The Arms Maker of Berlin

scheme, doing a favor for a Cold War source. Now you could visit his headstone at a local cemetery, where an urn of ashes was stored in a small vault. Nat wondered if the irony of using a crematorium as a stage prop had enhanced Stuckart’s satisfaction with the ruse. A whole new life, and he didn’t even have to change his monogram.

In fact, he’d barely changed his neighborhood. Hohengatow was just across the Havel River from the Grunewald. Sail four miles downstream and you could dock at his father’s old villa on the Wannsee. A few blocks farther and you’d be at the house where the Wannsee Conference was held. Talk about balls. It was the one detail that had finally convinced Nat that Berta’s story must be true. Because who would ever make up anything so bizarre: that a fellow so desperate to escape his past would nonetheless settle just upstream from the site where his father had earned eternal infamy as an architect of Hitler’s Final Solution.

“Nice house,” Nat said to Berta, as they watched Stuckart shut the door behind him.

“He still has the family’s old motorboat. It’s considered a vintage model now.”

“You say he slammed the door in your face?”

She nodded.

“Hard to believe you only tried once. By your standards that’s practically sane.”

“He threatened me with the police.”

“Well, I’ll threaten him with the CIA. Or better still, the New York Times. You wait here.” They had already agreed he would go it alone, even though she was still pouting about it. “Don’t worry. I take very good notes.”

“As long as you’re willing to share them.”

“Here’s something else I’ll share. Gollner wants to see you when we go back this afternoon. He seems to think you have something to do with the people who’ve been poking around his place lately.”

She frowned and wrinkled her nose.

“I work alone. You should know that as well as anyone.”

Nat watched her reaction carefully. She seemed genuinely puzzled by the accusation. Good. Also, to his relief, no one had followed them on the drive out to Hohengatow. The lonely road had been quite empty at this early hour. Qurashi’s death must have left the Iranians shorthanded.

“Well, you can take that up with Gollner. At least this time he’ll let you in the door. Now if I can just get Stuckart to do the same for me.”

Nat stepped into the chilly rain.

Stuckart answered his knock. Even at his advanced age, his resemblance to photos of his father was striking-the long face, the narrow, sloping nose, the undersized mouth, the wide-awake eyes, like those of a lurking owl, watching for prey. There was a calmness to his demeanor that was hard to reconcile with the monstrosities he had engineered. But, no, Nat reminded himself, that was his father’s doing, not the son’s. No real guilt here, except by association. As far as he knew.

“Herr Schmidt?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Dr. Nathaniel Turnbull, a historian from the United States. I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time?”

The door was already closing. Nat put his foot forward like a pushy salesman and held out his hands. He wasn’t usually so aggressive, but he wasn’t often this close to such valuable memories.

“I’m aware of your real identity, so that’s not an issue. I have no wish to make it public knowledge.”

Stuckart pushed harder and raised his voice.

“If you please, sir. I have nothing to say to you and I never will.”

“I haven’t come to ask about you. It’s about Kurt Bauer.”

This at least made him stop shoving the door against Nat’s foot.

“Look,” Nat said, “just let me tell you exactly what this is and isn’t about.”

Stuckart let go of the door, but didn’t back away. He was breathing heavily. Nat dropped his hands to his sides, but kept his foot in place.

“Whatever you tell me will go no further than my notebook,” Nat said. Stuckart began shaking his head. “Unless-” Nat raised a finger in warning. He felt like a bully, but what the hell. No matter how young Stuckart had been during the war, he had nonetheless been a Nazi, and from the looks of his house he was still living off the bounty of his father’s high rank. “Unless you choose not to speak with me. In which case I know quite a few other historians who would love to know where you live and what your real name is. There are also a few journalists who would find the story of your so-called death quite amusing, although I doubt your friends in law enforcement would care for the publicity.”

“I did nothing! I was a damned boy, and I only wish to be left in peace.”

“I understand. And Kurt Bauer was only a boy, too. But he’s not anymore, is he? And he has gotten to keep his name without ever having to disappear.”

Stuckart shook his head. He still looked exasperated, but he backed into the hall.

“Fifteen minutes. No more.”

He led Nat to a sitting room. A tiny woman with white hair and sparkling blue eyes peeped around the corner from the rear. She looked terrified.

“It’s all right, Marlene. No need to phone anyone. Why don’t you take Snowflake for her walk?”

A white toy poodle, immaculately groomed, showed its face at the mention of its name. The woman called after it and the two of them disappeared. Stuckart remained on his feet as they listened to the jangling of a leash, the click of tiny paws on a tile floor, the back door opening and shutting. Stuckart then settled into the middle of a grand old couch and glared at Nat.

A lot of old money was on display here-mostly in heavy oil paintings from the nineteenth century in gilded frames. Mounted high on a far wall was the head of a stag, flanked by fierce-looking boars, tusks shining in the gloom. Nat wondered if they had been killed in the Grunewald. Stuckart’s father had almost certainly held conversations beneath their gaze as well, perhaps even with Hitler, and almost certainly with Himmler. Bad spirits galore. The glass eyes of those dead beasts had witnessed it all.

“You disapprove of me living this well, don’t you?” Stuckart said. “I can tell by the way you look at everything. Your smug superiority. Well, let me tell you something, I am not afraid of your threats. I, too, have friends in the news media, and certainly with the police. If you fail to keep your word, you will hear from them, and for a long time.”

“It sounds like we have an understanding, then. In that case we should begin.”

Nat took out his notebook.

“You and Bauer. You were school chums, correct?”

“In fact, we are still friends. Not everyone is so narrow-minded as some people.”

“What was he like then?”

“The same as now. Smart. Sober. A careful man who decides what he wants and then goes and gets it. He also knows the value of loyalty. We both do. In fact, if you really want to talk about Kurt Bauer, it would be much more productive to speak with the man himself. I am sure he would be quite happy to arrange an appointment.”

“Maybe. Although I’m told he isn’t too eager to discuss the war years.”

“Of course not. No German knows how to have that discussion properly. Not anymore, because everyone has already made up their minds about how to feel about you. Before you even say a word they decide what you must have been like, and their judgment is always final.”

“Let’s not talk about Germany, then. What about Switzerland in the summer of ’44? You and Kurt were in Bern, weren’t you?”

Stuckart eyed him carefully and said nothing. He reached into his shirt pocket for a lighter and a pack of West cigarettes. The lighter chirped, and he inhaled deeply.

“Yes. We were in Bern. But we hardly saw each other. We were too busy for fun by then. Too preoccupied. I might have seen him in passing once or twice, but that was all.”

A lie, of course, but Nat decided to save his ammunition and revisit the question later. No sense pissing the old man off just as he was warming up.

“Preoccupied with what?”