Did the name Fleece ever come up? Either as a code name or an operation?”

Molden shook his head.

“No. Is that what he was up to?”

“I don’t know.”

They sat in silence a moment, the three of them drifting with their thoughts. Sensing that the conversation had nearly run its course, Nat took a shot in the dark.

“Tell me, Herr Molden, in all the time you followed him, did Icarus have any favorite mail drops? Any secret places where he liked to stash things?”

Berta moved forward in her chair, and Molden seemed to sense the sudden tension. He swiveled his eyes from Nat to Berta, then broke into a broad grin. He milked the moment by swallowing the last of his beer.

“You’re looking for something, aren’t you?” he said. “Is that what this whole thing is about, something Icarus left behind? Is this some sort of treasure hunt?”

Berta narrowed her eyes, but Nat didn’t mind. Maybe the old fellow had been a decent operative, after all, if he was this perceptive.

“Might be,” he allowed. “So?”

“No place special, I’m afraid. The one mail drop I knew of was in an old church, a small chapel that burned down maybe twenty years later. So that wouldn’t help you.”

“What about a place called the Hotel Jurgens?”

Berta perked up at this new reference and shot Nat another accusatory glance. Well, too bad, because she was certainly still holding back items.

“Dulles used to house some of the American airmen at the Jurgens, but I never saw Icarus go there. The crewmen stayed there the night before catching trains into Germany for prisoner exchanges. As far as I know, it was never a mail drop. But I’m surprised at you two, especially since you think that the Swiss know nothing about love.”

“What do you mean?” Nat asked.

“Well, the woman, of course! This Sabine Keller. If you’d seen the two of them together, you’d know that anyplace Icarus would choose for stashing something would somehow be connected to her.”

It made sense, especially in light of the book. But who knew if Sabine Keller was even alive, much less her whereabouts.

“Do you know what became of her?”

“No idea. Because she disappeared, too, you see. Around the same time as Icarus. Except in her case, she never turned up again.”

Interesting, Nat thought, and definitely worth following up.

They were startled suddenly by a loud noise from a nearby table. Two couples of middle-aged Americans in shorts and polo shirts had burst into laughter, enjoying a joke at a waiter’s expense. Nat had overheard them earlier, groaning about sore feet and tram routes, and now they were even drawing stares from the neighboring café.

“Americans have become the new Germans,” Molden said with a frown. “Blustering their way around town, asking loudly for menus in English. The swagger of conquerors.”

Or maybe just the nature of noisy tourists, Nat thought, especially ones with plenty of money. Like the Japanese family at the next table, shooting video of everything that moved. Or that man standing in the square, snapping pictures of their café. In fact, he seemed to be aiming his lens at their table. Or had been, until Nat started watching. Now he was lowering his head and walking briskly away.

“That man,” Nat said. “Do you know him?”

Molden followed his stare.

“What, you mean that Arab fellow?”

“Arab?”

“Well, that was my impression. But I suppose he could be Turkish or Greek. All I know is that he’s been watching this place quite a while. I kept expecting him to ask for a table. Maybe it’s just my old training, noticing him like that. Funny how those habits never really leave you.”

“Maybe,” Nat said, keeping an eye on the side street where the man had disappeared. “Or maybe you still know tradecraft when you see it.”

Molden’s smile faded. He shoved his plate away and put his napkin on the table.