The Arms Maker of Berlin (12 page)

“Did you ever ask after he got back? About a woman, I mean.”

She shook her head.

“Too afraid he’d tell me, I guess. But I did find something once. A book.”

“Some kind of journal?”

“No. A novel. He said it was a Swiss murder mystery. It was in German, so who knows what it really was?”

“That’s your evidence?”

“There was a flower inside, pressed between the pages. And a girl’s name was on the inside cover.”

Hardly on the level of lipstick on the collar. Viv was probably overreacting based on Gordon’s later infidelities.

“He probably picked it up in a secondhand shop when he was bored out of his mind. The girl could have been a previous owner.”

“That’s what he said. But explain the flower.”

“A bookmark. He was reading in a field, or a park, and never got back to it. I’ll give it a look if you want. Put your mind at ease that it wasn’t some sappy romance.”

“I never saw it again. For all I know, he threw it away.”

Hardly an act of the lovelorn. But Nat held his tongue. On this, of all nights, Viv was entitled to give free rein to her emotions.

“My advice to you, Nat, is that if you ever have an important question to ask someone you love, then ask it. Don’t wait for the right moment. ‘Cause one day you wake up and you’re all out of moments.”

There were tears on her cheeks. She leaned closer and Nat held on, feeling her muffled sobs. When she pulled away her face was splotchy, but she managed a weak smile.

“Maybe you’ll get to the bottom of all this. You and the FBI, looking for those missing folders.”

“Did Holland tell you about that?”

“Only because he thought I might know something. As if I’d tell
him
. No chance, after the nasty things he said about Gordon. But I’d tell you, of course.”

“And?”

She shook her head.

“No idea. All I know for sure is that the old Gordon has been dead much longer than the one you knew. Maybe that’s what you’ll find hiding in those folders—the old Gordon.”

“I’ll let you know.”

She nodded and picked up the glass of cognac. Then she thought better of it and set it back down. When she next spoke, all the energy was drained from her voice.

“Help me to bed, will you? I’m kind of tired.”

Viv took his arm and wobbled toward the bedroom. He tucked her in, the way he had once tucked Karen in as a child. She shut her eyes and took his hand. For a harrowing moment he was convinced she had decided to die, and would do so then and there. But within seconds she was sound asleep.

Her other hand still held a cigarette with a drooping column of ash. Nat gently took it from her fingers and stubbed it out. Yes, Gordon was a drunk, but Nat wondered how many times the old fellow must have kept Viv from burning down the house. Like most enduring couples, they had developed an unspoken symbiosis. How long would Viv last now that Gordon’s half of the survival equation was missing? He made a mental note to check up on her when he could. It was the least he could do for Gordon.

He walked quietly back to the living room and again looked over the items from Gordon’s strange bequest. Mere trivia? Nat doubted it. Especially after hearing of Gordon’s trip to the Hitler bunker. The items had the feel of encoded knowledge, a gift from one historian to another, and Nat felt the first stirrings of an excitement that he hadn’t experienced in ages. Gordon, who in life had done so much to damage his zeal, was now reawakening it in death. Already Nat felt fiercely proprietary about these objects. Maybe he shouldn’t tell Berta about them, or anyone else. It was, in other words, the usual dilemma of the treasure hunter. Who else could be trusted with the map?

He tucked the box under his arm and strolled out into the night, too restless to simply drive back into town. Moonlight illuminated the trailhead that Gordon and he had walked so many times before, and visibility was so good that Nat decided to enjoy the smells and sounds of the night forest before heading back. It would feel good to stretch his legs after such a strange and exhausting day.

Only a few feet in, he picked up a scent that was strangely out of place—a faint trace of aftershave or cologne. Maybe Willis Turner’s warning of a stranger from the Middle East was preying on his mind, because when he sniffed again the smell was gone. Nat scanned the path to the front and rear. Empty. He chased the thought from his mind and continued. He didn’t intend to walk far. No sense turning his ankle in the dark with so much work to be done.

After about a quarter mile, and just as he was hitting his stride, he stopped to turn back. As he did, he heard a muffled disturbance in the brush perhaps twenty yards behind. He listened intently, but there was nothing more. He started back slowly, then picked up the pace. If someone had been pursuing him, now he was in pursuit, so why not catch the quarry? Halfway to the trailhead he heard someone stumble. Ten yards before he reached the driveway a dark silhouette stepped into his path, blocking the way.

“Did you find it?” a man’s voice called out.

It was Holland. Still keeping tabs. Nat paused to let his pulse slow down.

“Find what?”

“Whatever you were looking for down there on the trail.”

“I was taking a walk.”

“Alone?”

“Except for you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Why, did you see somebody? I was stretching my legs, that’s all. It’s been a long day.”

“Thanks to you.”

“What do you want?” Nat was getting irritated with talking uphill to a shadow.

“We examined the memory chips from your cameras. They were clean. Not a single shot.”

“Guess we were in too much of a hurry when we took them out. Must have erased everything by mistake.”

“Or maybe you had another pair of chips, which you hid somewhere.”

“Care to search me?”

“Not really. Like you said, it’s been a long day. Besides, if anybody knows how to handle that kind of information, maybe even put it to good use, it’s someone like you, a professional historian.”

Uh-oh. It sounded like Holland wanted to make a deal.

“Provided that I do what?”

“We’d like you to keep working for us. Just in a slightly different capacity. Come up to the driveway. We’ll talk while you give me a ride to my car.”

Nat slid past him at the top of the trail. No scent of any aftershave, just the odors of sweat and the wool of his suit. Holland hadn’t even taken off his jacket. Nat unlocked the car and tried to look casual as he put Gordon’s old box on the floor in the back.

“What’s in the box?”

“Notes for a eulogy. Plus a guest list from Viv for a memorial service.”

To Nat’s relief, Holland didn’t pursue the matter further. He started the engine and put the car in gear before the agent could change his mind.

“I take it you didn’t find anything significant in the last of the boxes,” Holland said.

“Only those gaps, which I’d mentioned to you earlier.”

“The four missing folders?”

“If they’re numbered correctly.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. All the more reason we still need your help. Oh, and here are your cameras. Figured you’ll need them.”

“If I agree to work for you, I’ll have to be able to proceed in my own way.”

“As long as your methods are legal.”

“Of course. What would I receive for my trouble?”

“Same rate you’re already getting. Plus expenses, within reason. Logistical help, if necessary. And first dibs on the recovered materials, once we’re finished with them.”

“Meaning after they’re declassified, which might be never.”

“It won’t be never. Of course, if you find them, you’ll certainly get a peek then. And chances are we’d be grateful enough to arrange for some sort of limited premature use.”

“Sounds wonderfully vague. The sort of agreement you might welsh on in seconds.”

“Are you in or not?”

“You’re going to have to tell me more. What is this all about?”

There was a long pause, no sound but the growl of the engine in low gear and the pop of gravel against the wheel wells. They reached Holland’s Suburban at the bottom of the lane, where a driver waited patiently in the dark. Nat stopped the car.

“First,” Holland said, “there are a few things you should know about Gordon Wolfe. None of them fit for the eulogy, I’m afraid. To begin with, he was a thief.”

“He said the boxes were planted.”

“Which means he was also a liar. Worse, he was a blackmailer. Had been for years. Decades. Quarterly payments to a numbered Swiss account. Puts all this nice mountain acreage of his in a new light, don’t you think?”

“And you know this how?”

“From the man he was blackmailing.”

“Let me guess. One of the surviving members of the Bauer family in Berlin?”

Holland gave him a long, probing look, and Nat realized he might have goofed.

“It’s not that hard to figure, from what you’ve already told me and what I’ve already seen,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t have to bring Berta’s name into it. “And I’m guessing you think the incriminating material is in the missing folders. But you must also believe there are clues to their whereabouts in the rest of the material. The kind of clues that only a historian might notice.”

“That’s why we want you to continue. Start tracking down any leads you can come up with, either from the materials here or from your own sources. Or, hell, from whatever you know about Gordon. You knew him for twenty years.”

“Why worry now that the blackmailer is dead?”

“As long as the information’s still out there, the subject might still be vulnerable.”

“And why’s that so important to you?”

“Because the subject is important. And we want to keep him happy. We’ve been seeking his cooperation for quite some time.”

“I’m presuming you mean Kurt Bauer.”

Holland said nothing.

“He must be what, in his eighties by now?”

Holland sighed.

“Eighty-one.”

“So he probably doesn’t even run the family business anymore.”

“It’s not a commercial issue. Unless you’re talking about the buying and selling of information, of contacts.”

“What kind of information?”

“I’ve already said more than I should have. Let’s just say he was once a very big player in a very important field, one that has our utmost attention at the moment. If we help him, then he’ll help us. Unfortunately, the competition is just as interested, and it’s winner take all.”

“Who’s the competition?”

“A smart fellow like you could probably go online and answer all these questions in about ten minutes, or I wouldn’t have said a word of this to begin with. Just don’t dig any deeper in the wrong places. Stick to the 1940s and everything will be fine between us.”

“When did Gordon start blackmailing him?”

“See? Already digging in the wrong place.”

“Well, I thought Viv might like to know.”

“You’re not to discuss this with his wife. For all we know she’s part of it.”

“I haven’t exactly noticed you arresting her.”

“We’re keeping an eye on things.”

“On her?”

“We’re doing our job. Now you do yours. Just find it. We’ll take care of the rest. And I expect daily progress reports. You can reach me anytime at this number.”

He put a card on the seat between them. Then he handed over a folded sheet of paper.

“Take this, too. It’s a letter of introduction, signed by me. Sometimes it opens doors. Other times it slams them, so use it sparingly.”

Holland unlatched the door, but Nat had one more question.

“Are you sure Gordon’s death was an accident?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Maybe we don’t know the answer yet.”

“Well, if it wasn’t, who’s to say they won’t try the same thing with me?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be keeping an eye on you. You won’t always see us, but we’ll be around.”

“How come that only bothers me more?”

“Look, I won’t sugarcoat it. The competition isn’t exactly known for playing by the rules. But let’s not make this worse than it is.”

“Speaking of which, what’s up with this Middle Eastern fellow you’re looking for? Is he with the competition?”

“Who told you about him?”

“Willis Turner.”

Holland snorted.

“Now there’s a piece of work. He’s freelancing for someone. Him and that sleazeball judge. Guarantee it.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know yet. But you should regard him and anyone else who crosses your path as competition.”

Too bad Nat had already copied the documents for Turner, but a deal was a deal. And Nat couldn’t rat out the cop without admitting to having his own set of copies. Holland obviously suspected as much, but it would be foolhardy to come out and say so.

“Sounds like a pretty crowded field of people who are looking for this,” Nat said. “Some unspecified foreign government, which may or may not include this loose character from the Middle East, plus whoever Willis Turner is working for, and now me.”

“Don’t forget your German. Actually, maybe you should forget her.”

“Why? She might be a big help.”

“We don’t know her background. Neither do you.”

“Historian. Ph.D. from the Free University of Berlin. She’s a pro, too, you know.”

“So she says. Growing up in East Berlin isn’t exactly a point in her favor.”

“Still fighting the Cold War?”

“They had some pretty strong and unsavory Middle Eastern connections on their side of the Wall. Especially among students.”

“She
was fifteen
when the Wall came down.”

“Just saying. Forewarned is forearmed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Try not to share too much. Keep her at arm’s length.”

It was a little disturbing hearing the agent say exactly what he had been thinking only moments ago, while looking through Gordon’s little treasure box.

“Sharing is the way it works,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as Holland. “It’s the only way you make progress as a team.”

“Slept with her yet?”

“None of your business. But no.”

“I expect that’s about to change.”