The Arms Maker Of Berlin Part 33

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 s.h.i.+pping 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 compet.i.tor. 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.

Nat was irritated about oversleeping, but he was also refreshed, and for the first time in days his mind was lodged firmly in the twenty-first century. His thoughts were of anything but n.a.z.is, or even Germany. Instead, he wondered if Karen's grades had come in, if the Wightman police had yet recovered his phone, and whether he would still be welcome on campus if his current work dismantled what was left of Gordon Wolfe's legacy.

A call to Holland was overdue, but Karen was who he really wanted to talk to. Alas, it was 2 a.m. in the States, and even she wasn't that much of a night owl. So he brewed a cup of instant coffee while watching television, feeling lonely and far from home.

Then his phone rang. Karen's number popped onto the display. Serendipity.

"Hi! I was just-"

"Dad! He's in the house!" She was breathless.

"Who is? Where are you?"

"Someone broke in. I heard him downstairs, so I climbed out the window, onto the roof above the porch. Now I'm in the yard, but I can see him in your study. He's looking for something."

"Jesus, Karen! Call 9-1-1."

"I did. The police are coming, but I'm scared. He's at the window now. OmiG.o.d, I think he sees me!"

"Get out! Now. Run to a neighbor's, or down the street. Go!"

"He's opening the window! He's coming!"

"Go, Karen! Just go!"

The call ended. Nat was frantic for more. He dialed back and got a recording, Karen's cheerful voice asking him to please leave a message. His imagination filled in the blanks, and in his mind's eye a man who looked like Quras.h.i.+ chased the barefoot Karen across a dewy lawn while the neighbors slept, oblivious. The man grabbed a hank of her hair and wrestled her through the backyard to his car in a rear alley, while the cops pulled up cluelessly out front and s.h.i.+ned flashlights at an empty house. Nat saw an equipment bag on the backseat, unzipped. Electrodes and a blowtorch.

He tried the number again with no success. Then a third time. Nothing but the maddening recording, Karen's voice so full of youth and optimism. And here he was, jaded old Dad, unable to raise a finger because he was off in Berlin, dabbling in someone else's history while his own needed him so urgently. For want of a nail. Posterity would deem him a no-show in this disaster, a failure to his daughter. d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, and d.a.m.n. And where were the feds? d.a.m.n Holland and his promises, and d.a.m.n himself.

Nat paced the tiny room. He banged his fist on the wall and cursed loudly. He needed fresh air, but he didn't dare leave for fear his cell phone would lose its signal in the hall or the elevator. Three minutes pa.s.sed without a word. Then four, then five. He considered calling his ex-wife from the room's bedside phone, but he couldn't face that yet. He was too certain of her reproach, and knew he deserved it.

Eight minutes. He tried Karen's number, knowing he would never again be able to bear listening to this recording if the worst came to pa.s.s. He couldn't even stand it now.

"This is Karen," she chirped. "Please leave your name at-"

"Call, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" he shouted.

Someone in the next room pounded on the wall for silence.

"f.u.c.k off! Call. Please just call." call."

Nine minutes.

Then his phone rang, her number on the display.

"Karen?"

A man's voice: "Dr. Turnbull?"

"Who is this? Where's Karen?" In his panic, Nat imbued the man's words with a heavy accent and the worst of intentions.

"This is Sergeant Wilc.o.x, Wightman Police. Your daughter's fine, and the suspect is in custody. Would you like to speak to her?"

"Yes." The clouds lifted. The storm pa.s.sed. Nat exhaled with something between a laugh and a sob. "Put her on, please."

He sank with relief onto the narrow bed. For the moment, history had decided to give him a pa.s.s.

TWENTY-SIX.

NAT DIDN'T CALM DOWN until two hours into his flight across the Atlantic. A call from Holland an hour after the break-in hadn't exactly helped matters. until two hours into his flight across the Atlantic. A call from Holland an hour after the break-in hadn't exactly helped matters.

"Where were your men?" Nat asked right away.

"We had just canceled the detail. When a week pa.s.sed and no one came poking around, we figured they must not be interested. If it's any comfort, it was your papers they wanted. They weren't after Karen."

"I guess that's why he came through the window, chasing her."

"He thought she was a nosy neighbor. He didn't even know anyone was home."

"What are you, his attorney?"

"Look, I'm sorry. We screwed up, but it worked out. We even got your phone back. Any way you look at it, it's another player off the board."

"But how many are still on it?"

Silence.

Nat hung up before Holland could ask for an update. The news of his trip to Florida could wait. Holland's German surrogates were probably still following him anyway.

Karen, at least, was now safely accounted for. Nat had asked Viv Wolfe to take her in for the rest of the evening, and Viv had seemed grateful to have someone else's needs to attend to.

"Just keep her away from Gordon's cognac," he said. "On second thought, maybe she could use a shot. I've talked to her mom. She'll come by for her at noon."

"Susan, you mean? As in, your ex-wife and the woman I've known for twenty years?"

"Yes, Susan. Karen will be staying with her in Pittsburgh till I'm back for good. Hopefully with some better G.o.dd.a.m.n security."

"You never should have relied on those people, Nat. Not that they've stopped keeping an eye on me, of course. Every time I go to the bank it's like a presidential motorcade."

Karen, for her part, tried to act like the whole thing had been some wacky summer adventure. But Nat wasn't fooled. She was even too fl.u.s.tered to come up with an appropriate verse-although not for lack of trying. As she spoke by phone from the back of a police cruiser, Nat was amazed to hear her turning pages of a book.

"Did you actually take The Complete Poems The Complete Poems with you when you left the house?" with you when you left the house?"

"It's the one thing I had time to grab before I jumped out the window."

"Next time try for a butcher knife."

He finally mastered his own emotions about the time the stewardess brought his second complimentary drink-he had upgraded to business cla.s.s, figuring the FBI owed him at least that much. But his day never quite got back on track. When he landed in Miami he discovered that his connection was canceled and another flight wasn't available for hours. He didn't pull into the parking lot of the Sea Breeze Motor Lodge in Daytona until almost midnight. Jet-lagged, he then slept until 10 a.m.

He awoke to realize that the room was a bit more depressing than he'd bargained for, with rust spots and torn wallpaper. At least there was a balcony with a sliding door to let in the salt breeze and the sound of the breakers, and when he flipped back the curtains there were no lurking Iranians or prying lawmen. Just him, alone with his rattled nerves and a lingering sense of foreboding.

Or so he thought until he left for breakfast.

Standing on the breezeway was Berta Heinkel, smoking a cigarette and wearing an unseasonable sweater. She spoke before Nat could recover from the shock.

"What time are you going to see him?" she asked.

"How long have you been here?"

"Since seven. Answer my question. When is your appointment with Murray Kaplan?"

"How in the h.e.l.l do you know that name? When did you fly over? How'd you even know where to find me?"

"Like you said, I am a woman of many talents. I simply put one of them to use. Haven't you wondered why your laptop is so sluggish?"

It took him a few seconds to add it up.

"Jesus, what did you do, put something on that farewell e-mail?"

"A spyware program that sent me your keystrokes. But at least I have the decency to tell you. I'll even clean it out for you. Interested in breakfast?"

Amazing. She was better than either the FBI or the ham-handed Iranians. And as he watched her trying to maintain her coolness, he couldn't help but have mixed emotions. Sure, he was angry. But he also pitied her. She looked tired, beleaguered. The cloud of cigarette smoke lent her features the wispy grayness of an apparition, some Euro ghost far removed from its usual haunts. He was beginning to understand why, now that he knew more about her background as a zealous teen. She had been duped by the state into believing that snooping was not just okay but a civic duty. Then her grandmother had died before she could apologize, or maybe even before she realized that she should should apologize. Bad enough to have done that at all, much less having it revealed to all your West German colleagues. And now she was broke, homeless. Yet here she was anyway, ready to resume the chase. apologize. Bad enough to have done that at all, much less having it revealed to all your West German colleagues. And now she was broke, homeless. Yet here she was anyway, ready to resume the chase.

"Well? Are you hungry or not? And I really will fix your laptop for you. But only if I'm allowed to sit in on your talk with Kaplan. I'm following you out there, either way, so you might as well let me."

Nat shook his head, half in amazement, half in exasperation.

"C'mon, then. The appointment's at noon. We'll talk about it while we eat."

The best they could do was a Denny's, but at least it wasn't crowded. And was it his imagination or was the fellow at the next table the same guy he had just seen back at the Sea Breeze? At least he wasn't Middle Eastern, and there was certainly no law against eating at the same place as another motel guest. Maybe he was an FBI tail. Or maybe Nat was just getting paranoid.

Berta left to use the washroom, and Nat took the opportunity to phone Willis Turner for an update. He got a recording instead, and when he started to leave a message the tape ran out. Typical, he supposed, but it left him a little unsettled. Mickey Mouse town or not, Turner didn't seem like the type who went very long without checking in.

"Hand me your laptop," Berta said as she slid back into their booth. He hesitated. For all he knew, she would install something even more intrusive. "You can watch, if you like. Maybe you'll even learn something."

He took her up on the offer and moved to her side of the booth, looking over her shoulder as she worked. He was mildly unsettled to find that he still found it arousing to be this close, bunched up against the softness beneath her sweater.

She tutted at the state of his security software.

"You're about three years overdue for an update. You made it way too easy for some snoop to get in."

You should know, he thought, wondering again what must be in her Stasi file. Their eggs arrived just as she finished, and he moved back to his side of the table with a sense of relief.

"Tell me the background on Kaplan," she said.

"Don't you already know?"

"All I learned from your keystrokes was that you Googled his name and made travel arrangements to come see him. In that sense, I suppose I am still at your mercy."

He considered telling her nothing and then asking the Kaplans not to let her in. But a scene like that would probably scare them off.

"He was an OSS man in Bern. All I know is that he worked with Gordon in s.h.i.+pping the records. If any funny business went on, maybe he'll know."

Shortly before noon they drove out to Candalusa, Berta following Nat in a rented red Chevy. Kaplan's house was long and low, white stucco and jalousie windows, with a carport at one end. They headed up the sidewalk, scattering a gecko. A short, lively woman with gray hair in a bun answered the door. Looming behind her was a tall, paunchy fellow with a slight stoop. Both were tanned to the point of leathery.

"Doris Kaplan," she said. "And this is Murray. Oh, there are two of you!"

"Nathaniel Turnbull. And this is Berta Heinkel, my, um, graduate a.s.sistant."

"So you want to talk about Gordon Wolfe," Murray said. "I had a feeling somebody might be calling about him as soon as I saw his obit. We used to live in New York, and still get the Times Times. This is about those records, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah. Mostly."

"I've been telling Murray for years he ought to get this stuff off his chest," Doris said.