Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

Twelve hours later he awakened cold and out of sorts. It was 8 a.m.

Nat was irritated about oversleeping, but he was also refreshed, and for the first time in days his mind was lodged firmly in the twenty-first century. His thoughts were of anything but Nazis, or even Germany. Instead, he wondered if Karen’s grades had come in, if the Wightman police had yet recovered his phone, and whether he would still be welcome on campus if his current work dismantled what was left of Gordon Wolfe’s legacy.

A call to Holland was overdue, but Karen was who he really wanted to talk to. Alas, it was 2 a.m. in the States, and even she wasn’t that much of a night owl. So he brewed a cup of instant coffee while watching television, feeling lonely and far from home.

Then his phone rang. Karen’s number popped onto the display. Serendipity.

“Hi! I was just-”

“Dad! He’s in the house!” She was breathless.

“Who is? Where are you?”

“Someone broke in. I heard him downstairs, so I climbed out the window, onto the roof above the porch. Now I’m in the yard, but I can see him in your study. He’s looking for something.”

“Jesus, Karen! Call 9-1-1.”

“I did. The police are coming, but I’m scared. He’s at the window now. Omigod, I think he sees me!”

“Get out! Now. Run to a neighbor’s, or down the street. Go!”

“He’s opening the window! He’s coming!”

“Go, Karen! Just go!”

The call ended. Nat was frantic for more. He dialed back and got a recording, Karen’s cheerful voice asking him to please leave a message. His imagination filled in the blanks, and in his mind’s eye a man who looked like Qurashi chased the barefoot Karen across a dewy lawn while the neighbors slept, oblivious. The man grabbed a hank of her hair and wrestled her through the backyard to his car in a rear alley, while the cops pulled up cluelessly out front and shined flashlights at an empty house. Nat saw an equipment bag on the backseat, unzipped. Electrodes and a blowtorch.

He tried the number again with no success. Then a third time. Nothing but the maddening recording, Karen’s voice so full of youth and optimism. And here he was, jaded old Dad, unable to raise a finger because he was off in Berlin, dabbling in someone else’s history while his own needed him so urgently. For want of a nail. Posterity would deem him a no-show in this disaster, a failure to his daughter. Damn, damn, and damn. And where were the feds? Damn Holland and his promises, and damn himself.

Nat paced the tiny room. He banged his fist on the wall and cursed loudly. He needed fresh air, but he didn’t dare leave for fear his cell phone would lose its signal in the hall or the elevator. Three minutes passed without a word. Then four, then five. He considered calling his ex-wife from the room’s bedside phone, but he couldn’t face that yet. He was too certain of her reproach, and knew he deserved it.

Eight minutes. He tried Karen’s number, knowing he would never again be able to bear listening to this recording if the worst came to pass. He couldn’t even stand it now.

“This is Karen,” she chirped. “Please leave your name at-”

“Call, goddamn it!” he shouted.

Someone in the next room pounded on the wall for silence.

“Fuck off! Call. Please just call.”

Nine minutes.

Then his phone rang, her number on the display.

“Karen?”

A man’s voice: “Dr. Turnbull?”

“Who is this? Where’s Karen?” In his panic, Nat imbued the man’s words with a heavy accent and the worst of intentions.

“This is Sergeant Wilcox, Wightman Police. Your daughter’s fine, and the suspect is in custody. Would you like to speak to her?”

“Yes.” The clouds lifted. The storm passed. Nat exhaled with something between a laugh and a sob. “Put her on, please.”

He sank with relief onto the narrow bed. For the moment, history had decided to give him a pass.

Nat didn’t calm down until two hours into his flight across the Atlantic. A call from Holland an hour after the break-in hadn’t exactly helped matters.

“Where were your men?” Nat asked right away.

“We had just canceled the detail. When a week passed and no one came poking around, we figured they must not be interested. If it’s any comfort, it was your papers they wanted. They weren’t after Karen.”

“I guess that’s why he came through the window, chasing her.”

“He thought she was a nosy neighbor. He didn’t even know anyone was home.”

“What are you, his attorney?”

“Look, I’m sorry. We screwed up, but it worked out. We even got your phone back. Any way you look at it, it’s another player off the board.”

“But how many are still on it?”

Silence.

Nat hung up before Holland could ask for an update. The news of his trip to Florida could wait. Holland’s German surrogates were probably still following him anyway.

Karen, at least, was now safely accounted for. Nat had asked Viv Wolfe to take her in for the rest of the evening, and Viv had seemed grateful to have someone else’s needs to attend to.

“Just keep her away from Gordon’s cognac,” he said. “On second thought, maybe she could use a shot. I’ve talked to her mom. She’ll come by for her at noon.”

“Susan, you mean? As in, your ex-wife and the woman I’ve known for twenty years?”

“Yes, Susan. Karen will be staying with her in Pittsburgh till I’m back for good. Hopefully with some better goddamn security.”

“You never should have relied on those people, Nat. Not that they’ve stopped keeping an eye on me, of course. Every time I go to the bank it’s like a presidential motorcade.”

Karen, for her part, tried to act like the whole thing had been some wacky summer adventure. But Nat wasn’t fooled. She was even too flustered to come up with an appropriate verse-although not for lack of trying. As she spoke by phone from the back of a police cruiser, Nat was amazed to hear her turning pages of a book.

“Did you actually take The Complete Poems with you when you left the house?”

“It’s the one thing I had time to grab before I jumped out the window.”

“Next time try for a butcher knife.”

He finally mastered his own emotions about the time the stewardess brought his second complimentary drink-he had upgraded to business class, figuring the FBI owed him at least that much. But his day never quite got back on track. When he landed in Miami he discovered that his connection was canceled and another flight wasn’t available for hours. He didn’t pull into the parking lot of the Sea Breeze Motor Lodge in Daytona until almost midnight. Jet-lagged, he then slept until 10 a.m.

He awoke to realize that the room was a bit more depressing than he’d bargained for, with rust spots and torn wallpaper. At least there was a balcony with a sliding door to let in the salt breeze and the sound of the breakers, and when he flipped back the curtains there were no lurking Iranians or prying lawmen. Just him, alone with his rattled nerves and a lingering sense of foreboding.

Or so he thought until he left for breakfast.

Standing on the breezeway was Berta Heinkel, smoking a cigarette and wearing an unseasonable sweater. She spoke before Nat could recover from the shock.

“What time are you going to see him?” she asked.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since seven. Answer my question. When is your appointment with Murray Kaplan?”

“How in the hell do you know that name? When did you fly over? How’d you even know where to find me?”

“Like you said, I am a woman of many talents. I simply put one of them to use. Haven’t you wondered why your laptop is so sluggish?”