like this. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.
“Pills? What are you talking about?”
“Ask Willis Turner.”
“I didn’t kill Dr. Wolfe. I could never kill anyone. You’d know that if you really knew me.”
“I don’t think I’m willing to take the risk of really knowing you. Turner and Holland would be happy to take your offer, though. Why don’t you call them?”
“When did you talk to them?”
“Does it matter?”
His cell phone rang.
“That’s one of them now, isn’t it?” she said. “I guess you’ve missed your time to report in on me. Like an informant.”
“You should know. You’re the one with the Stasi file.”
She slapped him, hard, then turned away just as her face dissolved into tears. He had expected the anger, but not this. She sobbed as his phone rang again, but as he stepped toward her she broke into a run, coat flapping, just like Gollner’s must have done as he sailed to his death. Let her go, he told himself. Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted?
The cops were watching the dustup with interest, so he turned in the opposite direction to take the call. The screen showed that it was from a blocked number.
“Nat?”
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 shipping 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 competitor. 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 Nazis, 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. Omigod, 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 Qurashi 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 shined 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. Damn, damn, and damn. And where were the feds? Damn Holland and his promises, and damn 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 passed 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 pass. He couldn’t even stand it now.
“This is Karen,” she chirped. “Please leave your name at-”
“Call, goddamn it!” he shouted.
Someone in the next room pounded on the wall for silence.
“Fuck off! Call. Please just call.”
Nine minutes.
Then his phone rang, her number on the display.
“Karen?”
