The Arms Maker of Berlin

Round one to the opposition, whoever he was. And last night’s bout, he now realized, had gone to Berta by technical knockout. She had maneuvered Nat into a corner of his desires and knocked him senseless. He had been stupid to drop his guard. For all he knew, she might even be working with the fellow who had just disappeared.

Even more worrisome, the next round would be staged in Berlin-Berta’s home, Bauer’s home, and, to Nat, a city of almost spectral power, haunted by millions.

He had better start being more careful, and soon.

NINETEEN

The good news was that Nat and Berta reached Berlin without further incident.

The bad news was that Erich Stuckart was dead, according to the microfilmed obituary that Nat had just rolled onto the screen: killed at age twenty-eight in an auto accident in March 1954, only four months after the same fate befell his father. If you believed the conspiracy theories that said the elder Stuckart had been assassinated by vengeful Jews, then maybe Erich had been rubbed out as well.

“Too bad,” Nat said. “He’d have been perfect.”

Berta didn’t seem particularly disappointed, which made Nat suspect she had already been down this trail. He wondered if she had ever searched for the whereabouts of Hannelore Nierendorf, too, and he was tempted to ask. But then he would have had to explain how he’d discovered the name, and that would have ended their partnership. He had already checked the Berlin phone book and found no such listing, although she could have married or moved elsewhere. It irked him that Berta probably knew for sure.

She sat to his left. They had been in the Bundesarchiv for three hours after arriving at Tegel on a morning flight, and neither had yet been willing to let the other out of sight. Nat figured his own wariness was justified, but what was bugging her?

The new dynamic had been evident since breakfast, when they discussed their lodging arrangements for Berlin. Nat had assumed she would suggest they stay at her apartment. Instead, she insisted on a hotel.

“My place is way up in Prenzlauer Berg. We’d spend half our time getting to and from the archives.”

“I just figured you’d want to get back home. Open the mail. Spread out a little.”

“It will be better this way. More efficient.”

They wound up at a small hotel just off the Ku-Damm, a location only marginally more convenient than Prenzlauer Berg.

“One room or two?” the clerk asked.

Nat looked at Berta, then back at the clerk.

“Two.”

Neither said a word as they rode the elevator. The silence continued through most of their U-Bahn trip to Krumme Lanke, the nearest stop to the Bundesarchiv. The ride put Nat in a contemplative mood, and he shared his thoughts as they approached their stop.

“This used to be the stop for the Berlin Document Center, back when the Americans ran it. Remember that old dump?”

“Yes. SS files and Nazi Party records. I guess they’ve all been moved.”

“Just as well. That building gave me the creeps. Like a big bunker in the woods. I felt like I was stirring up evil spirits every time I walked in. They’ve turned it into condos, you know. Amazing anyone could actually live there.”

“Why? It’s a nice location. Right by the Grunewald and near all the lakes.”

“Nice? One of the old air shafts is by a playground now. You can jump off the swing set and look down to the place where they probably sorted Heydrich’s mail.”

“They’ve turned that part into an underground parking garage.”

“I know. The tenants use it, with their baby seats and their BMWs.”

“So?”

“Well, wouldn’t you feel a little haunted, waking up there every morning?”

“I wouldn’t be German if I wasn’t haunted. But all the ghosts are up here.” She tapped her head. “Like a microchip implanted at birth.”

“Not for me,” he said. “In Berlin they’re everywhere, especially when I’m really wrapped up in my work. I know it’s not rational.”

“Well, that part I can understand, at least.”

She smiled, and he returned it. Finally, some warmth.

The train doors opened and they climbed the stairs, emerging into sunlight.

Then along came the moment that, for Nat, changed the complexion of the day. Perhaps it was prompted by the conversation they had just had, or because his mind seemed to be racing in a million directions at once, trying to arrange all that he’d learned into some semblance of order. But for whatever reason he sensed an unsettling presence, a sudden shadow across his thoughts. Except this time the feeling was almost benevolent, as if someone were wishing him well. And he wasn’t in a gloomy archive or at the site of some atrocity. He was simply standing at the entrance to the Krumme Lanke U-Bahn station, awash in sunshine.

“What is it?” Berta asked. “Are you all right?”

He blinked as if emerging from a dream.

“You just had one of them, didn’t you? One of your little hauntings?”

He shrugged. She smiled.

“These spirits, do they ever tell you things?”

“No. And they’re not spirits. I don’t believe in ghosts. But they do seem to arrive with some sort of intent. To help or to hinder.”

“And this one?”

He faced away from her so she wouldn’t see him blush.

“She seemed to think we were doing fine.”

“She?”

“You asked. That’s how it felt.”

But hours later, as they sat in the Bundesarchiv, Nat questioned the accuracy of his reaction, because they were getting nowhere. The Erich Stuckart lead had literally reached a dead end, and the files on Erich’s father, Wilhelm, had offered nothing useful.

“I guess our next stop is Martin Gollner,” he said. “Your Gestapo man.”

“He lives under a different name now. Hans Mannheim. His apartment is in Moabit.”

“You’re certain that he once interrogated Bauer?”

“In late ’43, just as the White Rose was collapsing all over the country.”

“And you know this how?”

“A Gestapo rota sheet that I came across a few months ago. But there was no transcript of the interrogation. It was either destroyed by bombing or looted by the Russians.”

“Or stolen.” By someone like you, he thought but didn’t say. “This Gollner. Or Mannheim, I guess I should say. Hasn’t he already blown you off once?”

“Last month. I was a little aggressive.”

“Imagine that.”

“At least I’m not the one seeing ghosts.”

“They’re not ghosts. It’s a gut feeling.” He wished he’d never told her. “And right now my gut feeling is that it’s 2 p.m. and I’m starved. Let’s try the cafe across the street.”

“Sure. Maybe your spirit will pick up the tab.”

THE CAFe ZEN WAS A GREEK PLACE in the German style, meaning the dishes were bland, and most of them tasted the same. Nat ordered a gyro, and had eaten about half and spilled about a quarter when his cell rang. He answered guiltily, figuring it was Holland, whom he still owed a call from the day before.

“Dr. Turnbull?”