Oddly, that was the final expense report in the file, even though Gordon had kept on working for Dulles for another five months of the war, plus several months afterward in occupied Germany. Had the other vouchers been lost? Removed? Moments later Nat happened upon another possible explanation, in a Loofbourow memo from April 30, 1945, the date of Adolf Hitler’s suicide: “543 has been moved to Mrs. Carroll’s house on Seestrasse. In light of Fleece, I see no further need for his immediate services.”
Was Fleece a source or an operation? Or perhaps something else altogether? Nat looked around for Berta to ask if she had seen any such reference, but she was still getting authorization to make copies. He checked the finding aids with Staley, who had never come across the term. There was no reference anywhere to “Fleece.”
He did find another mention of the “Mrs. Carroll” on Seestrasse, in a message from Dulles to Loofbourow from several years earlier: “Go ahead and rent the space in Zurich from Mrs. Carroll for use in case an agent is ‘traveling black.’”
In other words, the address was a safe house. Meaning they had put Gordon under wraps during the final days of the war. Strange. Switzerland hadn’t been a place where lives were often at risk.
Nat’s thoughts were interrupted by a woman’s shout from across the room.
“Come back here! Turn around!”
He looked up to see one of the librarians pursuing Berta, who was walking briskly toward the exit. The librarian, a tall woman with long arms toned by years of hauling boxes, broke into a run and clapped a hand on Berta’s shoulder. The reading room, normally cloaked in contemplative silence, was instantly abuzz.
“I knew it was you!” the librarian shouted. Nat stood up just as Berta looked toward him, face forlorn. She ducked a shoulder to free herself, but the woman held on.
“Security!” the librarian shouted. “Someone call a guard!”
“Don’t touch me!” Berta shouted, yanking back as the woman held firm. Nat bounded toward them. The librarian’s fingers were making white marks on Berta’s skin. Researchers in every corner stood to get a better view. Others drifted closer like kids toward a schoolyard brawl. Forget the dead voices of history-this was live action.
A security guard hustled into view, keys and handcuffs jangling.
“This one’s a thief,” the librarian said, finally releasing her grip. “Caught her in the act a few weeks ago, and now she’s back. Please escort her from the building, but search her first. Strip her if you have to.”
“Hold it, now,” Nat said. “I can vouch for her.”
“Should I call PG County police?” the guard asked, ignoring Nat.
“Not if she’s clean. Just take her card and kick her out. In fact, take her card now.”
Berta grudgingly handed over her ID and looked sheepishly toward Nat as the librarian read aloud the name.
“ ‘Christa Larkin.’ No wonder you got in. The real name’s Berta something, isn’t it?”
So that’s why she had been keeping her head down. Yet even now her expression was more defiant than shamed.
“I’ll meet you out front,” she said to Nat. He nodded, dumbfounded.
“Not out front,” the librarian said. “You’re leaving the property entirely.”
Nat wanted to challenge that, but the crowd of gawkers had grown, so he watched in silence as the guard led Berta away. Nat waited for the crowd to break up before following the librarian back to the service counter. The Icarus personnel file was still in his right hand.
“Could I have a word?” he said in a low voice. The tall woman abruptly looked up.
“Aren’t you Dr. Turnbull? I’m surprised you’re keeping such disreputable company.”
“Look,” Nat whispered-heads were already turning-“I don’t know what went on before, but I can assure you she wasn’t here today to steal anything.”
“Sure she wasn’t. Why else use a fake ID. Last time she tried to take an entire folder.”
“Maybe it got mixed in with her papers.”
“It was stuffed beneath her blouse, tucked in her jeans. She would have made it, too, if the guard downstairs hadn’t been staring at her boobs. He saw the green cardboard between her buttons.”
“A whole folder?” Her words had knocked the wind out of him.
“Just like the one you’re holding. In fact-”
Her mouth dropped open.
“This one?” he asked.
“For ‘Icarus.’ Yes. It had just been declassified.”
No wonder Berta had been so dismissive of his findings. She’d already seen them. But why steal a file that you could copy? To sell it? Possibly. Or maybe she wanted to make sure no one else ever saw it.
“I should probably take that off your hands, sir,” the librarian said.
“I, uh, need to make some copies first,” he said weakly. Fortunately she nodded.
He headed to his desk before she could change her mind. It now seemed important to get as much done today as possible. By tomorrow who knows what sort of orders would have come down from the archival overlords. He was now guilty by association.
As it turned out, though, the only item of interest for the rest of the day came not in a folder but in an e-mail message from CIA archivist Steve Wallace, who replied to Nat’s earlier request:
“Hi, Nat. Job No. 79-003317B currently too hot to touch. Sorry. As for the four items which I understand you have already seen, I may soon have further info, but only if you’re willing to swap. Watch this space.”
So Steve knew all about the boxes found in the Adirondacks and wanted to arrange a quid pro quo. Nat could live with that. It sounded like there might be high-level disagreement over the handling of these materials, and he wondered why.
HE FOUND BERTA WAITING in the shade of the bus shelter on Adel-phi Drive, well off the premises. She began talking before Nat was even within twenty yards. Perhaps she saw the look in his eye, the one that said this had better be damned good or you’re finished.
“It was all a stupid mistake. I was in too much of a hurry that day. I was desperate.”
“Obviously.”
“My camera was broken, the copy machines were tied up, the place was closing in ten minutes, and I had to catch a flight. I didn’t even have a chance to see if anything was worth copying. My grant was running out and the whole trip was crashing. It was stupid, all right? I was going to mail it back once I made copies. But it wasn’t like there was anything worthwhile. You saw how I reacted when you showed me. I couldn’t care less.”
“Finished?”
She nodded.
“Of course you couldn’t care less, because you’d already seen it. And if it’s so unimportant, then why did you try to make sure no one else would ever see it?”
“It wasn’t like that. I told you.”
“Yes, but you’re a liar.”
Her face creased and she began to cry. He had expected that, but was nonetheless unprepared. Because all of it-her embarrassment, her shame, and now her sorrow-seemed genuine. Maybe her lame explanation was at least partially true. He’d certainly heard sillier tales of misconduct. Researchers did strange things while caught in the grip of gold fever, especially when facing the cruel limitations of closing hours and dwindling grants. Even so, pulling a stunt like that at the National Archives was on another level. It was a place where you were monitored not only by tigress librarians but also by surveillance cameras. You weren’t even allowed to wear a sweater or overcoat, or bring in a bag or briefcase. Every piece of paper from the outside was stamped and inspected upon entering and leaving. Berta’s actions bordered on professional insanity.
“If you don’t believe me, I understand.” She wiped away the tears. “It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
“How’d you get the new ID?”
She fumbled in her bag and showed him a fake New Jersey driver’s license. Christa Larkin, of Hackensack.
“When I came here last week I went to the security station and had them make me a new ID, like I was visiting for the first time. Then all I had to do was avoid that bitch who’d nailed me before.”
Nat would have liked to check the date of her new archives ID to at least verify that part of her story, but the
