Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

Mannheim flinched, but didn’t shut the door. If anything he seemed more interested.

“I’m not familiar with this Göllner fellow you speak of.”

“That’s fine, because I’m seeking information on others. People who have not yet been held accountable to the degree that Mr. Göllner has.”

“All the same. How did you learn of his name?”

“Research. But no one else seems to know, and I don’t intend on telling anyone.”

Mannheim squinted at him for several more seconds. Then he shut the door, slipped off the chain, and opened the door wide.

“You have three minutes to make your case.”

And Nat was betting the old Prussian wouldn’t need a watch to keep track. The fellow ushered him in. Nat glanced around at a small kitchen and the remains of a late lunch. The living room window was propped open to let in the raw air. His host took a seat on the couch and gestured toward a straight-backed wooden chair directly opposite. It was small and wobbly, very uncomfortable, which of course put Nat at a disadvantage. Just like old times on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, he thought.

“My apologies if I interrupted your mealtime.”

“State your business. You now have two minutes, twenty seconds.”

“Kurt Bauer, the industrialist. You interviewed him once, when he was young.”

“Seventeen. And, yes, it was an interview, just as you say. Not an interrogation. He came to us voluntarily. I tell you that for free, only because it should be established before we proceed any further.”

“Absolutely.”

“However, at the present time I don’t have the proper materials at my disposal for discussing the matter fully.”

“Proper materials?”

“The interview transcript.”

“It was my understanding the transcript no longer exists.”

“Correct. The original and all official copies were destroyed in early ’45. You have only your air force to blame.”

“In that case, I’m willing to settle for your best recollection.”

“Then your work habits must be very sloppy. Perhaps I shouldn’t speak with you.”

“But under the circumstances…”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a transcript?”

“Of course, but you said-”

“What I said was that the original and all official copies were destroyed. But in those days careful employees kept unofficial copies anytime a case was politically sensitive.”

“Such as a case involving the son of a prominent arms merchant, for example.”

“Exactly.”

“Wise of you.” Not to mention potentially helpful for Göllner after the war, especially if he ever wanted to ask a favor from some prominent German who might have left behind a dirty little secret. “I’ll be glad to wait while you retrieve it.”

“That is not so easily accomplished. It is in a secure location. And, as you might imagine, there are expenses involved with retrieval. You would need to defray the cost.”

“Within reason, of course.”

“Ten thousand euros, payable tomorrow.”

Nat rocked back in the undersized chair, nearly toppling it.

“I said within reason.”

“I can assure you that is quite a bargain, Professor Doktor. This was not just any interrogation. As a result of it, three people lost their lives. Besides, I have cut the rate considerably, a measure necessitated by my rather desperate circumstances. I can assure you that a previous buyer paid far more, although at that time even a few packs of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate was considered something of real value.”

“Previous buyer?”

“Does that aspect interest you as well?”

“A little. Maybe even fifty euros worth.”

“A hundred.”

“Eighty.”

“A hundred. Last offer.”

Nat grimaced and reached for his wallet. He plucked out two fifty-euro notes and held one of them forward, just out of Göllner’s reach.

“I need a name for the first fifty. Details of the transaction get you the second fifty.”

Göllner fidgeted and narrowed his eyes.

“There isn’t a name, as such. Those fellows never gave them. They worked in codes and aliases, a bunch of cocky young boys playing at spies, like Emil and the Detectives.”

The skin prickled at the back of Nat’s neck. He knew exactly where this was going, and he waved the euro note like a flag of victory.

“Fifty for the code name. Fifty more for the particulars.”

“Icarus.”

A wrinkled hand snatched the bill with surprising speed, but Nat didn’t mind at all. He was too preoccupied imagining the young Gordon Wolfe trooping between the fallen bricks of bombed-out Berlin to track down stray rats like Göllner.

“Icarus was an American, correct?”

Göllner nodded.

“Describe him.” Nat handed over the second fifty.

“He walked with a limp. A war wound. Wore a bomber jacket. One of those bastards who’d blown this place to cinders. He was working for the OSS, part of their ‘White German’ operation. I know more about him, too, but that will also cost you.”

Nat wondered what that meant, but he didn’t have enough cash on hand to find out. Not yet, anyway. Besides, the transcript was more important. He was quite familiar with the White German operation. It was a Dulles pet project during the occupation, and his staff had begun laying the groundwork in Switzerland. Its object was to identify German clergymen, professors, businessmen, politicians, and scientists who were untainted enough to form a core leadership for a new non-communist Germany. If you happened to be versed in the nascent fields of rocketry or nuclear physics, your chances of inclusion were even better, even if a little cleaning was required first.

“There was no way I was going to make the grade,” Göllner said, “but Icarus said his handlers wanted to know if Bauer did. So I gave him what I had.”

“Sold it, you mean.”

Göllner shrugged.

“It was a seller’s market. Between them and the Russians, everyone was choosing from their lists of favorite Germans, and of course both sides enjoyed pissing on their rivals’ choices. Meaning sometimes they had to clean the piss off a few of their own.”

“And you think Icarus was cleaning the piss off Bauer?”

“Of course.”

“So you sold him the copy but still kept another one for yourself.”

“In case the Russians ever came calling.”

“Did they?”

“No. But now you’re here. I’m just as happy to do business with another American.”

“This first transaction, where did it take place?”

“This very room.”

The hairs on his neck rose again. Who needed spirits when you had this kind of proximity? The scuffed floor, the plaster walls, the view of the park through the old window-they were probably virtually the same as when Gordon had come. Even Nat’s chair was old enough that Gordon might have used it.

“It was a respectable building then,” Göllner said. “No Turks. Just a lot of Germans without enough to eat. War widows. People who knew how to earn an honest living.”

Yes, an honest living. Like interrogating people to within an inch of their lives and then turning a profit from the transcripts, selling dirt on your countrymen for ten thousand euros a pop. Nat wondered how many other transcripts Göllner had peddled.

“What did Icarus pay for this document?”

“The most valuable thing he had to offer. A new identity.”

“That’s how you became Hans Mannheim?”

“There were a lot of people looking for that fellow named Göllner. Some of them were fairly important. I decided Göllner would be better off dead, figuratively speaking, so Icarus agreed to make him go away.”

“And what did Icarus say, once he’d seen the transcript?”