Dan Fesperman: The Arms Maker of Berlin

“Of course.”

Kurt hung up and glanced toward the window, past the lace, where a weak sun was trying to burn through low clouds. To his mind, his present position was enviable. Three important people now awaited his latest pronouncement-one in Washington, one in Tehran, and one in that godforsaken little outpost in the hills of New York. None were his employees, although a few of his own recent hires were already on the march as well. But for the moment all three seemed quite willing to dance to his tune. He just needed to make sure things stayed that way.

His legs ached, so he climbed stiffly back into bed and sagged against the pillow. Liesl was always on his mind after these phone calls, even when he hadn’t just dreamed of her, and this morning she seemed closer than ever.

He wondered if she might still be out there, flitting between the chimneys, daring him to take a look, her eyes lit by the fires of her old causes. Nobility and rightness had always been on her side, and so had Kurt. If he slid back beneath the covers instead of going downstairs, would she favor him with another visit? Probably not. She never came at his bidding.

But he had other ways of seeking her out. Concentrate hard enough and he could place himself back in the organ loft of that medieval church in Dahlem, on the frigid afternoon just before Christmas, in 1942. He was there now, treading a creaky stair while voices murmured nervously in the old wooden pews below. Seditious talk that had thrilled even as it terrified. No one had yet seen him, and he hesitated. It would have been so easy to just wait them out and then turn for home, not yet a name on their dangerous list. Maybe his father was right about these people. Sure, the government was insane, and without a doubt the leader had flipped his mustache. But this was treason, all the same. Betrayal.

Then, peeking through the slats of the stairway, he spotted Liesl sitting in the back, her valiant face in profile, as inspiring as sunlight through the leaves of an enchanted beech. And at that moment he was sure the risks were worth it, or at least that she was worth it. So he continued down the steps, no longer taking care to be silent, until a face or two in the back looked up and saw him, and nodded at his arrival.

A short while later she stood and made her speech while all of them watched in admiration. Even Bonhoeffer, the pious old meddler whose martyrdom had made history, had been impressed with Liesl. You could see it in his eyes whenever he spoke to her, his instant recognition that she possessed a grace and wisdom well beyond her years.

Climbing aboard this memory, Kurt drifted deeper into his subconscious, and within seconds he, too, might as well have been out there on the clouds in a place no one could reach, not even his smug little associate in Kreuzberg.

In his mind’s eye he now watched himself at age seventeen, leaning forward in the straight-backed pew while Liesl spoke. The seat was uncomfortable, built centuries earlier, and the old Kurt no longer felt the downy softness of his pillow. Instead, a knot formed in his back, the pew creaked, and he heard Liesl’s voice very clearly. As he listened, the sound transported him even further back through time, another entire year, to that charmed night when he stood beneath a grand chandelier, a glass of champagne in hand, and first saw her, standing on the opposite side of the room. A starched collar chafed at his neck, but he didn’t mind, because the girl whose name he didn’t yet know had just opened her mouth in joy and surprise, and the sight took his breath away.

The young Kurt smiled. The old Kurt did the same. Then both Kurts listened, enraptured, as her laughter filled the room.

Viv wrapped Nat up in a huge hug the moment he came through the door. Neil had agreed to wait in the car to delay the inevitable letdown.

“You’re a prince for coming.”

“No, I’m not. How’s Gordon?”

“Sleeping, I hope. I guess we’ll find out. He doesn’t even have his meds.”

“Meds?” This was new.

“Digitalis, for his heart. He’s old, Nat. Too old to be treated this way.”

So was Viv. Her stiff gray hair was all over the place, and her eyes were red from drinking or crying, maybe both. She wore leather mocs and a white terry-cloth robe stained with bacon grease. Her weight was up, yet she still looked frail. She was a wreck.

“Tell me what happened.”

She poured a mug of coffee and they sat in the kitchen. He wondered nervously when Neil would barge in. He’d asked for five minutes, but doubted he would get them.

“It was one big cock-up. Oh, Nat, what am I thinking? Let me fix you breakfast.”

“Keep your seat, Viv. Just talk.”

She paused, plucking at nails already torn to the quick.

“We’d been down to Sparrow Lake for dinner. A new Italian place. Dreadful. I had to drive on the way back, three guesses why. When we came through the door, well, I pretty much told you. They were in here like the Gestapo.”

“FBI people?”

“Five of them. And they still haven’t charged him. Left that to the local yokel, some Barney Fife who said he was arresting Gordon for theft.”

“Wait. He’s not in federal custody?”

“That’s why the arraignment’s local. But you’d never know from all the manpower. I’ve got an agent in the living room, one in the sun-room, and two out in the drive. They’ve been in the car all night, drinking coffee and running the engine. The fumes go straight up into the bedroom, but they don’t care.”

Neil Ford walked in, and another agent approached from the opposite direction. He was the one who spoke first.

“Dr. Turnbull? Glad you could make it.” He thrust out a hand. “Special Agent Clark Holland. We’ve got plenty of work for you. Thanks for delivering him, Agent Ford.”

Viv looked back and forth, whipsawed. She put a hand to her mouth like she’d just seen a horrible accident, and she stood uncertainly. Nat reached across the table to steady her, but she backed away, wobbly with sudden rage.

“I wanted to tell you first, Viv. They called right after you did.”

“Guess you never got over being the prodigal son.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sure, Nat. I see exactly how it is.”

He looked to Holland, but the agent was no help.

“If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Wolfe, I’d like a word in private with Dr. Turnbull.”

“Private. My own damn house and he wants privacy. Well, he’s all yours. I’d ask for a ride into town later, Nat, but I guess you’ll be going with them.”

“I’d be happy to take you. I’ve got my own car.”

Holland shook his head.

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” he said.

“See? They already own you.” She set off down the hall.

“Let’s talk later, Viv.”

“Sure, Nat,” she called over her shoulder. “Whatever you fucking say.”

Holland smiled uneasily and took Viv’s seat.

“She’ll get over it. Once she learns what you’re here for.”

“What am I here for? Agent Ford wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

“The short version is that we appear to have recovered some old intelligence files that have been missing for quite some time, stuff collected by the OSS in Switzerland, from ’43 to ’45. We’d like you to confirm the provenance and summarize the contents.”

So it was true, then. They’d found the mother lode, Gordon’s long-sought treasure. And for the next few days Nat would have it all to himself. For all the awkwardness of the setup, the news was electric.

“What we’re asking shouldn’t take long,” Holland said. “Quick and dirty.”

“Slow and steady would be better. You could do quick and dirty yourselves. Have you informed the National Archives? They’ll want to know right away.”