Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

Then along came the moment that, for Nat, changed the complexion of the day. Perhaps it was prompted by the conversation they had just had, or because his mind seemed to be racing in a million directions at once, trying to arrange all that he’d learned into some semblance of order. But for whatever reason he sensed an unsettling presence, a sudden shadow across his thoughts. Except this time the feeling was almost benevolent, as if someone were wishing him well. And he wasn’t in a gloomy archive or at the site of some atrocity. He was simply standing at the entrance to the Krumme Lanke U-Bahn station, awash in sunshine.

“What is it?” Berta asked. “Are you all right?”

He blinked as if emerging from a dream.

“You just had one of them, didn’t you? One of your little hauntings?”

He shrugged. She smiled.

“These spirits, do they ever tell you things?”

“No. And they’re not spirits. I don’t believe in ghosts. But they do seem to arrive with some sort of intent. To help or to hinder.”

“And this one?”

He faced away from her so she wouldn’t see him blush.

“She seemed to think we were doing fine.”

“She?”

“You asked. That’s how it felt.”

But hours later, as they sat in the Bundesarchiv, Nat questioned the accuracy of his reaction, because they were getting nowhere. The Erich Stuckart lead had literally reached a dead end, and the files on Erich’s father, Wilhelm, had offered nothing useful.

“I guess our next stop is Martin Göllner,” he said. “Your Gestapo man.”

“He lives under a different name now. Hans Mannheim. His apartment is in Moabit.”

“You’re certain that he once interrogated Bauer?”

“In late ’43, just as the White Rose was collapsing all over the country.”

“And you know this how?”

“A Gestapo rota sheet that I came across a few months ago. But there was no transcript of the interrogation. It was either destroyed by bombing or looted by the Russians.”

“Or stolen.” By someone like you, he thought but didn’t say. “This Göllner. Or Mannheim, I guess I should say. Hasn’t he already blown you off once?”

“Last month. I was a little aggressive.”

“Imagine that.”

“At least I’m not the one seeing ghosts.”

“They’re not ghosts . It’s a gut feeling.” He wished he’d never told her. “And right now my gut feeling is that it’s 2 p.m. and I’m starved. Let’s try the café across the street.”

“Sure. Maybe your spirit will pick up the tab.”

THE CAFé ZEN WAS A GREEK PLACE in the German style, meaning the dishes were bland, and most of them tasted the same. Nat ordered a gyro, and had eaten about half and spilled about a quarter when his cell rang. He answered guiltily, figuring it was Holland, whom he still owed a call from the day before.

“Dr. Turnbull?”

“Speaking.”

“Willis Turner, in Blue Kettle Lake. What’s your ten-twenty?”

“Berlin.”

“Wow. Good signal.”

“Aren’t you up kind of early?”

“It’s eight thirty, and I had an important question. That German gal you were working with, any idea how to get ahold of her?”

“Maybe. Why?” He gave her a glance and took another messy bite of gyro.

“I’m beginning to think Gordon Wolfe really was murdered, and as of now she’s my only suspect.”

The meat caught in his throat. He looked away from Berta and swallowed hard, while trying to maintain a normal tone of voice.

“How could that be possible?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. It might be nothing. But there are some things that don’t add up, so how ’bout letting me know if you happen to run into her?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, and you had asked about that anonymous tip, the one on the boxes?”

“Yes?”

“The call came from a little B &B just up the highway. Their only guest that night was a Christa Larkin of New Jersey. Ring any bells?”

“Sounds familiar, but-”

He stopped, remembering now. It was Berta’s alias, the one on her fake ID at the National Archives.

“You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Drawing a blank. Sorry.”

“Well, let me know if it comes to you later. And Dr. Turnbull?”

“Yes?”

“If you do happen to see Berta Heinkel, keep your distance. I’m guessing she’s more dangerous than she looks.”

“Good advice.”

They hung up.

“Who was it?”

“University business. Excuse me a second. Need to use the men’s room.”

He crossed the floor and shoved open the door. He splashed his face and toweled off while he stared at the fool in the mirror. Don’t panic, he told himself, and don’t jump to conclusions. For one thing, how could Berta have gotten into the jail, much less found a way to induce a heart attack? Both possibilities seemed so unlikely that he began to calm down. And it wasn’t as if Turner was the world’s smartest lawman.

But the call reinforced something that had already been preying on his mind: Before he took another single step alongside Berta Heinkel, he had better check further into her background. He had felt that way to some degree ever since finding such scant evidence online. Now those feelings had real urgency. Fortunately, he was in exactly the right place to follow up. But first he would have to act as if nothing had happened, which wouldn’t be easy. When he went back to the table he stared at his plate, tongue-tied, and when Berta touched his arm he flinched.

“Easy. It’s me, not a ghost. We’d better get going. Göllner’s not getting any younger, and enough people have died on us already.”

“Funny how that keeps happening.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked her in the eye, wondering if she was actually capable of such a thing.

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

GöLLNER’S, or rather Mannheim’s, neighborhood in Moabit had seen better days. His building, just across the street from a small, scruffy park, looked like a place where the tenants were barely hanging on. Peeling paint. Smudged windows. Pigeons on the eaves and windowsills. You had to be buzzed in for entry, so they waited until an old Turkish man in a skullcap came out the door, and they slipped inside. The nameplates on the dented mailbox told them Mannheim was on the fifth floor. The stairwell smelled of disinfectant and rot. The walls were sprayed with graffiti.

Nat knocked at Mannheim’s door. Berta waited on the landing of the floor below, explaining that she hadn’t gotten such a great reception on her previous visit. The brassy commotion of a Bavarian oompah band-music you rarely heard in Berlin-emanated from a stereo system across the hall. It sounded like Oktoberfest in full swing.

“Who is it?” A man’s voice, scratchy but strong. Nat addressed him in German.

“My name is Professor Doctor Nathaniel Turnbull. I am here to see Hans Mannheim.”

An eye appeared at the peephole. A lock slid back, and the door opened to the limit of a security chain. A stooped old fellow with pale blue eyes silently assessed Nat. He wore a black wool overcoat and thick house slippers, and even with the stoop he was well over six feet. The steamy smell of boiled sausage and potatoes emerged through the crack.

“Your credentials, please.”

“Chairman of the Department of History,” Nat said, handing over his passport and campus ID. A lie, but he knew from experience that big titles often carried weight with ex-Nazis.

Mannheim-Göllner handed everything back.

“My apologies, Professor Doctor, but I don’t wish to address matters of the past.”

“Perfectly understandable, considering what you must have lived through in 1945 and beyond. But it’s not your past, per se, that interests me. Not even as it relates to an old friend of yours, Martin Göllner.”