The Arms Maker Of Berlin Part 24

"Sounds familiar, but-"

He stopped, remembering now. It was Berta's alias, the one on her fake ID at the National Archives.

"You still there?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Drawing a blank. Sorry."

"Well, let me know if it comes to you later. And Dr. Turnbull?"

"Yes?"

"If you do happen to see Berta Heinkel, keep your distance. I'm guessing she's more dangerous than she looks."

"Good advice."

They hung up.

"Who was it?"

"University business. Excuse me a second. Need to use the men's room."

He crossed the floor and shoved open the door. He splashed his face and toweled off while he stared at the fool in the mirror. Don't panic, he told himself, and don't jump to conclusions. For one thing, how could Berta have gotten into the jail, much less found a way to induce a heart attack? Both possibilities seemed so unlikely that he began to calm down. And it wasn't as if Turner was the world's smartest lawman.

But the call reinforced something that had already been preying on his mind: Before he took another single step alongside Berta Heinkel, he had better check further into her background. He had felt that way to some degree ever since finding such scant evidence online. Now those feelings had real urgency. Fortunately, he was in exactly the right place to follow up. But first he would have to act as if nothing had happened, which wouldn't be easy. When he went back to the table he stared at his plate, tongue-tied, and when Berta touched his arm he flinched.

"Easy. It's me, not a ghost. We'd better get going. Gollner's not getting any younger, and enough people have died on us already."

"Funny how that keeps happening."

"What do you mean?"

He looked her in the eye, wondering if she was actually capable of such a thing.

"Nothing. Let's go."

GoLLNER'S, or rather Mannheim's, neighborhood in Moabit had seen better days. His building, just across the street from a small, scruffy park, looked like a place where the tenants were barely hanging on. Peeling paint. Smudged windows. Pigeons on the eaves and windowsills. You had to be buzzed in for entry, so they waited until an old Turkish man in a skullcap came out the door, and they slipped inside. The nameplates on the dented mailbox told them Mannheim was on the fifth floor. The stairwell smelled of disinfectant and rot. The walls were sprayed with graffiti.

Nat knocked at Mannheim's door. Berta waited on the landing of the floor below, explaining that she hadn't gotten such a great reception on her previous visit. The bra.s.sy commotion of a Bavarian oompah band-music you rarely heard in Berlin-emanated from a stereo system across the hall. It sounded like Oktoberfest in full swing.

"Who is it?" A man's voice, scratchy but strong. Nat addressed him in German.

"My name is Professor Doctor Nathaniel Turnbull. I am here to see Hans Mannheim."

An eye appeared at the peephole. A lock slid back, and the door opened to the limit of a security chain. A stooped old fellow with pale blue eyes silently a.s.sessed Nat. He wore a black wool overcoat and thick house slippers, and even with the stoop he was well over six feet. The steamy smell of boiled sausage and potatoes emerged through the crack.

"Your credentials, please."

"Chairman of the Department of History," Nat said, handing over his pa.s.sport and campus ID. A lie, but he knew from experience that big t.i.tles often carried weight with ex-n.a.z.is.

Mannheim-Gollner handed everything back.

"My apologies, Professor Doctor, but I don't wish to address matters of the past."

"Perfectly understandable, considering what you must have lived through in 1945 and beyond. But it's not your past, per se, that interests me. Not even as it relates to an old friend of yours, Martin Gollner."

Mannheim flinched, but didn't shut the door. If anything he seemed more interested.

"I'm not familiar with this Gollner fellow you speak of."

"That's fine, because I'm seeking information on others. People who have not yet been held accountable to the degree that Mr. Gollner has."

"All the same. How did you learn of his name?"

"Research. But no one else seems to know, and I don't intend on telling anyone."

Mannheim squinted at him for several more seconds. Then he shut the door, slipped off the chain, and opened the door wide.

"You have three minutes to make your case."

And Nat was betting the old Prussian wouldn't need a watch to keep track. The fellow ushered him in. Nat glanced around at a small kitchen and the remains of a late lunch. The living room window was propped open to let in the raw air. His host took a seat on the couch and gestured toward a straight-backed wooden chair directly opposite. It was small and wobbly, very uncomfortable, which of course put Nat at a disadvantage. Just like old times on Prinz-Albrecht-Stra.s.se, he thought.

"My apologies if I interrupted your mealtime."

"State your business. You now have two minutes, twenty seconds."

"Kurt Bauer, the industrialist. You interviewed him once, when he was young."

"Seventeen. And, yes, it was an interview, just as you say. Not an interrogation. He came to us voluntarily. I tell you that for free, only because it should be established before we proceed any further."

"Absolutely."

"However, at the present time I don't have the proper materials at my disposal for discussing the matter fully."

"Proper materials?"

"The interview transcript."

"It was my understanding the transcript no longer exists."

"Correct. The original and all official copies were destroyed in early '45. You have only your air force to blame."

"In that case, I'm willing to settle for your best recollection."

"Then your work habits must be very sloppy. Perhaps I shouldn't speak with you."

"But under the circ.u.mstances ..."

"Wouldn't you prefer prefer a transcript?" a transcript?"

"Of course, but you said-"

"What I said said was that the original and all official copies were destroyed. But in those days careful employees kept unofficial copies anytime a case was politically sensitive." was that the original and all official copies were destroyed. But in those days careful employees kept unofficial copies anytime a case was politically sensitive."

"Such as a case involving the son of a prominent arms merchant, for example."

"Exactly."

"Wise of you." Not to mention potentially helpful for Gollner after the war, especially if he ever wanted to ask a favor from some prominent German who might have left behind a dirty little secret. "I'll be glad to wait while you retrieve it."

"That is not so easily accomplished. It is in a secure location. And, as you might imagine, there are expenses involved with retrieval. You would need to defray the cost."

"Within reason, of course."

"Ten thousand euros, payable tomorrow."

Nat rocked back in the undersized chair, nearly toppling it.

"I said within reason."

"I can a.s.sure you that is quite a bargain, Professor Doktor. This was not just any interrogation. As a result of it, three people lost their lives. Besides, I have cut the rate considerably, a measure necessitated by my rather desperate circ.u.mstances. I can a.s.sure you that a previous buyer paid far more, although at that time even a few packs of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate was considered something of real value."

"Previous buyer?"

"Does that aspect interest you as well?"

"A little. Maybe even fifty euros worth."

"A hundred."

"Eighty."

"A hundred. Last offer."

Nat grimaced and reached for his wallet. He plucked out two fifty-euro notes and held one of them forward, just out of Gollner's reach.

"I need a name for the first fifty. Details of the transaction get you the second fifty."

Gollner fidgeted and narrowed his eyes.

"There isn't a name, as such. Those fellows never gave them. They worked in codes and aliases, a bunch of c.o.c.ky young boys playing at spies, like Emil and the Detectives." Emil and the Detectives."

The skin p.r.i.c.kled at the back of Nat's neck. He knew exactly where this was going, and he waved the euro note like a flag of victory.

"Fifty for the code name. Fifty more for the particulars."

"Icarus."

A wrinkled hand s.n.a.t.c.hed the bill with surprising speed, but Nat didn't mind at all. He was too preoccupied imagining the young Gordon Wolfe trooping between the fallen bricks of bombed-out Berlin to track down stray rats like Gollner.

"Icarus was an American, correct?"

Gollner nodded.

"Describe him." Nat handed over the second fifty.

"He walked with a limp. A war wound. Wore a bomber jacket. One of those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who'd blown this place to cinders. He was working for the OSS, part of their 'White German' operation. I know more about him, too, but that will also cost you."

Nat wondered what that meant, but he didn't have enough cash on hand to find out. Not yet, anyway. Besides, the transcript was more important. He was quite familiar with the White German operation. It was a Dulles pet project during the occupation, and his staff had begun laying the groundwork in Switzerland. Its object was to identify German clergymen, professors, businessmen, politicians, and scientists who were untainted enough to form a core leadership for a new non-communist Germany. If you happened to be versed in the nascent fields of rocketry or nuclear physics, your chances of inclusion were even better, even if a little cleaning was required first.

"There was no way I was going to make the grade," Gollner said, "but Icarus said his handlers wanted to know if Bauer did. So I gave him what I had."

"Sold it, you mean."

Gollner shrugged.

"It was a seller's market. Between them and the Russians, everyone was choosing from their lists of favorite Germans, and of course both sides enjoyed p.i.s.sing on their rivals' choices. Meaning sometimes they had to clean the p.i.s.s off a few of their own."

"And you think Icarus was cleaning the p.i.s.s off Bauer?"

"Of course."

"So you sold him the copy but still kept another one for yourself."

"In case the Russians ever came calling."

"Did they?"

"No. But now you're here. I'm just as happy to do business with another American."

"This first transaction, where did it take place?"

"This very room."

The hairs on his neck rose again. Who needed spirits when you had this kind of proximity? The scuffed floor, the plaster walls, the view of the park through the old window-they were probably virtually the same as when Gordon had come. Even Nat's chair was old enough that Gordon might have used it.

"It was a respectable building then," Gollner said. "No Turks. Just a lot of Germans without enough to eat. War widows. People who knew how to earn an honest living."

Yes, an honest living. Like interrogating people to within an inch of their lives and then turning a profit from the transcripts, selling dirt on your countrymen for ten thousand euros a pop. Nat wondered how many other transcripts Gollner had peddled.

"What did Icarus pay for this doc.u.ment?"

"The most valuable thing he had to offer. A new ident.i.ty."

"That's how you became Hans Mannheim?"