Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

They dashed through the building’s open front door, and they were out of breath by the time they reached the fifth-floor landing. Brassy music was indeed playing loudly from the apartment across the hall, and Göllner’s door was ajar. They passed through to the living room with its flapping curtains. No sign of any documents. They reached the door of the bedroom just as a middle-aged cop in plastic gloves looked up from Göllner’s bureau.

“What’s going on? Who the hell are you?”

“We, uh… had an appointment with Herr Göll… uh, Mannheim.”

“Well, this is a crime scene, and you’ve fucked it up enough already, so don’t move a muscle.” He approached them with a weary air. “Identification, please.” Exactly what Nat had hoped to avoid. “C’mon. Both of you.”

The cop scanned the entry stamp in Nat’s passport.

“American,” he muttered. “You arrived only yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“Zurich.”

“What is your business here?”

“I’m a historian. Here’s my university ID. Mannheim was an old Gestapo man, named Martin Göllner. Was he pushed?”

The policeman took the ID while ignoring the question.

“Someday we’ll be through with all of these people,” he said. “Then there will be no more of their messes to clean up. Then all we’ll have is old people dying the way they always do, with no complications from the past. My partner will want to speak with both of you.”

A half hour later they were back on the sidewalk, having just finished speaking with a detective, who said he might want to talk with them later as well. Nat watched as Göllner’s body was carted to an ambulance. His only sorrow was of a professional nature, and not simply because they had missed out on the transcript. Göllner’s death meant that another portal to the past had closed forever. One less eyewitness to the most murderous era in history.

He now had to confront the issue of Berta Heinkel. In revealing the whereabouts of Stuckart she had presumably placed her last card on the table, and no matter what Holland said, Nat needed to get away from her. The woman trailed death like the train of a wedding gown, and he didn’t want to be the next person to trip on it. It was time for a clean break.

“Maybe we could come back later,” Berta said. “See if we can get in.”

“I’ve no doubt you could. You’re pretty skilled in that department.”

“What do you mean?”

“Larceny of all kinds. You’re the expert.”

“I admitted I was overzealous at the archives, but-”

“I was talking about the storage locker. The way you followed Gordon there and then broke in. Climbed a fence, wore a cap. You should see the surveillance video-you’re a star. For a plain old historian you really are multitalented. You can jimmy a lock, fake a license, seduce a source. Seduce. No wonder you like that word. It’s your best trick, pun intended. So I’m sure you’d be able to get into this dump. But you heard the cop. There were no papers found. Nothing suspicious except the way he died, flying out the window in his overcoat. So tell me, did you break into the jail, too, on the night Gordon died? Or did you just pay someone else to mix too many pills into his dinner?”

Berta’s mouth was agape, her eyes shocked. He had blindsided her, and for the first time since they’d met she seemed truly flustered. Even the confrontation over her thievery at the National Archives hadn’t unstrung her like this. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“Pills? What are you talking about?”

“Ask Willis Turner.”

“I didn’t kill Dr. Wolfe. I could never kill anyone. You’d know that if you really knew me.”

“I don’t think I’m willing to take the risk of really knowing you. Turner and Holland would be happy to take your offer, though. Why don’t you call them?”

“When did you talk to them?”

“Does it matter?”

His cell phone rang.

“That’s one of them now, isn’t it?” she said. “I guess you’ve missed your time to report in on me. Like an informant.”

“You should know. You’re the one with the Stasi file.”

She slapped him, hard, then turned away just as her face dissolved into tears. He had expected the anger, but not this. She sobbed as his phone rang again, but as he stepped toward her she broke into a run, coat flapping, just like Göllner’s must have done as he sailed to his death. Let her go, he told himself. Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted?

The cops were watching the dustup with interest, so he turned in the opposite direction to take the call. The screen showed that it was from a blocked number.

“Nat?”

It was Steve Wallace, his archival source at the CIA.

“Jesus, Steve, how’d you get this number? Never mind. Stupid question.”

“I’m on an official line, so I’ll keep it short. Still can’t really help you. The properties in question remain unbearably hot. But seeing as how most of the heat is coming from our poor cousins across the Potomac”-the FBI, he meant-“I can at least advise you strongly to check your e-mail, preferably within the hour. But I’m expecting compensation. I understand you may have pictures?”

“I do indeed. And I’m a good sharer.”

“Great. Send them all. And don’t call back.”

“That hot, huh?”

But Wallace had already hung up, which was answer enough. Nat looked around. More cops were arriving, and more gawking bystanders. No sign of Berta, thank goodness, although he didn’t feel as relieved as he would have expected. Did he miss her? Or was he just wondering where she might be headed without him? Perhaps she had one last source up her sleeve.

He caught a cab back to the hotel. She had checked out only moments earlier. Paying on his card, of course. He pocketed the receipt and went straight upstairs, figuring he had better check right away for Wallace’s e-mail. The CIA man had seemed to imply there was some sort of electronic shelf life.

There it was, waiting with a simple “FYI” on the message line. Also clamoring for attention was a message from Berta. He clicked on it first. Judging from how long it took to come up, he was half expecting a photo, maybe even the one of Stuckart. A final peace offering. Instead, it was a brief farewell.

“Sorry I was such a disappointment. Best of luck. Regards, Berta.”

He had expected more. He clicked on the Wallace e-mail, which also got straight to the point:

“OSS paperwork shows shipping of the four boxes handled in Bern Nov. 8, 1945, by Gordon Wolfe and Murray Kaplan. Kaplan on OSS payroll, Dec. ’44 to Dec. ’45. Current address: 14147 Palm Bay Court, Candalusa, Fla.”

A live source, then. Someone who might have a key memory. More to the point, it was information unknown to Berta Heinkel. Now that the Iranian with the blowtorch was dead, she might well be his main competitor. It was enough to convince him to find another hotel room for the evening, so he signed off and caught the U-Bahn to Alexanderplatz, checking his flanks at every stop. He took a room on the twentieth floor of an ugly high-rise and logged back on to his laptop to Google Murray Kaplan. The local wireless server was terrible, and it took forever to boot up. Even then, the search came up practically empty, although it did produce a phone number for Kaplan. He dialed it.

In Florida it was noon. Kaplan’s wife said her husband was out back. He came on the line and seemed wary when Nat said he wanted to reminisce about Gordon Wolfe. He nonetheless agreed to a noon interview the following day.

Nat looked up Candalusa, Florida. It was just below Daytona Beach. He reserved a seat on a midday flight to Miami with a connection to Daytona, then booked a car and an oceanfront motel. All set. After an early dinner from room service he stretched out on the bed fully dressed, telling himself he would check in with Holland in an hour. He’d then call Karen, just to make sure everything was okay.