The Arms Maker of Berlin (32 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

T
HE CANDALUSA POLICE DEPARTMENT
was a southern variant on Willis Turner’s base of operations in Blue Kettle Lake, except these guys had better radios and packed more heat.

From the glass-walled interview room Nat could see a giant poster for Florida Gators football and a gun rack stocked with high-powered rifles. There was little he could see beyond that, because the policeman had handcuffed him to a table bolted to the floor. This must be where they locked down the drunks and rowdies before booking them.

The room was sweltering, but his warders were ignoring his questions and his requests for water and a phone call. No one had charged him, or even written down his name. They did check his driver’s license, so they had at least confirmed his identity.

An hour passed, then another. By then, Berta had probably either boarded a connecting flight from Orlando or Daytona or was well on her way south to Miami on I-95. A third hour passed, and his anxiety rose accordingly.

Then Clark Holland strolled into the office, nodding to the arresting officer as he stepped into the interview room. The officer followed him and wordlessly unlocked the handcuffs. Nat rubbed his wrists. He was spoiling for a fight, but he waited for the cop to leave before unloading on Holland.

“What the hell is this all about?”

“Maybe if you occasionally picked up the phone you wouldn’t be asking that question. This seems to be the only way I can get an update. And frankly, it’s for your own good.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’ll see. Soon as you’ve answered some questions.”

“Water first.”

Holland shouted for some drinks. The cop, none too pleased to be serving as a waiter to a fed and a misbehaving out-of-towner, tossed two plastic bottles of Coke from across the room. They fizzed over when Holland unscrewed the caps.

“Cops just love you guys, don’t they?”

“Glad you brought that up. Your friend Willis Turner—any idea what he did with his copies of those pictures you shot? The ones of the stolen documents?”

“I don’t believe we ever confirmed I took any.”

“For the sake of argument let’s assume you did. Why did he want them?”

“He said it was part of an investigation. Suspicious death, remember?”

“How ‘bout a real reason?”

“Why don’t you ask Turner?”

“We tried. Went to serve him this morning with a subpoena and a search warrant.”

“There you go.”

“The server found him dead. Shot with his own weapon. Apparent suicide, according to the state police, but it’s not like they’ve got such a great track record on this case. The search came up empty. No photos, no copies.”

Nat swallowed hard. He tried to think of some reason for Turner’s death other than the obvious one.

“If he knew you were coming with a warrant, maybe it really was suicide.”

“More likely is that someone else knew. Your German friend, Berta Heinkel—how long has she been back in the country?”

“You don’t think
she
did it?”

“Just answer the question.”

“She didn’t make it across the water until last night, at the earliest. And she was camped outside my door by seven this morning.”

“She staying the same place as you? The Sea Breeze?”

“I think so. But by now she’s probably either on a plane or sitting in an airport.”

“Where’s she headed?”

If Nat answered honestly, he’d have to explain the rest, and he didn’t want to. But he did want the FBI to try and pick her up. Anything to slow her down.

“Home, I guess. Berlin. She’s all done here. But—”

“But what?”

“Well, last time I talked to Turner—”

“When was this?”

“A few days ago. He phoned me in Berlin.”

“Go on.”

“He was beginning to think Gordon was murdered. Berta was his prime suspect.”

“We heard that, too. False lead. The toxicology tests came back negative. The medical examiner’s report was on Turner’s desk, dated yesterday. Heart attack, plain and simple.”

Holland’s cell phone rang. He grimaced at the incoming number.

“Wait here,” he said. Then he left the room.

It was a relief to hear Berta was in the clear on Gordon. But she was still the competition, and it didn’t sound like the Bureau was too interested in picking her up. Holland returned a few moments later, frowning.

“Fresh news,” he said. He showed Nat a photo. “Ever seen this guy?”

Nat recognized the face right away.

“Yeah, he was at the Denny’s where I was having breakfast. Might be staying at the Sea Breeze, too.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Ten thirty this morning.”

“His name is Tim Scoggins. He’s a private eye. If you check your engine block, dollars to doughnuts you’ll find a GPS tracking device. Two days ago he wrote a check for $25,000 to Willis Turner. Any idea why he’d do that?”

“He was working for Turner?”

“Last I checked, PIs weren’t in the business of paying their clients.”

“Oh. Right. Why pay Turner, then?”

“We figure he was buying something.”

“The copies of the files?”

“Possibly.”

“And Scoggins told you this?”

“Scoggins’s rental car was just found on the shoulder of I-95, just north of Daytona. Blood on the seat. No body.”

Nat took a deep breath. Assuming the worst about Scoggins meant four bodies in two days, and he had recently met or talked to all of them. Even if Gordon’s death was by natural causes, Berta and he were certainly stirring up a world of trouble.

“There’s an old guy I was just talking to across town, Murray Kaplan. Maybe you should make sure he’s all right.”

“Will do. Just leave me his number and address.”

“Who’s doing all this? I mean, I know who killed Qurashi. But Turner? And this PI?”

“If they were working for Bauer, then it was the Iranians. Or vice versa. Somebody must be getting close, I guess. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s someone else.”

“How come they haven’t killed me or Berta? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Probably because you’re still useful. I’d advise you both to keep it that way.”

“Then I should get moving.”

Holland shook his head.

“Just because they’re picking up the pace doesn’t mean you should panic. We’d like you to stick around until we have a better handle on recent events. Neil Ford is going to escort you back to the motel. To be on the safe side, he and another special agent will be posted outside your room. Just sit tight. Unless, of course, you’ve got something to tell me?”

He was tempted to tell Holland all about Bern, and the Hotel Jurgens. Maybe then the agent would turn him loose, or, at the very least, dispatch someone to beat Berta to the punch. But if the FBI got there first, and the lead panned out, then Nat would probably never get first dibs on the material, or any dibs at all. After what he’d been through, he wasn’t willing to risk losing everything now. So he said nothing.

“Don’t worry,” Holland said. “This shouldn’t take more than a day or so. Then we’ll put every means at your disposal to get moving as fast as possible, to any destination. Provided you behave in the meantime. I’m tired of having to rely on other people to bring you in. At least so far you’ve still been warm and breathing. Next time, I wouldn’t count on it.”

N
EIL
F
ORD SEEMED PLEASED
as always to see Nat. The agent waved through the windshield as he pulled in behind Nat’s car on the way back to the Sea Breeze. A second agent was with him.

By now, Berta was almost certainly winging her way across the Atlantic, and when Nat reached the motel he glumly climbed the stairs to his room. He mixed a stiff drink from the minibar, then flicked back the curtains to see if the FBI was really watching.

There they were, two Eagle Scouts in a black sedan. He turned away from the window and surveyed the room. Clothes on the floor. Laptop open. Gordon’s box of keepsakes atop the TV. Time for another look, especially now that the matchbook had turned out to be important.

He emptied the contents on the bed and inspected them with renewed interest: a vial with powder for making invisible ink, complete with printed instructions typed in 1946 by Gordon himself; a German officer’s cap, which may or may not have been Gordon’s size; plus the key that he had already used at the storage locker and the matchbook from the Hotel Jurgens. Then there was the old crime novel that had belonged to Sabine Keller, Gordon’s Swiss miss, with a dried flower for a bookmark.

He studied them awhile, as if hoping for a message. Nothing. Nor did they offer any help in eluding FBI agents.

“So, tell me, Gordon,” he asked aloud. “How would an old OSS man get out of this fix?” He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. “Too bad I never got any of your training, or maybe I’d know.”

Or maybe he did, seeing as how there was more than one way out of the room. Nat stood and slid open the glass door to the balcony. He looked down. A long drop, but it was sandy at the bottom, with a path heading straight to the beach. Better still, no one was watching the back. The problem was how to get down without breaking a leg.

Moments later he decided upon the solution, feeling sheepish if only because it was such a cliche, borrowed from innumerable cartoons and comedies and damsels in distress. Bedsheets. The only thing available. So he packed for departure, carefully placing Gordon’s items back in the box and tucking it between his shirts, and then he went to work. The Sea Breeze linens were so flimsy that he doubled them up to support his weight, twisting together the top and bottom sheets. That meant the line would come up short. He would have to jump the final seven or eight feet to the sand. So be it. He slid open the balcony door and tied one end of the sheets to the railing.

He then dropped his suitcase over the side and slung his camera bag and laptop over his shoulders, bandolier style, one on either side. Feeling like a novice alpinist about to tackle a mountain well beyond his technical skills, he then slung a leg over the rail and awkwardly climbed to the other side while gripping the sheets for all they were worth.

His feet slipped, and for a moment he dangled like an oversized spider, bumping his face against the railing. He steadied himself by bracing his soles against the balcony. Once he felt secure, he slid his left hand down the sheets, then his right, all the while bouncing his toes against the railing as he dropped.

After he’d lowered himself farther, his feet slipped below the bottom of his balcony and he again dangled free, thighs bumping the overhang. But he continued to grunt his way down to the limit of the makeshift line. When he let go he jumped outward to avoid catching his feet on the railing of the balcony below. Fortunately no one was in the ground-floor room, and the view from the beach was blocked by a row of dunes.

He landed heavily and toppled onto his suitcase. But nothing seemed broken, and he was elated to have made it. He grabbed his bags and lumbered across the dunes. From there it was only a quarter mile to the fishing pier. Fishermen and beachcombers stared curiously at this fellow hauling luggage up the strand, but he paid them no mind. When he reached the pier he dropped two quarters into a pay phone and dialed for a taxi. Then he ducked into the tackle shop to wait for its arrival.

Two and a half hours later, Nat boarded a flight to Miami. Judging from the earlier-scheduled flights, he guessed Berta would arrive in Zurich around seven the next morning, meaning she could reach Bern as soon as eight thirty by train. Nat’s connection out of Miami was due to land shortly after noon. At least a four-hour advantage for Berta. And that was assuming he made it out of the country before the FBI discovered he was gone. He settled into his seat, ready for the chase.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Basel, Switzerland—May 16, 1944

F
IRST IT WAS THE PRICKLY SWISS BORDER OFFICIALS
who harassed him, with their careful rules and smug neutrality. They kept him waiting in a locked room for five hours.

Now the besieged Kurt Bauer faced a new indignity: a wiseass American flyboy, barely older than he was. The man swaggered into the room and, without even stating his name, began asking questions. When Kurt resisted, the fellow grinned dismissively and offered cigarettes, as if a mere pack of Luckies could set everything right.

Not that Kurt was in a position to refuse. Alone and on the run, he needed allies. He accepted the proffered pack with a muttered “Danke” and began arguing his family’s case, just as he had done with the Swiss.

“My father
must
be allowed into the country. Can’t you make them see that? He has a factory here and possesses valuable information. Every second he is refused entry puts him in greater danger. For all I know he is already in the hands of the Gestapo. And didn’t the Swiss tell you? It’s not you I asked to see, it’s Dulles. Those were my father’s precise instructions. Only Dulles will do!”

Maddeningly, the flyboy smiled and shook his head.

“Go easy on that name. For one thing, it won’t get you very far with them.” He nodded through a glass partition toward a bored Swiss official, who stared dumbly at a mounting pile of paperwork. “It also won’t get you very far with Dulles. He doesn’t like having his name bandied about in public.”

“It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?”

“Only because you lucked into the one guy here who knows what he’s doing, so he gave me a call. Besides, I wouldn’t call this progress. A customs inspection room in Basel isn’t exactly a luxury suite at the Bellevue.”

He was certainly right about that. The border post, drab and sterile in the best of times, had become a wartime way station for the lost and the stateless. It was a wretched scene—dim, overcrowded, and smelling of desperation; a wet-wool stench of herded people on the move, trapped in the chute between sanctuary and slaughter.

During his long wait, Kurt had watched a number of distressing episodes, overhearing every shouted exchange through the glass partition. An elegant woman in furs and jewelry disappeared through a door only to emerge an hour later sobbing and practically naked. But at least they waved her through. A shabby Frenchman was forced to open a steamer trunk containing a hoard of gold fixtures and knick-knacks, including several menorahs. Since he wasn’t a Jew, it marked him as a thief and scoundrel. The trunk got in. He was arrested. A ragged family of seven erupted in an indecipherable Slavic tongue after the mother and three daughters made it through and the father and two sons didn’t.

Officiating each transaction was a prim man in uniform who never stood and rarely looked up before he stamped the entry papers in either damning red or beneficent black.

Only moments ago, two American airmen had been escorted in. They were wet, bedraggled, and, just like the one visiting Kurt, dressed in leather flight jackets, identifying them as members of a bomber crew. For some reason unknown to Kurt they had been caught while actually trying to get
out
of Switzerland. The unsmiling deskman picked up his phone and arranged for transport to a Swiss detention camp.

Presumably all these airmen had crashed here after dropping their bombs on Germany, a realization that stirred a deep sense of loathing in Kurt. He was especially troubled by their shoulder patches. One depicted a laughing cartoon figure riding bareback on a bomb—as if their work was some sort of elaborate prank. These were the people who had killed Liesl, and they were cracking jokes and trying to escape from a country that millions of people dearly wanted to enter. Sure, Americans were dying, too, just like the soldiers of every other army in Europe. But they did so in foreign skies and on foreign fields, while their own loved ones slept peacefully, without fear of bombs or midnight arrests.

And how come this particular flyboy was allowed to run free? What made him qualified to speak on behalf of the lofty Dulles, who, to judge from Kurt’s father’s description, was a wealthy patrician god with mysterious powers of benediction. He was the man who could grant their every wish, if only Kurt could arrange an audience.

“Look, the Swiss have already let my mother and sister in,” he pleaded. “They came through a week ago, no problem. In fact, they
are
staying at the Bellevue.”

“Did you think I didn’t know that? But you’re still here, aren’t you? And from what I’ve heard, you won’t be joining them anytime soon. Unless you cooperate with me.”

“Cooperate how?”

“You could start by telling me in as much detail as possible how the hell you managed to get here.”

How the hell, indeed. It had been more than eight months since the awful day when he found Liesl’s body in the rubble of Plotzensee. After Kurt returned home on his bicycle, his father decided then and there to do whatever it took to keep his son out of the army, deal or no deal. During the three-week grace period he called upon all his connections to wangle an additional three weeks, and three more after that. Finally, and only by enlisting the help of Speer himself, his father secured a delay of six months, until May 5, 1944, and in the process delivered what he believed to be the coup de grace, by engineering Martin Gollner’s transfer to a Gestapo backwater in Munich.

Meanwhile, conditions in Berlin grew worse. By midwinter the Bauer factories were so badly damaged by bombings that production was at a standstill. Trainloads of bedraggled Poles, Czechs, and Hungarians kept arriving to keep things running, but soon they were busier carting away bodies and rubble than running assembly lines. Reinhard Bauer began to fear that unless production resumed, the arrangements he had worked out on Kurt’s behalf might be voided.

The last straw came on November 18, the night of the heaviest air raid yet. Reinhard decided the next morning that the best strategy was to move his family to Switzerland, where he would set up a new base of corporate operations and resume his campaign to curry favor with the Americans. It took months to plan the move. First he had to sell it to Speer, by arguing he could still produce important materiel from across the border. Then he secured the necessary passes and transport.

Kurt, meanwhile, stayed mostly indoors, moping around the house in a funk of grief and guilt. Within days he learned that Liesl’s family had also been killed by a bomb blast, ironically within hours of her death. On some nights he didn’t even bother to go to the cellar during the air raids. Ignoring his mother’s pleas, he locked himself in his room and watched the fireworks outside his window, imagining he was back at Plotzensee.

In October there was news of more White Rose arrests in Munich and Hamburg, and in April there was a White Rose trial in Saarbrucken. With each such revelation he wondered how much of the responsibility lay with him. On one of his few trips out of the house he tried to visit Bonhoeffer at Tegel Prison, but was turned away at the gates. On the way back he thought he spotted Hannelore at a U-Bahn station, but she disappeared into a crowd. He wasn’t sure whether to feel heartened or terrified at the prospect that she was still prowling the city. Klara Waldhorst had been hanged nine days after his release, meaning Hannelore was the sole surviving member, and the only one who might know he was to blame. But she was also his only remaining link to Liesl. If there was one thing they could still agree on, surely it was their shared sense of loss.

On the first of May, with Kurt’s enlistment date approaching, his father packed up the family and commandeered a factory truck for their journey south. The going was chaotic, a maze of ruined cities, blocked highways, and impossible checkpoints. Halfway to Munich they abandoned the truck and sold most of their belongings, then set out on trains that often sat for hours at a time, exposed to attack. When they reached the frontier of occupied France, Reinhard bribed a pair of AWOL soldiers to escort Kurt’s mother and sister onward to the crossing at Basel. The women took most of the family’s money and remaining belongings, and a few days later relayed word that they had reached Bern and were resting comfortably in the city’s finest hotel.

Reinhard and Kurt spent the next five days dodging Wehrmacht patrols and document checks until they, too, reached the border post at Basel. The problem was that the Swiss had become increasingly finicky about letting German men into the country, even—or especially—when they were as well connected as Reinhard Bauer. So Reinhard was peremptorily turned away, and Kurt, who at least had the virtue of youth, was yanked aside for further questioning. And that was where things stood now.

The American flyboy still hadn’t offered a name, nor had he produced any credentials. But apparently he was going to decide if Kurt would get into the country.

Kurt had no way of knowing it, but at that particular moment the American legation, and the OSS in particular, was preoccupied with two subjects when it came to arriving Germans. One was the coming Allied invasion of France, due to take place in about three weeks. The other was the likelihood of an imminent attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Thus the only two types of Germans in great demand were those who knew about German troop movements along the French coast and those who had close connections to dissident officers in the Wehrmacht high command.

Nonetheless, the American flyboy sat attentively as Kurt related his recent adventures. He took a few notes, and even winced when Kurt mentioned that the Swiss had brushed aside his father’s promise to stop sending goods across the border into Germany.

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” the American said. “They should have let your father in. I’ll see what we can do, but I can’t promise anything. If word gets back to the Gestapo about what he said here, then I’m afraid he’s a goner.”

“How could they possibly find out?”

“How do you think? If one of those fellows out there saw fit to phone me, don’t you figure some of the others might have different friends?”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘Oh.’ That’s the way things work in Switzerland.”

“So will they let me in?”

“If I ask nicely.” Kurt still didn’t like the fellow, but his German was impressive. Hardly any accent, and enough slang to impress even the most cynical Berliner.

“And will you? Ask nicely, I mean?”

“Only if you continue to make yourself available to us and, of course, to the Swiss authorities as well.”

“Of course. That has always been our intent. It is why my father insists on seeing—”

“Whoa. No more mentions of that name. Understood?”

“Then maybe you could at least tell me yours.”

“You won’t need it.”

“How am I supposed to get in touch?”

“I’ll handle that. I already know you’ll be at the Bellevue.”

“But if there is an emergency, or urgent news, how will I find you?”

The American hesitated, then scribbled something on a customs declaration form and shoved it across the table.

“Call this number. Ask for Icarus.”

“Icarus like the myth? What kind of name is that?”

“The kind you had better keep to yourself. So don’t expect me to write it down, and don’t repeat it. Just remember it, if you ever want me to take your call.”

“Icarus.”

“Don’t wear it out.”

Kurt felt scolded, then was angry for feeling that way. If only his father were here. Reinhard would know how to deal with this brand of insolence.

“In the meantime, stay out of trouble. Let your mother sign your tabs at the hotel and avoid the bar. Too many creeps.”

“Creeps?”

“You’ll see.”

A
ND HE DID.
The very next evening, in fact, when he decided to have a drink. He had arrived the night before, shortly after midnight. He threw himself into bed without even bathing, then slept past noon. When he awakened he ate a huge room-service brunch and luxuriated in a tub of hot water while watching the sediment of his travels settle to the bottom. The American’s warnings made him wary of leaving the room, so for several hours he kept to the family’s suite. He shyly joined his mother and sister downstairs for an early dinner, averting his eyes whenever anyone else looked their way. Afterward he ordered a bottle of claret sent up to his room.

But halfway through his second glass he erupted in anger, cursing his timidity. If the stupid flyboy really wanted his cooperation, then the Americans needed to make sure his father got safely into the country. Until then, Kurt was going to play by his own rules. He stalked angrily from the room and shouted through his mother’s keyhole.

“I’m down going to the bar!”

At that hour, with plenty of light remaining in a fine spring day, the place was practically empty. But no sooner had he ordered a shot of schnapps than four men burst through the door with a loud exclamation in German. Two were dressed in the black uniform of the SS, meaning they were probably Gestapo. Kurt looked away but noticed them nudge each other after glancing in his direction. He swallowed his drink and felt a hand come to rest on his back.

“Herr Bauer?”

One of the Gestapo men had materialized at his side.

“Yes?”

“I am Gerhard Schlang, based at the legation. Welcome to Bern. We’d be honored if you joined our table for a round. With my compliments, of course.”

“Thank you, but I would prefer to remain alone for now.”

“Ah. Rough journey?”

“You could say that.”

“For your father as well?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“So he has arrived, then?”

Kurt said nothing.

“Well, please give him my regards.”

Did they not know his father had been turned away? In that case, maybe Reinhard hadn’t yet been picked up by the authorities.

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

Schlang then startled him by thrusting his face lower, right next to Kurt’s. Beer on his breath, and he lurched a bit. He and his friends must have gotten an early start, Kurt thought. All the more reason to give them a wide berth.