Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

The seventh photo was also an eight-by-ten, but Nat didn’t recognize the subject. It was another old man, around Bauer’s age, holding a newspaper as he stood on a front porch in his bathrobe. Somewhere in Europe, probably Germany, judging by the style of door and windows. Wooded neighborhood. No date, and no writing on the back. Another member of the Bauer family, perhaps? Or maybe a White Rose survivor?

Nat took a deep breath and wondered what to do next. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin as Berta called out from the bed.

“Are you all right in there?”

“Yes,” he replied through the door. “The, uh, dinner was a little rich, I guess. Plus all the wine.”

“Not to mention the excitement afterward.”

He heard Berta climbing out of bed, so he stood, grabbed a towel, and draped it around the folder and the sheet of paper. He then ran the tap for a second and shut off the light. When he opened the door he was holding the papers beneath the towel while awkwardly pretending to dry his hands. Luckily, Berta wanted a glass of water, and she brushed past him to get to the sink. Once he heard the tap running, he stepped to the TV console and hurriedly slid the folder back into place. Then he tucked the sheet of stationery into his pants pocket, pulled off his trousers, and got back into bed.

“You drank a bourbon?” she called out.

Shit. He had left the mini-bottle on the floor, along with his empty glass.

“Hair of the dog. As a precaution.”

“Already? Too early. It will never work.”

She emerged shortly afterward, naked and sleek in the dimness. A half hour ago the sight would have been arousing. But not after what he had seen in the folder. He shut his eyes, feigning sleep. She slid in beside him and was soon breathing evenly, but Nat remained awake. He couldn’t shake the image of Berta stalking the old man, capturing him unawares from behind trees and hedges and from her car. If the man had refused her request for an interview, her behavior amounted to little more than harassment, not to mention a waste of time.

The power of love? This looked more like the power of obsession. Nat tried to sleep. The next thing he knew, he was awakening to full sunlight. The clock said it was nearly seven. He dressed quietly to keep from waking Berta and crept into the hall.

The door to his room was ajar, and a maid’s cart was parked outside. They certainly started early around here. He entered to find a man in a hotel jacket stooped at the end of the bed, fussily tucking in the linens. But Nat hadn’t slept here, so why did the bed need making?

The man straightened quickly and brushed past him toward the door, moving briskly, face averted.

“Just finishing, sir.” An accent, not local.

He looked around in a panic for his things. The box of Gordon’s keepsakes was still in his bag, thank goodness, tucked between a pair of shirts. His laptop was still here, too, but the screen was up and the drawer of the disk drive was open. The bastard had copied his files-all the electronic versions of his documents, his sources, notes from the Molden interview, and everything they had photographed yesterday at the Swiss Archives. Nat ran into the hallway, colliding sharply with the laundry cart, but the man was gone. He heard elevator doors opening around the corner at the far end of the hall, so he sprinted in that direction. Then there was a faint ping, like a bell in a boxing ring, and he heard the doors shutting. By the time he rounded the corner the row of display lights showed that the car was just reaching the lobby.

Round one to the opposition, whoever he was. And last night’s bout, he now realized, had gone to Berta by technical knockout. She had maneuvered Nat into a corner of his desires and knocked him senseless. He had been stupid to drop his guard. For all he knew, she might even be working with the fellow who had just disappeared.

Even more worrisome, the next round would be staged in Berlin-Berta’s home, Bauer’s home, and, to Nat, a city of almost spectral power, haunted by millions.

He had better start being more careful, and soon.

The good news was that Nat and Berta reached Berlin without further incident.

The bad news was that Erich Stuckart was dead, according to the microfilmed obituary that Nat had just rolled onto the screen: killed at age twenty-eight in an auto accident in March 1954, only four months after the same fate befell his father. If you believed the conspiracy theories that said the elder Stuckart had been assassinated by vengeful Jews, then maybe Erich had been rubbed out as well.

“Too bad,” Nat said. “He’d have been perfect.”

Berta didn’t seem particularly disappointed, which made Nat suspect she had already been down this trail. He wondered if she had ever searched for the whereabouts of Hannelore Nierendorf, too, and he was tempted to ask. But then he would have had to explain how he’d discovered the name, and that would have ended their partnership. He had already checked the Berlin phone book and found no such listing, although she could have married or moved elsewhere. It irked him that Berta probably knew for sure.

She sat to his left. They had been in the Bundesarchiv for three hours after arriving at Tegel on a morning flight, and neither had yet been willing to let the other out of sight. Nat figured his own wariness was justified, but what was bugging her?

The new dynamic had been evident since breakfast, when they discussed their lodging arrangements for Berlin. Nat had assumed she would suggest they stay at her apartment. Instead, she insisted on a hotel.

“My place is way up in Prenzlauer Berg. We’d spend half our time getting to and from the archives.”

“I just figured you’d want to get back home. Open the mail. Spread out a little.”

“It will be better this way. More efficient.”

They wound up at a small hotel just off the Ku-Damm, a location only marginally more convenient than Prenzlauer Berg.

“One room or two?” the clerk asked.

Nat looked at Berta, then back at the clerk.

“Two.”

Neither said a word as they rode the elevator. The silence continued through most of their U-Bahn trip to Krumme Lanke, the nearest stop to the Bundesarchiv. The ride put Nat in a contemplative mood, and he shared his thoughts as they approached their stop.

“This used to be the stop for the Berlin Document Center, back when the Americans ran it. Remember that old dump?”

“Yes. SS files and Nazi Party records. I guess they’ve all been moved.”

“Just as well. That building gave me the creeps. Like a big bunker in the woods. I felt like I was stirring up evil spirits every time I walked in. They’ve turned it into condos, you know. Amazing anyone could actually live there.”

“Why? It’s a nice location. Right by the Grunewald and near all the lakes.”

“Nice? One of the old air shafts is by a playground now. You can jump off the swing set and look down to the place where they probably sorted Heydrich’s mail.”

“They’ve turned that part into an underground parking garage.”

“I know. The tenants use it, with their baby seats and their BMWs.”

“So?”

“Well, wouldn’t you feel a little haunted, waking up there every morning?”

“I wouldn’t be German if I wasn’t haunted. But all the ghosts are up here.” She tapped her head. “Like a microchip implanted at birth.”

“Not for me,” he said. “In Berlin they’re everywhere, especially when I’m really wrapped up in my work. I know it’s not rational.”

“Well, that part I can understand, at least.”

She smiled, and he returned it. Finally, some warmth.

The train doors opened and they climbed the stairs, emerging into sunlight.