Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

“I wouldn’t complain if I were you, considering what almost happened.”

“Me dying, you mean?”

“Oh, he wasn’t going to kill you.”

“Comforting that you’re so sure. Then what did he want?”

“Same as me, I’d imagine. An update on your progress. Names, dates, whatever you’ve found out. You know, the things you’re supposed to be reporting every day.”

“You killed him for that?”

“Please. They killed him, and it was their call. I’m not here to make a nuisance of myself.”

“Are you officially even here?”

“Do you really expect an answer? Drink some water, then I’ll explain. Although you may want a second bottle before I’m finished. Just pretend it’s Gordon Wolfe’s cognac and the news shouldn’t bother you at all.”

“That bad?”

“Qurashi was a persuasive man. If he’d ever gotten a chance to sit you down for a confidential chat, just the two of you, you might have told him anything.”

“You knew his name?”

“Saeed Qurashi. Iranian national. Contract employee of MOIS, the Ministry of Intelligence and Security. He’s been following you since Zurich, more or less. One of his pals in the U.S. stole your cell phone.”

“The one who called Karen? If she’s in any way-”

“Relax. I told you, she’s covered. Even better than you were just now.”

“This Qurashi. I think I saw him in Bern, dressed like a housekeeper in the hotel. He may have copied the files off my laptop.”

“You might have reported that, you know. But as it happens, we already knew. Did it occur to you that your friend Berta might have invited you up to her room expressly so he could do that?”

“You really think so?”

“We’re not sure what to think about her. But that’s a topic for later. Qurashi was an agent, but he’s better known as an interrogator. A good one. Meaning a bad one.”

“I thought ‘enhanced techniques’ weren’t really torture anymore?”

“I’m not talking about something as tame as waterboarding. Not that you’d find it tame, but Qurashi wasn’t equipped for it. Care to see what the BfV found in his hotel room?”

Holland hefted a large shopping bag onto the desk with a heavy clank. First he pulled out a pair of electrical clamps hooked up to wires.

“God knows what these are supposed to attach to.”

Nat locked his knees. Holland dug into the bag again.

“Looks like he had an AC adapter for every specification. Careful traveler, our man Qurashi. Prepared for outlets of all nations. But I’ve saved the best for last.”

Holland held aloft a blowtorch attached to a canister of propane.

“Believe me, he wasn’t planning on using this to make crème brûlée. As I said, he was very persuasive.”

“I get the picture.”

“Yes, well, in case you need a further reminder of what’s at stake-Neil, could you bring me those intercepts?”

Neil Ford emerged again from the back, this time with a manila folder. He pointedly avoided looking at Nat as he handed it to Holland, who slid the folder across the desk.

“NSA intercepts, all from the past week. Most of these calls are between Qurashi and a control in Berlin, who we still haven’t identified, by the way, so don’t feel too damn smug. Take a look.”

“Who’s ‘Gateway’?” Nat asked.

“MOIS code name for Bauer. ‘Ferret’ is you.”

“ ‘Ferret’?”

“I’m told it’s a compliment. Read on.”

All his recent movements were detailed. So was an order, issued the previous day via the Berlin control, to “retrieve Ferret for questioning. Use all means at your disposal.”

“Does Bauer know this is happening?”

“He certainly wouldn’t have any objection. The more intense the competition, the more likely he gets what he wants. He may have his own people out there looking as well. He claims otherwise, of course, and the German government has ordered us to keep our hands off him if we want their continued cooperation. Which is why it would be just fabulous if sometime in the next day or two you could actually wrap things up.”

“Not likely. I’m not even close.”

“I was guessing you’d say that. But maybe now you see the urgency, if only from a selfish point of view.”

“You’ve driven home the point well enough. Maybe too well.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I was the wrong choice for this job. I teach and I do research. Sometimes I even deal with administrators and tenure committees. But that’s as risky as it gets in my line of work. Iranian thugs with blowtorches are more than I bargained for. For me or for my daughter. Hire Berta. She’s crazy enough to finish the job, and she probably knows a lot more than she’s letting on. Better still, you don’t even have to hire her. Just turn her loose and put a tail on her. That way you won’t have to pay her expenses.”

“Sorry, Nat, but you’re our man. Once you’re in, you’re not out until we say so.”

“You make it sound like the Mafia.”

“The Mafia pays better, and plays for lower stakes. With Bauer, we’re talking about a man whose little black book could help someone build the world’s next nuclear weapon.”

“What if I quit anyway?”

“There are things called tax laws, passport rules, travel restrictions. Do you really think you could get very far in your work with us opposing you at every turn?”

“I’m glad you’ve decided to play fair.”

“And I’m glad you mentioned Berta. She’s next on the agenda. Neil, did you load the video?”

Neil called out from the next room.

“Yes, sir. Ready to roll.”

Holland picked up a remote and gestured toward a TV in the corner. The screen flickered to life. Static and snow gave way to a grainy image with a time signature.

“That’s the Baltimore storage facility where the boxes were. You’ve already seen the video of Gordon. Our analyst concluded you were right. He seemed to be carrying something beneath his pants. This footage is from the same day a few hours later, right after the power outage. The alarm system is computerized, and even though backup power kicks in immediately, the system takes a few minutes to reboot. Whoever knocked out the line must have known that. But the surveillance cameras never lapsed. Watch closely. This first shot is from the rear of the lot.”

Ghostly images of traffic whizzed past on a highway just behind the fence. Then a dark form appeared, climbing over a Jersey wall from the highway. The form threw a stiff tarpaulin over the barbed wire and then scaled the fence. Someone with decent agility, reasonably young, but not very tall. Wool cap, dark clothes. Smudged face, probably greasepaint.

“Now we move to the camera in the hall, outside the locker.”

The figure passed just below and headed straight for the door. Even through the loose contours of the sweatshirt Nat could tell it was a woman, the same way a baggy peasant blouse hadn’t hidden all her curves the first time he saw her in the courtroom.

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“So you finally recognize her?”

He could only nod. Over the next few minutes Berta proceeded to pick the door lock and haul away all four boxes, toting them to the back of the lot without having to pass the front entrance, where the deskman would have still been on duty. She dropped them into the bushes from the top of the fence. He cringed. No wonder the corners were dented. Nat felt like he had been punched in the chest.

It made sense, though, after what he had learned from Christian Hermann, not to mention Willis Turner. And it was easy to see what must have happened next. Berta had flown into a rage when she realized Gordon had removed the most important folders, so she took out her frustration by planting the boxes at his summer home and then phoning the police. Getting him arrested gave her free rein to look for his hiding place. Perhaps she was counting on the pressure of an arrest to make Gordon spill the beans. Or maybe she had killed him, to keep that from happening. Either way, her next step would have been to seek help from the one expert who knew Gordon best: Nathaniel Turnbull.