be just fabulous if sometime in the next day or two you could actually wrap things up.”
“Not likely. I’m not even close.”
“I was guessing you’d say that. But maybe now you see the urgency, if only from a selfish point of view.”
“You’ve driven home the point well enough. Maybe too well.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I was the wrong choice for this job. I teach and I do research. Sometimes I even deal with administrators and tenure committees. But that’s as risky as it gets in my line of work. Iranian thugs with blowtorches are more than I bargained for. For me or for my daughter. Hire Berta. She’s crazy enough to finish the job, and she probably knows a lot more than she’s letting on. Better still, you don’t even have to hire her. Just turn her loose and put a tail on her. That way you won’t have to pay her expenses.”
“Sorry, Nat, but you’re our man. Once you’re in, you’re not out until we say so.”
“You make it sound like the Mafia.”
“The Mafia pays better, and plays for lower stakes. With Bauer, we’re talking about a man whose little black book could help someone build the world’s next nuclear weapon.”
“What if I quit anyway?”
“There are things called tax laws, passport rules, travel restrictions. Do you really think you could get very far in your work with us opposing you at every turn?”
“I’m glad you’ve decided to play fair.”
“And I’m glad you mentioned Berta. She’s next on the agenda. Neil, did you load the video?”
Neil called out from the next room.
“Yes, sir. Ready to roll.”
Holland picked up a remote and gestured toward a TV in the corner. The screen flickered to life. Static and snow gave way to a grainy image with a time signature.
“That’s the Baltimore storage facility where the boxes were. You’ve already seen the video of Gordon. Our analyst concluded you were right. He seemed to be carrying something beneath his pants. This footage is from the same day a few hours later, right after the power outage. The alarm system is computerized, and even though backup power kicks in immediately, the system takes a few minutes to reboot. Whoever knocked out the line must have known that. But the surveillance cameras never lapsed. Watch closely. This first shot is from the rear of the lot.”
Ghostly images of traffic whizzed past on a highway just behind the fence. Then a dark form appeared, climbing over a Jersey wall from the highway. The form threw a stiff tarpaulin over the barbed wire and then scaled the fence. Someone with decent agility, reasonably young, but not very tall. Wool cap, dark clothes. Smudged face, probably greasepaint.
“Now we move to the camera in the hall, outside the locker.”
The figure passed just below and headed straight for the door. Even through the loose contours of the sweatshirt Nat could tell it was a woman, the same way a baggy peasant blouse hadn’t hidden all her curves the first time he saw her in the courtroom.
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“So you finally recognize her?”
He could only nod. Over the next few minutes Berta proceeded to pick the door lock and haul away all four boxes, toting them to the back of the lot without having to pass the front entrance, where the deskman would have still been on duty. She dropped them into the bushes from the top of the fence. He cringed. No wonder the corners were dented. Nat felt like he had been punched in the chest.
It made sense, though, after what he had learned from Christian Hermann, not to mention Willis Turner. And it was easy to see what must have happened next. Berta had flown into a rage when she realized Gordon had removed the most important folders, so she took out her frustration by planting the boxes at his summer home and then phoning the police. Getting him arrested gave her free rein to look for his hiding place. Perhaps she was counting on the pressure of an arrest to make Gordon spill the beans. Or maybe she had killed him, to keep that from happening. Either way, her next step would have been to seek help from the one expert who knew Gordon best: Nathaniel Turnbull.
Nat doubted she had counted on any competition from the Iranians. Unless, as Holland suggested, she was working with them. If so, then who was Willis Turner working for?
Holland turned off the television.
“I guess this means I need to ditch my partner,” Nat said. “You were right. It was a bad idea.”
“Actually, I was going to suggest you stick with her a while longer.”
“You really do think I’m nuts.”
“ ‘Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.’”
“An FBI man quoting the Godfather-that’s a new one.”
“Actually it’s originally from Sun Tzu, a general in ancient China. But still good advice, especially when someone is holding out on you. I suggest you threaten to quit, like you were just doing with me. You can even tell her I showed you this little video.”
“What if she still doesn’t tell me what she’s got?”
“Just try it. And Nat?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to check in. Each and every day. After tonight, I’d say you owe me.”
For once, Nat agreed.
BERTA WAS WAITING for him in the deserted hotel lobby. She didn’t look happy.
“How’d it go at the bank?” Nat asked.
She shrugged, noncommittal.
“Well, I’ve been thinking. We seem to have accomplished just about all we can as a team. Maybe after tonight it would be better to go our separate ways.”
She was aghast.
“But I have the money for Gollner. And I can get more if you need it.”
“Keep it. The money’s not important. Besides, Gollner doesn’t want to see you.”
Nat hadn’t yet told her that the opposite was true.
“That’s not fair! I took you to him, and I still have other leads!”
“Like what?”
“Well, leads from the interrogation transcript, once we have it.”
“Fine, then I’ll pursue them on my own. I speak German. You act like I’ve never done this before. So unless you’ve got something more to offer-”
“But I do have more!”
“Then tell me. Right now.”
For a moment she said nothing. Her inner struggle was evident. She paused, lips pursed, like a spoiled little girl with a big secret, determined to hold her breath until her lungs burst.
“Come on, Berta. Now or never.”
The words tumbled out in a rush.
“It’s Erich Stuckart. He’s alive. And only I can show you where to find him.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Erich Stuckart walked into the rain to retrieve his morning paper from a mailbox marked “Schmidt,” a stooped old man on a soggy lawn. Nat recognized him from the photo in Berta’s portfolio, the one shot he hadn’t been able to identify until now. The two of them watched from across the street through the streaked windshield of a rental car. Nat had picked it up that morning expressly for this trip.
The way Berta had explained it the night before, Stuckart had faked his fatal car accident with the help of a Munich policeman. Another cop had let her in on the secret. Supposedly West German intelligence was in on the
