The Arms Maker of Berlin (20 page)

“Dulles used to house some of the American airmen at the Jurgens, but I never saw Icarus go there. The crewmen stayed there the night before catching trains into Germany for prisoner exchanges. As far as I know, it was never a mail drop. But I’m surprised at you two, especially since you think that the Swiss know nothing about love.”

“What do you mean?” Nat asked.

“Well, the woman, of course! This Sabine Keller. If you’d seen the two of them together, you’d know that anyplace Icarus would choose for stashing something would somehow be connected to her.”

It made sense, especially in light of the book. But who knew if Sabine Keller was even alive, much less her whereabouts.

“Do you know what became of her?”

“No idea. Because she disappeared, too, you see. Around the same time as Icarus. Except in her case, she never turned up again.”

Interesting, Nat thought, and definitely worth following up.

They were startled suddenly by a loud noise from a nearby table. Two couples of middle-aged Americans in shorts and polo shirts had burst into laughter, enjoying a joke at a waiter’s expense. Nat had overheard them earlier, groaning about sore feet and tram routes, and now they were even drawing stares from the neighboring cafe.

“Americans have become the new Germans,” Molden said with a frown. “Blustering their way around town, asking loudly for menus in English. The swagger of conquerors.”

Or maybe just the nature of noisy tourists, Nat thought, especially ones with plenty of money. Like the Japanese family at the next table, shooting video of everything that moved. Or that man standing in the square, snapping pictures of their cafe. In fact, he seemed to be aiming his lens at their table. Or had been, until Nat started watching. Now he was lowering his head and walking briskly away.

“That man,” Nat said. “Do you know him?”

Molden followed his stare.

“What, you mean that Arab fellow?”

“Arab?”

“Well, that was my impression. But I suppose he could be Turkish or Greek. All I know is that he’s been watching this place quite a while. I kept expecting him to ask for a table. Maybe it’s just my old training, noticing him like that. Funny how those habits never really leave you.”

“Maybe,” Nat said, keeping an eye on the side street where the man had disappeared. “Or maybe you still know tradecraft when you see it.”

Molden’s smile faded. He shoved his plate away and put his napkin on the table.

“This business you’re pursuing. I won’t pretend I know what it’s all about, but maybe it would be best if you left me out of it from here on. I do thank you for the lunch, though.”

From then until they dropped him off at his apartment, Molden was wary and watchful. Exactly how he must have carried himself during the war, Nat figured. Back when nobody was who he said he was and everyone had something to hide.

Back when Bern was the spy capital of Europe.

SEVENTEEN

W
HAT NAT NEVER COULD HAVE KNOWN
or learned, no matter how many old documents and code names he dug up, was what took place when Gordon Wolfe met Sabine Keller.

Nor could he ever have known that Gordon’s final conscious thoughts, only seconds after the old man wryly offered his OSS countersign to the jailhouse doctor, were of that very moment sixty-four years earlier when he first laid eyes on Sabine.

Such are the limitations of history, and also of espionage, because even the masterful Allen Dulles had no inkling of what befell his young flyboy operative on that July afternoon.

Gordon saw her before she saw him. She was sprawled in tall grass on an Alpine riverbank in the valley town of Adelboden. He had come looking for her in response to a written plea from an American airman, a lieutenant who appreciated her efforts on behalf of his compatriots and thought she was getting a raw deal from the Swiss. Not much of an assignment, really, but they sent Gordon because he knew the ways of these flyboys
.

He checked first at the hotel where she worked—and where the lieutenant was billeted. The proprietor said she was on break, but he could probably find her eating lunch down by the river
.

Moments later, that was indeed where he spotted her. She was reading, as luck would have it, a Wolf Schwertenbach novel with a red cover. Her feet tucked beneath her. Her hair was pulled to one side, and her head was tilted down toward the book to expose a fine, graceful neck
.

On his way into town, Gordon had stopped at a cafe for a pint of lager. He did it to steel himself, because this wasn’t going to be pleasant business. His
instructions were to tell her she was on her own, that the Americans could do nothing for her. But the beer had put him in a mellow mood, and the sun was so warm that he had taken off his leather jacket and slung it across his shoulder. And so he approached her casually, almost jauntily. Anyone watching might even have suspected he was her lover, coming to surprise her
.

She must have heard his footsteps swishing through the high grass, because she turned suddenly and, sensing his buoyant mood, smiled up at him with the fullness of her beauty. Her light brown curls were golden in the summer sun
.

“Fraulein Keller?” he asked, his voice nearly catching in his throat
.

“Ja. Bist du der Amerikaner?” Immediately employing the familiar verb, which further disarmed him
.

“Ja.”

“I speak English, too, if you prefer. Is it bad news that you bring me?”

Maybe it was her smile, or her expression of benign resignation, as if she were quite content to let him decide her future. Whatever the reason, Gordon changed his mind on the spot and decided to hell with orders
.

“No. It’s not. I can’t guarantee anything, of course, but I’ll do what I can.”

She nodded, as if that outcome, too, was all in the natural course of things. It only endeared her to him more. He extended a hand to help her stand. But first she plucked a small yellow flower and pressed it into the book to mark her place, which he saw was page 186
.

Her face came up to his shoulder, and her hair smelled of grass and sunlight and wildflowers. He knew instinctively that if he were to embrace her, her body would fold neatly into his, a perfect fit. After all the whores and hangers-on he had encountered here—and occasionally sampled—Gordon Wolfe knew then and there that he had come home. The realization frightened him, considering all that he had left behind in the States, and the important promises he had made. This was just a fairy-tale episode in a land of myth, right? Another freak happenstance in this magic bubble of neutrality
.

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and she must have wondered why. Perhaps she attributed it to the beer on his breath. But she did not let go of his hand, because she, too, had fallen under the spell of the encounter. So together they walked back up the riverbank to the hotel where she worked, to begin seeing what he could do about straightening out her future. Because now it was his future as well. Of that he was certain
.

EIGHTEEN

O
RDERING THE SECOND BOTTLE
of wine was a mistake. Nat realized that the moment Berta suggested they take the rest of it upstairs to her room. And not just any room, but a big one with a fine view, low lighting, and a soft queen-size bed at the luxurious Bellevue Palace. The sort of room that might have had a thumb tab for “Seduction” in the leather-bound guide to its amenities.

When reserving their accommodations earlier, Nat had chalked up his extravagance to his quirky urge to follow in Gordon’s footsteps. He also liked the idea of taking advantage of the FBI’s generosity. But as he swayed against Berta’s shoulder in the rising elevator he wondered if ulterior motives had also been in play. Because when the waiter began hovering with their bill as the night turned cool on the hotel terrace, it became all too easy to assent to Berta’s request that they head someplace warmer. That was when he decided the second bottle was overkill.

Not that he and Berta hadn’t earned the right to celebrate. Her contact at the Swiss Archives paid off nicely, letting them copy every surveillance report from Molden and Visser. Who knows what treasures might lie in wait in the details? While that alone wasn’t earth-shattering progress, between it and their lunch with Molden they believed they were forming a clearer picture of the Gordon Wolfe-Kurt Bauer backstory. Even if that didn’t lead directly to the missing files, they realized over dinner that it might lead to something equally valuable—the information that had prompted Gordon’s blackmail to begin with. Why worry about finding Gordon’s stash of copied secrets if you could unearth the secrets themselves?

They reached that triumphant conclusion just before Berta suggested that they enjoy the rest of the wine upstairs. She said it in an offhand tone, but Nat was immediately wary and excited, especially after having seen her in action that afternoon.

In dealing with the clerk named Karsten at the Swiss Archives, Nat had instinctively assumed the role of asexual, disinterested colleague while Berta set the tone. She went to work on the poor dupe with unwavering eye contact and a series of small touches to his forearm, his shoulder, and his knee as they sat side by side, reviewing a microfilm index. The fellow responded by letting them stay an hour past closing time to make copies. By the end of their session he was helping slide documents into place beneath their cameras.

So be on your guard, Nat told himself, as the elevator door opened to their floor. Yet he couldn’t suppress a thrill—as well as another characteristic response—when she tucked her arm under his as they strolled to her door.

Berta immediately threw open the window, with its bluff-top view of the River Aare. She leaned exultantly into the cool night. Fresh mountain air, from the peaks of the Berner Oberland.

“Look at that!” she said, holding out her glass for a refill. “If the morning isn’t hazy, we’ll be able to see the Eiger and the Jungfrau.”

Was she saying they would both be waking up here? Nat’s room was across the hall, with a view of an air shaft. He tried shoving his imagination onto another track by thinking of Gordon and wondering what the young airman’s first impression of this hotel must have been. Had he, too, been with an attractive young woman?

“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” Berta said. “Him and his waitress. You’re very spiritual in that way. In fact, I’ve never met such a spiritual historian. It’s almost like you believe these places are haunted.”

“Not haunted. But there’s something of him here. I do believe that. Nothing I could ever pin down, but it’s in the air.”

“And what’s your reading on this ‘presence’ of his, for lack of a better word?”

“Optimism. Deliverance. I’d wager those were his strongest emotions.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever seen the ball turret of a B-17? The gunner is practically in a fetal position, hanging out the belly of the plane for eight hours a pop. Air temperature at twenty below for most of the way. Flak and fighter planes coming at you from everywhere. Then, poof, his plane ducks out of the battle, lands in a Swiss meadow, and a few days later Allen Dulles offers him a job, asking if he’d like to play at being a spy, all expenses paid. Then on his first night in Bern he walks into a room just like this—hell, for all we know, this
was
the room—and instead of being crammed into a ball turret while being strafed by Messerschmitts he’s lying down on a big feather bed.”

“With a nice local whore.”

“Possibly. Either way, he must have been thinking he was the luckiest man in the world.”

“And what about you? Are you feeling lucky?”

She brushed a stray hair from his forehead. It was all the prompting he needed. He touched her face and drew her close, an effortless movement that brought her lips to his, open and willing. Subsequent events took care of themselves, or as much as they needed to once a man and a woman are in the proper state of mind and have consumed nearly two bottles of Neuchatel Blanc before retiring to a swank room where “Do Not Disturb” is printed in three different languages.

Afterward, Nat poured himself another glass, even though the wine had lost its chill on the bedside table. He felt more attuned than ever to Gordon’s mood upon arrival in Bern—the sudden sense of new possibilities, the hint of exotic risk. All of it familiar, if for different reasons. He also thought he had a clearer read now on Berta, and he turned to her with a question.

“What, or who, were you thinking of when you made that comment to Molden about the powerful force of love? And don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to say me.”

“My Oma,” she said, using the German word.

“Your
grandmother
?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” She seemed a little offended. “It’s still love, any way you look at it.”

“How disappointing. You sure it wasn’t some ex-boyfriend?”

“Oh, I’ve always had men in my life. But I’ve only known one grandmother, and she was with me every day for fifteen years. Living in the same small apartment, worrying about the same nosy neighbors. She was there when my mom and dad couldn’t be.”

“A nice old Hausfrau?”

“Only because the government wouldn’t let her work. She was quite the agitator in her day, a formidable woman. Of course, I thought it was my role to keep her out of trouble so the authorities wouldn’t take her away. Or maybe it was just because I was such a good little Communist and wanted her to be one, too.”

“You
, a good little Communist?”

“Oh, goodness, yes.” She laughed. “Chapter leader of the Young Pioneers. Marched in every May Day parade. Read everything I could find about Rosa Luxemburg. When I think back, I don’t know how she put up with me.”

Berta seemed to get a little dreamy, then a little nostalgic. Enough to make Nat believe she really
had
been talking about her grandmother.

“She taught me so much, really. How to spot informants, or other people you couldn’t rely on. How to look for the truth when everyone else wanted to surround you with lies.”

“Your guardian against the Stasi?”

Nat said it whimsically, but Berta turned somber.

“Something like that,” she said, lowering her head.

He felt awkward, figuring he had killed the mood.

“And she, uh, got you hooked on this White Rose business?”

“Yes. She was sure that her friends from the war—the ones who didn’t make it—had been betrayed. And Bauer was one of only three or four people who could have betrayed them.”

“So he’s your prime suspect?”

“Oh, no. There are several. He just happens to be the one I’ve focused on lately.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“Only by mail. I’ve asked nicely several times, but he has always said no.”

Keep going, he thought. Tell me more. As helpful as it was to finally hear more about her motives, he wanted substance, too. Names. Details. But she must have noticed he was hanging on every word, because she quickly changed course.

“I should have known you’d think I was talking about a man when I mentioned love.”

“Well, it’s not like that would have been unusual. Love does tend to work that way.”

She shrugged. Her neck and shoulders were beautiful, perfectly smooth.

“This idea of finding a mate for life has never been so vital to me. Nothing personal, but when men are so readily available, after a while all you worry about is when to choose and when to reject.”

“You make it all so romantic.”

She smiled, and slid closer on the bed.

“You asked, so I told you. It is the way I choose to live my life. I research what I want, fuck who I want, stay where I please, when I please, and I set my own hours each and every day. And if sometimes I choose to mix business with pleasure”—she stroked a fingertip down the inside of his thigh—”well, that is what works best anyway when things are going well. Don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“Is there another woman in your life?” she asked. “A woman you’re serious about?”

“Not at the moment.”

“It would be quite all right with me if there was. I’m never exclusive in these matters. It’s part of what makes me attractive. Men sense my availability, but also that I will only be temporary. Safe, but a little dangerous, too. A very enticing combination, don’t you think?” Her fingertips again skimmed his thigh, a tickle of nails. She began just above the knee and ended just below the spot where he hoped she would keep going, now that it was standing at attention. Instead, she doubled back and continued to slide her fingers back and forth, silk on leather, while speaking in a warm, low monotone, her Prussian vowels suggesting the darker possibilities of a dominatrix. She could have commanded, “Show me your papers,” and it would have thrilled him to the marrow.

“I like that word, ‘enticing,’ ” she said. “It sounds exactly like what it means. The little hiss in the middle, like a whispered invitation. There is no German word quite that good for seduction. ‘Seduce.’ That is also a fine word. Although maybe with a dart of poison, too. Don’t you think?”

“Poison doesn’t sound very safe. And ‘safe’ definitely isn’t a word I associate with you.”

“Good. Because love is never safe. Lust, even less so. As for how well either of them mixes with this business we are pursuing, I suppose we will find out.”

But he was no longer interested in talking about their goals, or her linguistic preferences. Nor was she, apparently, because those were the last words they spoke for the next fifteen minutes.

Peace and darkness then descended upon the room. She spoiled the mood a bit by pulling a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table, but, this being Europe, Nat decided he could endure the smoke. At least the window was still open, and the clouds of her exhaust lent a period feel to the scene. They might have been hiding in a seedy room above a rail station at some wartime crossroads, traveling under false names with forged papers, on the run from the secret police. It was a nice fantasy to languish in, and he carried it into his dreams.

Then, as always happened to Nat on transatlantic trips, he found himself wide awake. The red digital display on the bedside clock said 3:19. It was his usual onset of Euro jet lag, and he knew from experience there wouldn’t be much more sleep until dawn. Berta, back on her home turf, still slept peacefully. He propped on an elbow to watch her, mildly aroused as he checked for any sign that she might soon join him in the waking world.

He thought of the verse Karen had offered, the one about forbidden fruit. Its taste was indeed sweet. What would his daughter make of him now, having succumbed so readily? Nat pictured her thumbing through the
Complete Poems
at top speed, searching for something appropriately salacious and disrespectful to sum him up. What time was it in the States? A little after 9 p.m. Good timing for a phone call, but the circumstances weren’t exactly optimal.

Looking again at Berta, he wondered about her love for her grandmother as the supposed motivator of her zealous research. According to the Wolfe-Turnbull school of historical thought, Berta’s explanation remained incomplete. Even assuming that her Oma had practically raised her and had taught her how to deal with Stasi bad guys, such generalities felt insufficient. There had to be some single big moment involved—a rescue, a failure, a near-death experience; take your pick. Nothing less would explain why a young woman as smart and pretty as Berta Heinkel had become such a single-minded vagabond in so narrow a field of research. And for fifteen years, no less.

Or was he misreading her? Maybe she had latched on to the topic only recently but had peddled the tale of lifetime obsession to win his allegiance. Other colleagues had certainly tried more underhanded tactics.

It was useless to just lie there, so he pulled on his trousers and went to the sink for a glass of water. Maybe he would go for a walk. He threw open the bathroom window for another look at the night. With the streets empty you could hear the river surging through a massive sluice gate. A lone car poked across the bridge.

What he really needed was a drink, something stronger than the dregs of the wine. He shuffled to the console cabinet and plunged into the minibar for a bourbon. Then he opened the refrigerator, hoping to retrieve some ice before the light awakened Berta. He shut the door, but not before the glow illuminated the edge of a manila folder atop the fridge, just beneath the shelf for the television. So far, Berta hadn’t shared the contents of either her briefcase or her camera. This might be a rare opportunity for a sneak peek.

He made sure she was still asleep. Then he took the folder, a pen, and a sheet of hotel stationery, slipped into the bathroom, and gently shut the door behind him. He turned on the light, flipped down the lid of the toilet and took a seat. Not exactly optimum conditions for research, but it would do.

The tab on the folder said “Plotzensee,” which he knew was a prison in Berlin during the war. The Nazis had often used it for political prisoners.

Inside was a typewritten sheet of names atop a stack of eight-by-ten photos in black and white. There were seven names on the list, next to two columns of dates. The first column was headed “Date of Incarceration.” The second, “Final Disposition.”