The Arms Maker of Berlin (22 page)

“That is not so easily accomplished. It is in a secure location. And, as you might imagine, there are expenses involved with retrieval. You would need to defray the cost.”

“Within reason, of course.”

“Ten thousand euros, payable tomorrow.”

Nat rocked back in the undersized chair, nearly toppling it.

“I said within reason.”

“I can assure you that is quite a bargain, Professor Doktor. This was not just any interrogation. As a result of it, three people lost their lives. Besides, I have cut the rate considerably, a measure necessitated by my rather desperate circumstances. I can assure you that a previous buyer paid far more, although at that time even a few packs of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate was considered something of real value.”

“Previous buyer?”

“Does that aspect interest you as well?”

“A little. Maybe even fifty euros worth.”

“A hundred.”

“Eighty.”

“A hundred. Last offer.”

Nat grimaced and reached for his wallet. He plucked out two fifty-euro notes and held one of them forward, just out of Gollner’s reach.

“I need a name for the first fifty. Details of the transaction get you the second fifty.”

Gollner fidgeted and narrowed his eyes.

“There isn’t a name, as such. Those fellows never gave them. They worked in codes and aliases, a bunch of cocky young boys playing at spies, like
Emil and the Detectives.”

The skin prickled at the back of Nat’s neck. He knew exactly where this was going, and he waved the euro note like a flag of victory.

“Fifty for the code name. Fifty more for the particulars.”

“Icarus.”

A wrinkled hand snatched the bill with surprising speed, but Nat didn’t mind at all. He was too preoccupied imagining the young Gordon Wolfe trooping between the fallen bricks of bombed-out Berlin to track down stray rats like Gollner.

“Icarus was an American, correct?”

Gollner nodded.

“Describe him.” Nat handed over the second fifty.

“He walked with a limp. A war wound. Wore a bomber jacket. One of those bastards who’d blown this place to cinders. He was working for the OSS, part of their ‘White German’ operation. I know more about him, too, but that will also cost you.”

Nat wondered what that meant, but he didn’t have enough cash on hand to find out. Not yet, anyway. Besides, the transcript was more important. He was quite familiar with the White German operation. It was a Dulles pet project during the occupation, and his staff had begun laying the groundwork in Switzerland. Its object was to identify German clergymen, professors, businessmen, politicians, and scientists who were untainted enough to form a core leadership for a new non-communist Germany. If you happened to be versed in the nascent fields of rocketry or nuclear physics, your chances of inclusion were even better, even if a little cleaning was required first.

“There was no way I was going to make the grade,” Gollner said, “but Icarus said his handlers wanted to know if Bauer did. So I gave him what I had.”

“Sold it, you mean.”

Gollner shrugged.

“It was a seller’s market. Between them and the Russians, everyone was choosing from their lists of favorite Germans, and of course both sides enjoyed pissing on their rivals’ choices. Meaning sometimes they had to clean the piss off a few of their own.”

“And you think Icarus was cleaning the piss off Bauer?”

“Of course.”

“So you sold him the copy but still kept another one for yourself.”

“In case the Russians ever came calling.”

“Did they?”

“No. But now you’re here. I’m just as happy to do business with another American.”

“This first transaction, where did it take place?”

“This very room.”

The hairs on his neck rose again. Who needed spirits when you had this kind of proximity? The scuffed floor, the plaster walls, the view of the park through the old window—they were probably virtually the same as when Gordon had come. Even Nat’s chair was old enough that Gordon might have used it.

“It was a respectable building then,” Gollner said. “No Turks. Just a lot of Germans without enough to eat. War widows. People who knew how to earn an honest living.”

Yes, an honest living. Like interrogating people to within an inch of their lives and then turning a profit from the transcripts, selling dirt on your countrymen for ten thousand euros a pop. Nat wondered how many other transcripts Gollner had peddled.

“What did Icarus pay for this document?”

“The most valuable thing he had to offer. A new identity.”

“That’s how you became Hans Mannheim?”

“There were a lot of people looking for that fellow named Gollner. Some of them were fairly important. I decided Gollner would be better off dead, figuratively speaking, so Icarus agreed to make him go away.”

“And what did Icarus say, once he’d seen the transcript?”

“No more. Not until I have received full payment for the transcript.”

“How soon can you have it?”

“Tomorrow. Sixteen hundred hours. And do not try to follow me to it. I am old, but I still remember my training, and I still have friends.”

“Sixteen hundred hours, then. I’ll be here.”

“One other thing. Two of you came in downstairs. Who’s the other one?”

Now how the hell did he know that?

“A colleague. She’s waiting on the landing.”

“If it’s that obnoxious hippie woman from the Free University, then I know how you found out my name. Bring her with you tomorrow. I have been avoiding her for two years, but now there is some information I want from her. It’s mandatory, part of my price. People have been poking around here lately, and I think she may be responsible.”

“What kind of people?”

“Tomorrow. Just bring her.”

Berta was waiting just outside the door. The music from next door was still loud enough that she couldn’t have overheard their conversation, even with her ear to the keyhole. Just as well. He had already decided not to tell her about Gordon’s visit in 1945.

“Success?” she asked.

He glanced back, wondering if Gollner was watching through the peephole.

“Outside.”

Nat checked the building entrance for a security camera but didn’t find one. Maybe Gollner had been watching from his window.

“Well?” she asked.

“He’ll have a copy of the transcript tomorrow at four. He wants ten thousand euros.”

“Greedy bastard!”

“If it’s everything he claims, it will be worth it. He says three people lost their lives as a result. I’m assuming he was referring to members of the Berlin White Rose.”

“Only three?”

“Isn’t that enough for you?”

Then he realized what she meant. Her Plotzensee fact sheet listed four fatalities. But one had simply been listed as “killed.” Gollner must have been referring to the executions. Of course, Nat couldn’t make that point, nor could Berta make hers, without either of them revealing their deception.

“Where will we get ten thousand euros?” she asked.

“I’m betting he’ll settle for half as a down payment.”

“But even five thousand is a lot. For me, anyway.”

“I’ll take out a cash advance on my plastic. It’ll probably max out my credit cards, so you’re welcome to chip in. Especially if you want to share the material.”

Her mouth dropped in surprise.

“You’re as bad as him,” she said. “I’ll have to check with my bank.”

“Maybe we should take care of that now, separately. We could probably use an afternoon off from each other. We can meet tonight back at the hotel. Deal?”

Berta gave him a searching look, but nodded. She seemed a little hurt, and it bothered him until he recalled what Willis Turner had said. She turned on her heel and strolled away without a further word. Nat watched her for a block. Then he turned in the opposite direction, rounded the nearest corner, and hailed a cab.

“The Free University in Dahlem,” he said. “History Department, on Koserstrasse.”

It was time to find out more about the real Berta Heinkel.

TWENTY

P
ROFESSOR CHRISTIAN HERMANN WAS
an old acquaintance of Nat’s. They crossed paths at least once a year at some conference or another, and Hermann was always good for a beer and a few witty stories of his travels in Eastern Europe, where he had made a name for himself by plumbing state archives for captured Nazi documents. Some of his discoveries had been under lock and key for decades behind the Iron Curtain.

Hermann’s longtime obsession, however, was his search for the last original manuscript of Hitler’s sequel to
Mein Kampf
. Most people didn’t even know Hitler wrote a sequel, nor would they want to read it. But Hermann had been captivated by the idea of finding the
Zweites Buch
ever since learning that the first manuscript, discovered in 1958, was a collation of typescript and carbon copies, meaning that a second must also exist.

He had been searching for fourteen years. His operative theory was that it had ended up at the Berghof, Hitler’s mountaintop getaway, and that an American GI must have walked off with it when the troops looted the place in the spring of ‘45. This meant he often sought out U.S. veterans, and Nat had helped arrange introductions to plenty of skeptical old men. As a result, Hermann was always willing to lend a hand, and when Nat phoned from the taxi the professor urged him to come by at once.

“You’ll have to press the buzzer downstairs. Classes are out, and I’m the only one here. Considering it’s a Friday you were lucky to catch me at all.”

The history department was in a frumpy stucco building in a leafy suburb. Nat scanned the dozens of posters in the foyer advertising upcoming symposia. No one could talk a subject to death like the Germans, leaving you in a funk of earnestness that could linger for days. He was disheartened to see that the topic of the Third Reich wasn’t mentioned on a single item. He had first noted this trend in the wake of 1995, following a six-year orgy of fiftieth-anniversary commemorations of the war. Having dutifully immersed themselves, the Germans then seemed to shake off the era like a wet dog taking shelter from the storm. And by then, of course, a hot new topic had come along—the deadly legacy of the Stasi, and East Germany’s security state—fresh corpses, more readily exhumed, not to mention that West Germans could participate in the discussion guilt free.

The buzzer sounded. Nat took the stairs. Christian Hermann was waiting with a cold pilsner.

“Turnbull! A perfect surprise. The department head is away, so we can drink all we like as long as we hide the empties. But you should have given me more warning. I’m preparing for a trip to Riga in the morning, so I can’t even treat you to dinner.”

“I’m lucky to be here at all, considering the weird little errand I’m on. It’s for a law enforcement client, so it’s not exactly pure research.”

Hermann frowned. He would never consider taking a government assignment. Hardly surprising for someone who studied his country’s most notorious regime.

“I’m not sure what my department head would find more objectionable. These beers or the idea that I’m helping a representative of George W. Bush.”

“That’s not where I need your help. I want advice on one of your colleagues.”

“From the Free University?”

“Yes. Berta Heinkel.”

Hermann raised his eyebrows and set his beer down on a student’s paper.

“My God. Are you mixed up with her romantically or professionally?”

“The latter.”

“They sometimes go together. That’s why I asked.”

“Which one usually produces worse results?”

“Ha! Good question. Although without firsthand experience I cannot say for sure.”

“How is she regarded professionally?”

“If you had asked me two years ago, I would have given her the highest marks. She is intelligent, a strong researcher. And dogged, very determined. Sound, too. Never sloppy in her methods. Or didn’t used to be. She was also teaching then, and students liked her.”

“What happened?”

“That’s what we’d all like to know. Frankly, I think she began to get a little obsessed. All of this White Rose business, do you know about it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I hope that’s not why you’re in Berlin. The further mythologizing of Hans and Sophie Scholl, student angel pamphleteers of Munich? Pardon my disrespect, but what a crock. Admirable, yes, but let’s not kid ourselves about their zero impact.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Christian. But my impression was that Berta has been on this White Rose hunt for ages, not just a few years.”

“It was always her specialty. But only in the last year or two did she let it take over her life. She began missing appointments, blowing off meetings. There was some kind of eating disorder, too. A colleague used to find her vomiting in the women’s room.”

“Jesus.”

“Her teaching declined. They replaced her at midterm in two courses. Her research suffered, too. Anything that didn’t have to do with the Berlin White Rose, poof, it might as well not have existed. Some colleagues suspected drugs, but I think her only addiction was this quest, because that was also when the complaints began to come in.”

“Complaints?”

“Of harassment, stalking even. Kurt Bauer, the big industrialist, I’m sure you’ve heard of his company. Your shaver probably has his name on it.”

“Or my latest shipment of heavy water.”

Hermann laughed.

“Yes, that too.” Then he eyed Nat carefully. “Government work, you said?”

“Let’s just say I have an understanding with regard to reimbursement and a rough arrangement on how to share any results.”

“Your government has never liked Kurt. Mine’s not keen on him, either. His dabbling in nuclear materials made everyone nervous. Although I gather Pakistan quite likes him. Is this what concerns you, or are your interests confined to your usual area?”

“I’m afraid it’s nothing I can discuss, Christian.”

“But you’re working with Berta, which must also mean the White Rose. Interesting.”

“You said there were complaints. From Bauer himself?”

“His lawyers. People like Bauer never file their own complaints. A court issued some sort of restraining order.”

“You’re kidding.”

“An exclusion zone, one hundred meters.”

That would explain Berta’s interest in long-lens photography.

“Did it stop her?”

“His lawyers said it didn’t, although at least she no longer rang his doorbell or staked out his parking space. But he wasn’t the only one who took her to court.”

“There were others?”

“A White Rose survivor in Duisberg, some old Gestapo people, even a few Americans who served with the occupation forces. Come on, you really haven’t heard about this?”

“It’s not like she’d be eager to tell me.”

“No, I mean from your colleagues at Wightman. One of her targets was Gordon Wolfe, your very own … well, whatever you’d call him after he, uh …”

“He was my mentor. It’s still okay to say it. We made our peace, just before he died.”

“Died? Gordon’s dead?”

“A week ago. His heart.”

“I had no idea. My condolences.”

“Thanks. But Gordon was one of the complainants?”

“Oh, yes. He said she had followed him for days at a time.”

“Good Lord.”

“Yes. Not very smart, making people think we’re a bunch of lunatics here. Still, she might have weathered the storm if it hadn’t been for the Stasi file.”

“The
what?
”

Hermann nodded glumly.

“I am afraid so. Berta was an informant.”

Nat’s heart sank. In latter-day Germany there were few things more damning, or more fatal professionally, than being outed as an informant for the East German secret police. It was a catastrophe, the sort of revelation that might explain a lot—bulimia, stalking, obsession—all her possible pathologies. But even then Nat couldn’t quite believe it.

“How is that possible? She was fifteen when the Wall came down.”

“I know. That’s what made her case so remarkable.”

“The good Pioneer,” Nat mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“She told me about her childhood. Laughed about what a good little Commie she was.”

“Apparently that included spying on her parents.”

“She informed on
her family?”

“With the best of intentions, of course. Or that was her defense. Trying to reform them, protect them from the authorities. You know, there is a summary of it around here somewhere. One of the department gossips, Professor Schneider, finagled a look at the report and did a synopsis, which she distributed to all our mail slots.”

“How sweet of her.”

“Yes. Heaven help anyone who gets in Schneider’s way. I think Berta bedded one of her boyfriends. Now where did I put that thing?”

Hermann yanked open a drawer. Papers flew out like cloth snakes from a clown jar.

“Ah. There it is.”

It was crumpled, and stained with coffee rings, but Nat spotted Berta’s name.

“Yes,” Hermann said, reading it over. “Mostly family members. Schneider did us the service of listing them, although she was of course polite enough to substitute initials for the forenames. ‘To protect their identity,’ she said. Here, take a look.”

Nat checked the names first:

F. Heinkel, father
.

J. Heinkel, mother
.

H. Heinkel, grandmother
.

L. Hartz, family friend
.

“Apparently she never reported anything major,” Hermann said. ” ‘Daddy criticized Chairman Honecker at dinner.’ That sort of rot. The lovely Frau Schneider claimed Berta’s grandmother suffered genuine repercussions, but she never dug up the details. Not for lack of trying, I’m sure.”

“Berta said she was quite fond of her grandmother.”

“All the more reason to keep her on the straight and narrow, then. Love does strange things to people, Turnbull, especially in the German state of mind.”

“Spoken like a true German.”

Hermann smiled crookedly.

“It is my patriotic duty as a historian to speak poorly of our national character.”

“Pretty easy to do so in Berta’s case. How did this come to light?”

“An anonymous letter to the department chair. A photocopy of her file was enclosed.”

“You think Bauer sent it?”

“It’s what everyone suspects. But she already knew the file existed. She told Schneider she had gone to see it herself, a year earlier.”

“Isn’t that about the time she went off the deep end?”

“Yes. I suppose she realized it would eventually become public.”

Maybe, Nat thought. Or maybe the file’s contents, rather than its mere existence, sent her into a spiral.

“Can I copy this?”

“Keep it. I should have thrown it away ages ago.”

Nat could request the whole file if he wanted. Stasi records were stored right across town. But there was no guarantee he would be allowed to see it. Bauer certainly shouldn’t have qualified, but people like him always found a way around the rules. Even if Nat got permission, he would have to wait weeks, even months. More to the point, it was a sideshow. Gordon Wolfe and Kurt Bauer were still the main event.

“So tell me, Turnbull. How on earth did you get mixed up with Berta Heinkel?”

“By reading her credentials on your goddamned Web site, for one thing.”

“Oh, dear. We should fix that. Although officially she is still employed. You know how slowly these things go, and the chairman has managed to keep everything out of the papers. Of course, that will change once the firing becomes final. They’ve scheduled disciplinary hearings, but she has petitioned for delays. Health reasons, she claimed.”

“Mental, no doubt.”

Hermann laughed, spluttering beer onto his shirt front.

“Sorry. I know it isn’t funny In fact, it has pretty much ruined her. She lost her office, even her apartment. One of those nice renovations in Prenzlauer Berg. Last I heard, she had moved in with a friend.”

No wonder she had insisted on a hotel. She must be financing everything with maxed-out plastic. He felt bad for asking her to chip in on the payment to Gollner.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I stopped by.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I didn’t say I was happy. But I needed to know.”

“That’s always our downfall, isn’t it? Our need to know?”

Hermann clinked his bottle to Nat’s and they downed the dregs, appropriately bitter.

“I must pack,” Hermann said. “I am taking my wife to dinner. A peace offering. I had to cancel our weekend in Tuscany to make this trip to Riga.”

“Let me guess. A fresh lead on the
Zweites Buch?”

“Like I said. Our downfall. Can I drop you somewhere?”

“No, thanks. I walked from the U-Bahn. Frankly, right now I could use the air.”

It was dark when they left the building. Nat watched the taillights of Hermann’s Opel disappear. A breeze carried the scent of pine needles, and the streets and sidewalks were empty. He supposed he should call Holland with an update, but he decided that first he would call Karen.

So much to tell her, especially about Berta, which he knew was her main subject of interest anyway. Karen would want poetry, of course, as part of his presentation. But somehow even the brooding lines of Dickinson weren’t nearly broad or flexible enough to enfold Berta’s dark complexities. How, indeed, could he explain to an impressionable girl of eighteen the ways in which a surveillance state could swallow your entire childhood?

He was punching in the number when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Something about their urgency made him reconsider the call. No sense being overheard.

Nat kept walking, but the footsteps drew nearer. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see a jogger. Instead, it was a thin figure in a leather jacket. No reason to panic, but he walked faster. The footsteps did, too, moving closer. Nat broke into a trot, feeling silly yet frightened. Scuffing soles told him his pursuer was still gaining.