The Arms Maker of Berlin (4 page)

But he had other ways of seeking her out. Concentrate hard enough and he could place himself back in the organ loft of that medieval church in Dahlem, on the frigid afternoon just before Christmas, in 1942. He was there now, treading a creaky stair while voices murmured nervously in the old wooden pews below. Seditious talk that had thrilled even as it terrified. No one had yet seen him, and he hesitated. It would have been so easy to just wait them out and then turn for home, not yet a name on their dangerous list. Maybe his father was right about these people. Sure, the government was insane, and without a doubt the leader had flipped his mustache. But this was treason, all the same. Betrayal.

Then, peeking through the slats of the stairway, he spotted Liesl sitting in the back, her valiant face in profile, as inspiring as sunlight through the leaves of an enchanted beech. And at that moment he was sure the risks were worth it, or at least that
she
was worth it. So he continued down the steps, no longer taking care to be silent, until a face or two in the back looked up and saw him, and nodded at his arrival.

A short while later she stood and made her speech while all of them watched in admiration. Even Bonhoeffer, the pious old meddler whose martyrdom had made history, had been impressed with Liesl. You could see it in his eyes whenever he spoke to her, his instant recognition that she possessed a grace and wisdom well beyond her years.

Climbing aboard this memory, Kurt drifted deeper into his subconscious, and within seconds he, too, might as well have been out there on the clouds in a place no one could reach, not even his smug little associate in Kreuzberg.

In his mind’s eye he now watched himself at age seventeen, leaning forward in the straight-backed pew while Liesl spoke. The seat was uncomfortable, built centuries earlier, and the old Kurt no longer felt the downy softness of his pillow. Instead, a knot formed in his back, the pew creaked, and he heard Liesl’s voice very clearly. As he listened, the sound transported him even further back through time, another entire year, to that charmed night when he stood beneath a grand chandelier, a glass of champagne in hand, and first saw her, standing on the opposite side of the room. A starched collar chafed at his neck, but he didn’t mind, because the girl whose name he didn’t yet know had just opened her mouth in joy and surprise, and the sight took his breath away.

The young Kurt smiled. The old Kurt did the same. Then both Kurts listened, enraptured, as her laughter filled the room.

FOUR

V
IV WRAPPED NAT UP
in a huge hug the moment he came through the door. Neil had agreed to wait in the car to delay the inevitable letdown.

“You’re a prince for coming.”

“No, I’m not. How’s Gordon?”

“Sleeping, I hope. I guess we’ll find out. He doesn’t even have his meds.”

“Meds?” This was new.

“Digitalis, for his heart. He’s old, Nat. Too old to be treated this way.”

So was Viv. Her stiff gray hair was all over the place, and her eyes were red from drinking or crying, maybe both. She wore leather mocs and a white terry-cloth robe stained with bacon grease. Her weight was up, yet she still looked frail. She was a wreck.

“Tell me what happened.”

She poured a mug of coffee and they sat in the kitchen. He wondered nervously when Neil would barge in. He’d asked for five minutes, but doubted he would get them.

“It was one big cock-up. Oh, Nat, what am I thinking? Let me fix you breakfast.”

“Keep your seat, Viv. Just talk.”

She paused, plucking at nails already torn to the quick.

“We’d been down to Sparrow Lake for dinner. A new Italian place. Dreadful. I had to drive on the way back, three guesses why. When we came through the door, well, I pretty much told you. They were in here like the Gestapo.”

“FBI people?”

“Five of them. And they still haven’t charged him. Left that to the local yokel, some Barney Fife who said he was arresting Gordon for theft.”

“Wait. He’s not in federal custody?”

“That’s why the arraignment’s local. But you’d never know from all the manpower. I’ve got an agent in the living room, one in the sun-room, and two out in the drive. They’ve been in the car all night, drinking coffee and running the engine. The fumes go straight up into the bedroom, but they don’t care.”

Neil Ford walked in, and another agent approached from the opposite direction. He was the one who spoke first.

“Dr. Turnbull? Glad you could make it.” He thrust out a hand. “Special Agent Clark Holland. We’ve got plenty of work for you. Thanks for delivering him, Agent Ford.”

Viv looked back and forth, whipsawed. She put a hand to her mouth like she’d just seen a horrible accident, and she stood uncertainly. Nat reached across the table to steady her, but she backed away, wobbly with sudden rage.

“I wanted to tell you first, Viv. They called right after you did.”

“Guess you never got over being the prodigal son.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sure, Nat. I see
exactly
how it is.”

He looked to Holland, but the agent was no help.

“If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Wolfe, I’d like a word in private with Dr. Turnbull.”

“Private. My own damn house and
he
wants privacy. Well, he’s all yours. I’d ask for a ride into town later, Nat, but I guess you’ll be going with them.”

“I’d be happy to take you. I’ve got my own car.”

Holland shook his head.

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” he said.

“See? They already own you.” She set off down the hall.

“Let’s talk later, Viv.”

“Sure, Nat,” she called over her shoulder. “Whatever you fucking say.”

Holland smiled uneasily and took Viv’s seat.

“She’ll get over it. Once she learns what you’re here for.”

“What
am
I here for? Agent Ford wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

“The short version is that we appear to have recovered some old intelligence files that have been missing for quite some time, stuff collected by the OSS in Switzerland, from ‘43 to ‘45. We’d like you to confirm the provenance and summarize the contents.”

So it was true, then. They’d found the mother lode, Gordon’s long-sought treasure. And for the next few days Nat would have it all to himself. For all the awkwardness of the setup, the news was electric.

“What we’re asking shouldn’t take long,” Holland said. “Quick and dirty.”

“Slow and steady would be better. You could do quick and dirty yourselves. Have you informed the National Archives? They’ll want to know right away.”

“Of course. They wanted to send one of their own people, but we preferred you.”

“Let me guess. Too proprietary for your tastes? These things technically belong to the CIA, you know. That’s where the archives will send them.”

“Like I said, speed is important. I’m sending you off to freshen up and get a bite to eat, then you can get cracking. We’ve booked you at a B&B if you want to shower and shave. Our treat, of course.” Then he stood, ready to roll.

“Okay if I have a quick look at the boxes first?”

The agent glanced at his watch.

“I suppose. This way.”

Nat’s anticipation built as they strolled toward the sunroom. Four narrow boxes—gray cardboard with metal corners—were stacked on a coffee table, awash in morning sunlight. They had flip-top lids like the ones on cigarette packs.

“Do you mind?” Nat said, reaching for the nearest.

“Go ahead. They’ve already been dusted.”

Nat saw smudges from fingerprint powder. The corners were dented, as if the boxes had been handled roughly.

“Were they stacked this way when you found them, two on top of two?”

Holland nodded.

“Then whoever put them here either didn’t know how to handle this kind of material or didn’t care. Meaning it definitely wasn’t Gordon.”

“His prints were all over them.”

“Maybe the prints are old. Even if he was drunk, he’d know better. They shouldn’t be stacked now, either. Or sitting in the sun.”

Nat knew how fragile this stuff could be. Many records from World War II were printed on cheap stock, high in acid. Even medieval parchment was sturdier. Another few decades would turn these papers to dust. They were probably as brittle as autumn leaves already.

Holland, cowed into silence, watched as Nat reverently pulled open the lid. The smell was of rotting cellulose, and he could have sworn there was also a whiff of coal smoke and Alpine air, an essence of Bern from those distant years when so much was at stake.

He gently thumbed a few folders, checking the labels. Already he saw snatches of writing in German. Despite his weariness from the overnight ride, being in the presence of such extraordinary material had cleared his head, and in that moment it occurred to him why the FBI must be insisting on “quick and dirty.”

“You’re looking for something specific, aren’t you?”

“You could say that.”

“Care to tell me now? That way I can be thinking about it over breakfast.”

Holland hesitated.

“Ever heard of a student resistance group called the White Rose?”

“Sure. They’re famous. A German director made a movie about them more than a decade before
Schindler’s List
, just when everybody was working up an appetite for tales of ‘good Germans.’ Led by Sophie Scholl, the pretty college student from Munich, and her older brother Hans, who fought on the Russian front. Cranked out a bunch of anti-Nazi pamphlets along with their friends until the Gestapo rounded everybody up. Hanged or beheaded, most of them. The Brits got hold of one of their pamphlets and dropped a few thousand copies out of a propaganda bomber, but that was about as far as their influence went. Unless you happen to believe the whole Berlin mythology.”

“Berlin mythology?”

Was it his imagination, or had Holland flinched?

“There were five or six White Rose cells besides the main one in Munich. The pamphlets found their way to maybe a dozen cities, and the Nazis arrested enough suspects for at least five trials. But no records of any trials or arrests in Berlin have ever turned up. Meaning that either the paperwork was blown to smithereens or there wasn’t any to begin with. And whenever you get a vacuum like that, well, people take liberties. Some of the resulting theories have been a little fanciful, to say the least.”

“Fanciful?” Holland seemed to brighten.

“Tying the White Rose to Dietrich Bonhoeffer, for example, the famous resistance cleric, not to mention the subject of my first book. Bonhoeffer was involved in the bomb plot against Hitler. You know, von Stauffenberg and the exploding briefcase.”

“I take it you don’t believe in those connections?”

“Only in the vaguest sense. Bonhoeffer knew a White Rose contact—that’s been established. And maybe there was a meeting or two in a church, like-minded friends talking things over, that sort of thing. But I’ve never believed in any material connection, no. And certainly the Berlin White Rose—if it even existed—never did anything of note.”

“Then I suppose that’s something you can keep an eye out for, this whole Berlin question. Two days should be sufficient, don’t you think?”

“Possible. But—”

“Good. All I needed to hear.”

“One other thing, before you send me to breakfast.”

“Yes?” Holland was halfway across the living room.

“I promised I’d attend the arraignment. Vouch for Gordon’s character, if necessary.”

“No objections, as long as you don’t get too chummy. It’s at nine. We’ll be there, too. But if you speak to him, use absolute discretion concerning anything we’ve discussed. That goes for everyone you deal with. Family, colleagues, even the waitress at the diner.”

“National security, huh?”

He was expecting a laugh, or at least a smile. Holland offered neither.

A half hour later Nat emerged from the world’s weakest shower to bump his head on a sloped ceiling. FBI agents had taken all the rooms with tubs and canopy beds, leaving him an attic space that would have once been called a garret. He threw open the curtains on a tiny gabled window. A few townspeople were out and about, their breath clouding in the chilly morning air. He spotted his next destination just down the block, a diner where the windows were fogged with steam.

Ten minutes later he slid into a booth while a waitress poured coffee. No sooner had he opened the menu than two of the agents took the next booth down and nodded hello. Was this how it would be from now on—watched and herded until the job was done?

They followed him to the arraignment, too, three blocks to the so-called courthouse at the end of town. It was a converted body shop, just as Neil Ford had said. Someone had whitewashed the cinder-block walls, but faint lettering underneath still boasted of tune-ups for $39.95. Wood-grain paneling was tacked over the old garage doors, and orange carpeting had been rolled onto the concrete slab. Church pews of varnished mahogany provided the seating—five rows on either side of a center aisle. Holland was already seated on the left, along with the two agents from the diner. No one had turned on the heat, so everyone was keeping their coats on. Nat took a seat near the front on the opposite side.

The judge’s bench was a plain desk and a folding chair, flanked by flags. On the back wall was a calendar advertising the local Shell station, presumably the one owned by the judge and the town cop. Nat was prepared for entertainment. Gordon could be wittily combative even when sober, and who knows what he might say in this tinhorn setup.

A new arrival took a seat on Holland’s side. A woman, early thirties, blond and attractive. Nat guessed she was a reporter, or had come for another case. Something about her was unmistakably arresting. It wasn’t style or polish. If anything, she looked like she’d had a rougher night than Nat. Her hair stood out like Viv’s, and her clothes were frumpy—brown corduroy pants, a bulky white peasant blouse, no coat. Part of the attraction was her heart-shaped face, classic features in all the right places. Full lips were set in a determined pout, smoldering or ultra-serious, depending on your interpretation. But what really set her apart was her eyes. Deep brown, bright and alert, they broadcast a beacon of needful intensity. Even in repose, she was a woman of urgency.

A door opened up front. In came Gordon, followed by a policeman who took him to a chair on Nat’s side of the room. He looked pretty good, considering. Red-nosed but clear-eyed, and he had shaved. He studiously ignored Nat.

The judge followed, tall and ungainly, late fifties. He shrugged on a black robe over jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. No shave for him, and Nat could have sworn there were toast crumbs in his stubble. Just the sort of fellow you could imagine shaking his head and saying, “It’s only a busted hose, but we gotta pull the engine.” He sat at the desk and cleared his throat just as Viv entered from the rear and took a seat a few rows behind Nat.

“Looks like everybody’s here,” the judge said. “I’m Darrell Dewey, and over there by the flag is Officer Willis Turner. Welcome to the town court of Blue Kettle Lake, State of New York. We are now in session.”

He glanced at some papers.

“What’ve we got, Willis, two cases?”

“A drunk and disorderly from guess who, along with the celebrity professor.”

Dewey peered down his nose at Gordon, who smiled at the description.

“And where is our friend Mr. Wellborn—now there’s a contradiction in terms. You gonna bring him out now, or wait till we’re done with this one?”

“His wife brought breakfast. He’s still eating.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet. Then let’s get to it. The case of Ashford County versus Gordon Wolfe. I take it you’re Professor Wolfe?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice was clear, strong.

“Lawyered up?”

“Don’t need to.”

Dewey raised his eyebrows and looked around, as if someone might volunteer.

“You might want to reconsider. Especially since it’s my understanding that certain federal authorities—your peanut gallery over there—have taken a keen interest.”

“Need one even less as long as they’re involved.”

“Your business. And mine is to set bail. Officer Turner has requested, presumably at the urging of
others”
—he glanced theatrically toward the federal contingent—”that bail be set at half a million.”

Viv gasped. Gordon smiled.

Dewey continued, “Frankly, I can’t do that in good faith on a simple possession of stolen goods charge, which as far as I can tell from the paperwork is all we have at this point.”

“Go ahead, Your Honor,” Gordon said, looking far too confident for his own good. “Won’t bother me. I don’t intend to pay no matter what the amount.”