Had she bullied the staff? Demanded to see the manager? Asked for Sabine by name? And what had she told them about herself and her curious mission? For that matter, what was Nat going to say? All he remembered from his previous visit was a wary chambermaid, eyeing him over a stack of towels.
There was also Holland to worry about. The FBI agents in Florida had doubtless discovered by now that he was gone, and although he technically hadn’t broken any laws, he had certainly disobeyed a direct order. The delays had given them plenty of time to track him down. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find federal agents waiting in Zurich.
To make matters worse, he hadn’t slept at all during the flight. By now he must look like hell. He vowed to shave and brush his teeth at the first opportunity, or else he might scare away the staff of the Hotel Jurgens before he even made his pitch.
And what, exactly,
Nonetheless, he was anxious and excited as he cleared customs. There was no sign of anyone waiting for him, and no one seemed to be following as he moved briskly toward the airport Bahnhof to catch the next train to Bern.
The hotel was only three blocks from the station, so he walked straight there. His laptop and camera equipment hung from one shoulder, his overnight bag from the other. The luggage was heavier than it should have been, thanks to Gordon’s box of keepsakes, still tucked between his shirts. Stupid to have brought it, perhaps, especially since by now he had memorized its contents. He was beginning to feel like a Shakespearean witch with a bagful of charms and amulets. Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog. The luggage straps cut painfully into his shoulders, and he paused to rest. Then he heaved everything back into place, rounded the curve, and saw the modest red sign for the Hotel Jurgens just ahead on the right. Blood rushed to his fingertips. He didn’t pause again until he had shoved awkwardly through the door and stood before the front desk.
This time, a pleasant-looking man in his sixties was there to greet him. The fellow looked strangely familiar, which was worrisome.
“Do you have a reservation?” the man said, eyeing Nat’s luggage.
“I’m afraid not.”
“In that case, you are in luck. We have just had a cancellation.”
“Actually, I’m not here for a room. In fact, I’m not quite sure where to begin. Maybe I should just ask if anyone named Sabine Jurgens is still associated with this hotel?”
The deskman cocked his head.
“May I ask your name, please?”
“Nathaniel Turnbull.”
The fellow broke into a grin. He raced breathlessly around the partition and thrust out a hand in greeting while Nat clumsily dropped his bags to the floor.
“Dr. Turnbull! But of course! I am Bernhard Jurgens. We have been expecting you. Your assistant indicated you would be here by noon, so we were beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong. I hope your journey was not too stressful?”
“My assistant?” Nat had a sinking feeling about this.
“Yes. Miss Larkin? She presented your letter of introduction.”
Christa Larkin. Berta’s alias.
“And did, uh, Miss Larkin do any work on my behalf while she was here?”
“She spoke with my mother, and said that you would probably wish to do the same. We then entrusted to her care the parcel which Mr. Wolfe sent us some months ago, with instructions to hold it for you. She signed for it, thanked us very graciously, and took it upstairs to her room. She said she wanted to rest until you arrived.”
“She’s here?”
“Of course. My mother would not have been very comfortable giving her the parcel if she had simply taken it away into the streets. Although both of us are certainly curious to learn what is inside. As was Mss Larkin.”
“Yes, I’m sure she was.”
“She asked me to phone her room when you arrived. Shall I do that now, or would you rather check in first? You will be staying with us for the night, I hope?”
“Uh, sure. But why don’t you go ahead and phone her?”
The deskman nodded and went back behind the counter.
Surely it was too good to be true. Nat kept telling himself that as the old fellow punched in the number. He watched with resignation as the deskman’s expression slowly changed to one of puzzlement, then disappointment, while the phone rang and rang.
“She doesn’t seem to be answering. Perhaps she is a very sound sleeper. Or maybe she is in the shower.”
“Do you have a rear entrance?”
“Yes, but that is only for use after closing hours.”
“Maybe we should go up there.”
A look of concern crossed the deskman’s face.
“Surely you don’t think that-I had better phone my mother. She lives around the corner.”
“What’s the room number?”
“Three-ten. But, please, wait.”
Sure. What was another five minutes when Berta had probably been gone for hours? By now she might even be in Berlin, already writing up her results for some scandal sheet, or one of the less reputable historical journals. He saw it all clearly now, every reason for why she had become so driven. She had pursued Bauer a bit aggressively, and he had retaliated by digging up her Stasi file, which pushed her off the deep end. Her search then became a ruthless quest of personal vengeance, nothing more. She was determined to ruin Bauer just as he had ruined her. Nat felt soiled just by being a party to it, and now his bumbling had allowed her to succeed. It was not a result worthy of his calling, and certainly not of Gordon’s legacy, which would perhaps also be ruined as a result. Sickening, really, now that he saw everything so plainly. He sagged into an easy chair in the lobby while the deskman punched in another number, and for the next several minutes he was lost in thought. The chase had finally done him in.
“Sir? Dr. Turnbull?”
It was the deskman, leaning over him like an orderly in an emergency ward.
“My mother is on the way. Shall we go upstairs now?”
Looking closely at the man’s face, he again noted the odd familiarity of the features. And that’s when everything clicked into place, striking him like a splash of cold water.
“Your mother’s name is Sabine, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, I thought you understood that.”
“And you were born in, what, 1945?”
“Yes, the last year of the war. How did you know that?”
Because you were the crying baby on the bench, he almost said. The one held by the sad young Sabine as she turned away in misery from Murray Kaplan, all those years ago in the streets of Bern. This old fellow, Bernhard, staring at him with such concern, was the son of Gordon Wolfe. Same eyes, same forehead, same ears. Nat also recalled the pseudonym that Gordon had used to rent the storage locker in Baltimore: Gordon Bernhard. Another bread crumb dropped along the way.
“Are you all right, Dr. Turnbull? Can I get you something? You’ve had such a long journey.”
“I could use some water. Anything without caffeine.”
“I shall fetch it this instant.”
As he watched Bernhard hustle back around the counter, the door opened and a sweet voice called out his name.
“Dr. Turnbull?”
It was Sabine, wrinkled and a little stooped, but clear-eyed and trim, and flushed with health. Like an aging
