The Arms Maker of Berlin (29 page)

The discussion of Bauer’s girlfriend, however, had jarred loose his memory of Berta’s findings on the deaths at Plotzensee Prison, plus all those photos of the elderly Bauer arriving at the site on the fourth day of every month, flowers in hand.

“This girlfriend. I suppose you’re referring to Liesl Folkerts?”

Stuckart tilted his head and gave Nat a long, silent look, as if reappraising his questioner. His next words emerged with great deliberation.

“How much, exactly, have you dug up on old Kurt?”

Was it Nat’s imagination, or had Stuckart’s tone contained a hint of gleeful malice? Yes, this was a complicated friendship.

“Bits and pieces. She died, didn’t she? Some misadventure at Plotzensee Prison?”

“She was killed in a bombing raid. There was a big one that night, and the prison took a direct hit. A few people even managed to escape as a result, but Liesl was buried under a collapsed wall. Kurt was inconsolable.”

“I thought you didn’t see him any then?”

“This was all secondhand, of course. From mutual friends. As for myself, I, uh, didn’t see him again until—”

“Switzerland?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go back there for a second.”

Stuckart shrugged and reached again for his cigarettes. He stubbed out the first one even though it was only half finished.

“As I told you, we hardly saw each other in Bern. I recall running into him once on the Kornhaus Bridge, but that was about it.”

Nat consulted his notes from the Swiss surveillance reports.

“This meeting on the bridge, would that have been on the twentieth of July, 1944?”

“I have no idea. It was so long ago. That could have been the date, but I would hardly describe it as any sort of ‘meeting.’”

“Well, I’m not sure what else you would call it. You and Kurt were witnessed together on the bridge. Then both of you walked to a house in Altenberg, where you were inside for several hours.”

Stuckart was stone-faced, silent. Nat continued.

“A few days later you visited him at his room at the Bellevue, where his family had a suite. You stayed two hours, then the two of you had dinner together on the terrace, where you were also seen chatting with members of the German legation. One of them was a new addition to the staff of the Gestapo.”

Stuckart exhaled twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. A long column of ash drooped from his cigarette, on the verge of collapse.

“Where did you come by this ludicrous hearsay?”

“It’s not hearsay. It’s a surveillance report by Swiss intelligence. An original, not a copy. Swiss agents observed a third lengthy meeting between the two of you as well. It was also attended by the new staff member of the Gestapo. Maybe now that I’ve refreshed your memory you could fill in some of the details?”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

“Isn’t possible, or isn’t desirable? Why keep protecting Bauer?”

“Look, when I said earlier that Kurt Bauer and I were still friends, perhaps I was being a bit boastful. We are in touch from time to time, but we really don’t see each other. Not face-to-face, or out in public. So, naturally, we never have occasion to revisit these old conversations, meaning that my memory of any time we may have once spent together has faded over time. Quite a bit, in fact. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see. And I’m beginning to understand your friendship. It’s based on mutual leverage, because you both have something to hide. For you, the Stuckart identity. For him, something that happened during the war, here or in Bern. In a strange way you’re still valuable to each other. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that he helped arrange your little vanishing act, in that fake accident. You probably didn’t have the right connections at the time. But he did. And he was glad to help, because if his own secret ever got out, well, that would be almost as embarrassing as having people know you were the son of a convicted war criminal.”

“I think it is time for you to leave, Dr. Turnbull.”

“I think so, too. Your memory’s not getting any better.”

Nat stood. Stuckart struggled to his feet.

“Remember,” the old man said, “you have your threats, but I also have mine. If you do not keep your word, I will not hesitate to take action.”

“Don’t worry, Herr Schmidt. I know how to keep a secret.”

“Oh, I am not at all worried. You’re the one who should be worried.”

For all the excitement of the encounter, Nat realized as he was describing it to Berta that he really hadn’t learned much new information. As a result, she was suitably unimpressed. The one item that seemed like a genuine revelation—verification that Liesl Folkerts had been Bauer’s girlfriend—bounced right off her. Meaning she probably already knew. He considered telling her that he had found her stash of photographs, then decided against it. No sense bickering just before their important meeting with Gollner.

“You should have called me in,” she said. “I could have gotten more out of him.”

“You’d have only gotten us thrown out of the house quicker. Besides, Gollner’s transcript should tell us what Stuckart was trying to hide.”

“Maybe.”

They grabbed a quick lunch at a nearby Imbiss. Feeling upbeat about their prospects, he ordered a Schulteiss lager with his Currywurst. Maybe they would soon have something to celebrate.

W
HEN THE APPOINTED HOUR ARRIVED
, Martin Gollner was waiting for them on the sidewalk outside his building. It was immediately clear he was in no condition to transact business.

His body was flattened against the pavement with his black overcoat fanned out around him like the garments of a melted witch. Two policemen stood over the body while a third taped off the scene. Gollner’s skull had split on impact. The crack oozed pink foam like an overripe melon. Blood pooled around his open mouth. His house slippers had somehow remained on his stocking feet.

Nat looked up toward the fifth floor, where lace curtains blew out from Gollner’s open window. Was it his imagination, or did he hear the oompah blat of a tuba issuing faintly from the neighbor’s nonstop Oktoberfest? One of the policemen pulled back the flaps of Gollner’s overcoat. No papers of any kind were visible.

“Come on,” Nat hissed. “Let’s try to get in while there’s still a chance.”

They dashed through the building’s open front door, and they were out of breath by the time they reached the fifth-floor landing. Brassy music was indeed playing loudly from the apartment across the hall, and Gollner’s door was ajar. They passed through to the living room with its flapping curtains. No sign of any documents. They reached the door of the bedroom just as a middle-aged cop in plastic gloves looked up from Gollner’s bureau.

“What’s going on? Who the hell are you?”

“We, uh … had an appointment with Herr Goll … uh, Mannheim.”

“Well, this is a crime scene, and you’ve fucked it up enough already, so don’t move a muscle.” He approached them with a weary air. “Identification, please.” Exactly what Nat had hoped to avoid. “C’mon. Both of you.”

The cop scanned the entry stamp in Nat’s passport.

“American,” he muttered. “You arrived only yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“Zurich.”

“What is your business here?”

“I’m a historian. Here’s my university ID. Mannheim was an old Gestapo man, named Martin Gollner. Was he pushed?”

The policeman took the ID while ignoring the question.

“Someday we’ll be through with all of these people,” he said. “Then there will be no more of their messes to clean up. Then all we’ll have is old people dying the way they always do, with no complications from the past. My partner will want to speak with both of you.”

A half hour later they were back on the sidewalk, having just finished speaking with a detective, who said he might want to talk with them later as well. Nat watched as Gollner’s body was carted to an ambulance. His only sorrow was of a professional nature, and not simply because they had missed out on the transcript. Gollner’s death meant that another portal to the past had closed forever. One less eyewitness to the most murderous era in history.

He now had to confront the issue of Berta Heinkel. In revealing the whereabouts of Stuckart she had presumably placed her last card on the table, and no matter what Holland said, Nat needed to get away from her. The woman trailed death like the train of a wedding gown, and he didn’t want to be the next person to trip on it. It was time for a clean break.

“Maybe we could come back later,” Berta said. “See if we can get in.”

“I’ve no doubt
you
could. You’re pretty skilled in that department.”

“What do you mean?”

“Larceny of all kinds. You’re the expert.”

“I admitted I was overzealous at the archives, but—”

“I was talking about the storage locker. The way you followed Gordon there and then broke in. Climbed a fence, wore a cap. You should see the surveillance video—you’re a star. For a plain old historian you really are multitalented. You can jimmy a lock, fake a license, seduce a source. Seduce. No wonder you like that word. It’s your best trick, pun intended. So I’m sure you’d be able to get into this dump. But you heard the cop. There were no papers found. Nothing suspicious except the way he died, flying out the window in his overcoat. So tell me, did you break into the jail, too, on the night Gordon died? Or did you just pay someone else to mix too many pills into his dinner?”

Berta’s mouth was agape, her eyes shocked. He had blindsided her, and for the first time since they’d met she seemed truly flustered. Even the confrontation over her thievery at the National Archives hadn’t unstrung her like this. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“Pills? What are you talking about?”

“Ask Willis Turner.”

“I didn’t kill Dr. Wolfe. I could never kill anyone. You’d know that if you really knew me.”

“I don’t think I’m willing to take the risk of really knowing you. Turner and Holland would be happy to take your offer, though. Why don’t you call them?”

“When did you talk to them?”

“Does it matter?”

His cell phone rang.

“That’s one of them now, isn’t it?” she said. “I guess you’ve missed your time to report in on me. Like an informant.”

“You should know. You’re the one with the Stasi file.”

She slapped him, hard, then turned away just as her face dissolved into tears. He had expected the anger, but not this. She sobbed as his phone rang again, but as he stepped toward her she broke into a run, coat flapping, just like Gollner’s must have done as he sailed to his death. Let her go, he told himself. Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted?

The cops were watching the dustup with interest, so he turned in the opposite direction to take the call. The screen showed that it was from a blocked number.

“Nat?”

It was Steve Wallace, his archival source at the CIA.

“Jesus, Steve, how’d you get this number? Never mind. Stupid question.”

“I’m on an official line, so I’ll keep it short. Still can’t really help you. The properties in question remain unbearably hot. But seeing as how most of the heat is coming from our poor cousins across the Potomac”—the FBI, he meant—”I can at least advise you strongly to check your e-mail, preferably within the hour. But I’m expecting compensation. I understand you may have pictures?”

“I do indeed. And I’m a good sharer.”

“Great. Send them all. And don’t call back.”

“That hot, huh?”

But Wallace had already hung up, which was answer enough. Nat looked around. More cops were arriving, and more gawking bystanders. No sign of Berta, thank goodness, although he didn’t feel as relieved as he would have expected. Did he miss her? Or was he just wondering where she might be headed without him? Perhaps she had one last source up her sleeve.

He caught a cab back to the hotel. She had checked out only moments earlier. Paying on his card, of course. He pocketed the receipt and went straight upstairs, figuring he had better check right away for Wallace’s e-mail. The CIA man had seemed to imply there was some sort of electronic shelf life.

There it was, waiting with a simple “FYI” on the message line. Also clamoring for attention was a message from Berta. He clicked on it first. Judging from how long it took to come up, he was half expecting a photo, maybe even the one of Stuckart. A final peace offering. Instead, it was a brief farewell.

“Sorry I was such a disappointment. Best of luck. Regards, Berta.”

He had expected more. He clicked on the Wallace e-mail, which also got straight to the point:

“OSS paperwork shows shipping of the four boxes handled in Bern Nov. 8, 1945, by Gordon Wolfe and Murray Kaplan. Kaplan on OSS payroll, Dec. ‘44 to Dec. ‘45. Current address: 14147 Palm Bay Court, Candalusa, Fla.”

A live source, then. Someone who might have a key memory. More to the point, it was information unknown to Berta Heinkel. Now that the Iranian with the blowtorch was dead, she might well be his main competitor. It was enough to convince him to find another hotel room for the evening, so he signed off and caught the U-Bahn to Alexanderplatz, checking his flanks at every stop. He took a room on the twentieth floor of an ugly high-rise and logged back on to his laptop to Google Murray Kaplan. The local wireless server was terrible, and it took forever to boot up. Even then, the search came up practically empty, although it did produce a phone number for Kaplan. He dialed it.

In Florida it was noon. Kaplan’s wife said her husband was out back. He came on the line and seemed wary when Nat said he wanted to reminisce about Gordon Wolfe. He nonetheless agreed to a noon interview the following day.

Nat looked up Candalusa, Florida. It was just below Daytona Beach. He reserved a seat on a midday flight to Miami with a connection to Daytona, then booked a car and an oceanfront motel. All set. After an early dinner from room service he stretched out on the bed fully dressed, telling himself he would check in with Holland in an hour. He’d then call Karen, just to make sure everything was okay.

Twelve hours later he awakened cold and out of sorts. It was 8 a.m.