Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

It took him a few seconds to add it up.

“Jesus, what did you do, put something on that farewell e-mail?”

“A spyware program that sent me your keystrokes. But at least I have the decency to tell you. I’ll even clean it out for you. Interested in breakfast?”

Amazing. She was better than either the FBI or the ham-handed Iranians. And as he watched her trying to maintain her coolness, he couldn’t help but have mixed emotions. Sure, he was angry. But he also pitied her. She looked tired, beleaguered. The cloud of cigarette smoke lent her features the wispy grayness of an apparition, some Euro ghost far removed from its usual haunts. He was beginning to understand why, now that he knew more about her background as a zealous teen. She had been duped by the state into believing that snooping was not just okay but a civic duty. Then her grandmother had died before she could apologize, or maybe even before she realized that she should apologize. Bad enough to have done that at all, much less having it revealed to all your West German colleagues. And now she was broke, homeless. Yet here she was anyway, ready to resume the chase.

“Well? Are you hungry or not? And I really will fix your laptop for you. But only if I’m allowed to sit in on your talk with Kaplan. I’m following you out there, either way, so you might as well let me.”

Nat shook his head, half in amazement, half in exasperation.

“C’mon, then. The appointment’s at noon. We’ll talk about it while we eat.”

The best they could do was a Denny’s, but at least it wasn’t crowded. And was it his imagination or was the fellow at the next table the same guy he had just seen back at the Sea Breeze? At least he wasn’t Middle Eastern, and there was certainly no law against eating at the same place as another motel guest. Maybe he was an FBI tail. Or maybe Nat was just getting paranoid.

Berta left to use the washroom, and Nat took the opportunity to phone Willis Turner for an update. He got a recording instead, and when he started to leave a message the tape ran out. Typical, he supposed, but it left him a little unsettled. Mickey Mouse town or not, Turner didn’t seem like the type who went very long without checking in.

“Hand me your laptop,” Berta said as she slid back into their booth. He hesitated. For all he knew, she would install something even more intrusive. “You can watch, if you like. Maybe you’ll even learn something.”

He took her up on the offer and moved to her side of the booth, looking over her shoulder as she worked. He was mildly unsettled to find that he still found it arousing to be this close, bunched up against the softness beneath her sweater.

She tutted at the state of his security software.

“You’re about three years overdue for an update. You made it way too easy for some snoop to get in.”

You should know, he thought, wondering again what must be in her Stasi file. Their eggs arrived just as she finished, and he moved back to his side of the table with a sense of relief.

“Tell me the background on Kaplan,” she said.

“Don’t you already know?”

“All I learned from your keystrokes was that you Googled his name and made travel arrangements to come see him. In that sense, I suppose I am still at your mercy.”

He considered telling her nothing and then asking the Kaplans not to let her in. But a scene like that would probably scare them off.

“He was an OSS man in Bern. All I know is that he worked with Gordon in shipping the records. If any funny business went on, maybe he’ll know.”

Shortly before noon they drove out to Candalusa, Berta following Nat in a rented red Chevy. Kaplan’s house was long and low, white stucco and jalousie windows, with a carport at one end. They headed up the sidewalk, scattering a gecko. A short, lively woman with gray hair in a bun answered the door. Looming behind her was a tall, paunchy fellow with a slight stoop. Both were tanned to the point of leathery.

“Doris Kaplan,” she said. “And this is Murray. Oh, there are two of you!”

“Nathaniel Turnbull. And this is Berta Heinkel, my, um, graduate assistant.”

“So you want to talk about Gordon Wolfe,” Murray said. “I had a feeling somebody might be calling about him as soon as I saw his obit. We used to live in New York, and still get the Times. This is about those records, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah. Mostly.”

“I’ve been telling Murray for years he ought to get this stuff off his chest,” Doris said.

“Maybe I don’t have anything to get off my chest,” Kaplan said, not looking pleased.

“Oh, maybe not, Murray. But you two make yourselves comfortable. Then we’ll see.”

She led them to a Florida room in the back, wall-to-wall windows, all of them cranked open, with a view of a canal behind the back lawn. A rowboat that had seen better days was overturned in the grass.

“Lemonade or iced tea?” Doris asked.

“Tea, please.”

Berta nodded in agreement. So far she hadn’t said a word. Maybe she was worried about her accent. To some American vets it was an instant turnoff.

“And I hope you brought an appetite, ’cause I’ve got fresh shrimp salad.”

This, at least, was a subject Kaplan could warm to.

“Caught the shrimp last night. You just hang a Coleman lantern on the dock and dip a net. Twenty years ago you could fill it in ten minutes, but the water’s not what it used to be. Wouldn’t matter so much if you didn’t have to watch for gators. One of ’em got a jogger just last week. Young lady down by the golf course.”

Berta glanced with alarm toward the canal, as if a gator might emerge any second.

“Sounds creepy,” Nat said.

“Florida’s creepy,” Kaplan replied.

“But you came from New York?”

“I was a dentist in Queens.”

“That’s not where I would have pegged the accent.”

“Grew up in West Virginia. Hartwell Springs. My dad kept the books for the local mining company. We were the only Jews in town. It’s where I met Doris.”

As if summoned by her name, Doris carried in a tray laden with plates, forks, a bowl of gloppy-looking shrimp salad, and slices of white bread. She set it on a folding TV table. Kaplan waited until she was gone before commenting.

“Sorry ’bout all the mayo. Doris has a very high opinion of Miracle Whip.”

But it wasn’t bad, and Nat was grateful that at least one of the Kaplans was already in their corner. Murray might need some coaxing.

“So, where would you like to begin?” Nat said.

“I went over all this business of these missing records a long time ago, with an OSS board of inquiry. Gordon did, too. They swore us to secrecy, I might add.”

“It’s been more than fifty years. You’re free to speak now.”

Doris piped up from around the corner.

“See, honey? I told you that was the case.”

“Yeah, well, there’s things besides secrecy laws. Loyalty to your friends, for one.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Nat said, “I think he really would want you to talk to me.”

“You did say some nice things about him at the service. I looked up the coverage on the Internet.”

If Kaplan had gone to that much trouble, he probably also knew about their falling-out, so Nat decided to level with him.

“We had our problems toward the end, but when it came to history we were always after the same thing.”

Kaplan nodded but said nothing.

“How long had you known him when you two were assigned to this records detail?”

“He’d come on board in late ’43, the first of our flyboys. Dulles liked him ’cause his German was good. I’d been with the OSS about a year. I was in dental school there when the war started, and I got stuck when the borders closed. I met Dulles on a train to Geneva and he offered me a job on the spot. I figured, what the hell, serve my country while I’m biding my time. Worked out pretty good, I guess.”