The Arms Maker of Berlin

NINETEEN

The good news was that Nat and Berta reached Berlin without further incident.

The bad news was that Erich Stuckart was dead, according to the microfilmed obituary that Nat had just rolled onto the screen: killed at age twenty-eight in an auto accident in March 1954, only four months after the same fate befell his father. If you believed the conspiracy theories that said the elder Stuckart had been assassinated by vengeful Jews, then maybe Erich had been rubbed out as well.

“Too bad,” Nat said. “He’d have been perfect.”

Berta didn’t seem particularly disappointed, which made Nat suspect she had already been down this trail. He wondered if she had ever searched for the whereabouts of Hannelore Nierendorf, too, and he was tempted to ask. But then he would have had to explain how he’d discovered the name, and that would have ended their partnership. He had already checked the Berlin phone book and found no such listing, although she could have married or moved elsewhere. It irked him that Berta probably knew for sure.

She sat to his left. They had been in the Bundesarchiv for three hours after arriving at Tegel on a morning flight, and neither had yet been willing to let the other out of sight. Nat figured his own wariness was justified, but what was bugging her?

The new dynamic had been evident since breakfast, when they discussed their lodging arrangements for Berlin. Nat had assumed she would suggest they stay at her apartment. Instead, she insisted on a hotel.

“My place is way up in Prenzlauer Berg. We’d spend half our time getting to and from the archives.”

“I just figured you’d want to get back home. Open the mail. Spread out a little.”

“It will be better this way. More efficient.”

They wound up at a small hotel just off the Ku-Damm, a location only marginally more convenient than Prenzlauer Berg.

“One room or two?” the clerk asked.

Nat looked at Berta, then back at the clerk.

“Two.”

Neither said a word as they rode the elevator. The silence continued through most of their U-Bahn trip to Krumme Lanke, the nearest stop to the Bundesarchiv. The ride put Nat in a contemplative mood, and he shared his thoughts as they approached their stop.

“This used to be the stop for the Berlin Document Center, back when the Americans ran it. Remember that old dump?”

“Yes. SS files and Nazi Party records. I guess they’ve all been moved.”

“Just as well. That building gave me the creeps. Like a big bunker in the woods. I felt like I was stirring up evil spirits every time I walked in. They’ve turned it into condos, you know. Amazing anyone could actually live there.”

“Why? It’s a nice location. Right by the Grunewald and near all the lakes.”

“Nice? One of the old air shafts is by a playground now. You can jump off the swing set and look down to the place where they probably sorted Heydrich’s mail.”

“They’ve turned that part into an underground parking garage.”

“I know. The tenants use it, with their baby seats and their BMWs.”

“So?”

“Well, wouldn’t you feel a little haunted, waking up there every morning?”

“I wouldn’t be German if I wasn’t haunted. But all the ghosts are up here.” She tapped her head. “Like a microchip implanted at birth.”

“Not for me,” he said. “In Berlin they’re everywhere, especially when I’m really wrapped up in my work. I know it’s not rational.”

“Well, that part I can understand, at least.”

She smiled, and he returned it. Finally, some warmth.

The train doors opened and they climbed the stairs, emerging into sunlight.

Then along came the moment that, for Nat, changed the complexion of the day. Perhaps it was prompted by the conversation they had just had, or because his mind seemed to be racing in a million directions at once, trying to arrange all that he’d learned into some semblance of order. But for whatever reason he sensed an unsettling presence, a sudden shadow across his thoughts. Except this time the feeling was almost benevolent, as if someone were wishing him well. And he wasn’t in a gloomy archive or at the site of some atrocity. He was simply standing at the entrance to the Krumme Lanke U-Bahn station, awash in sunshine.

“What is it?” Berta asked. “Are you all right?”

He blinked as if emerging from a dream.

“You just had one of them, didn’t you? One of your little hauntings?”

He shrugged. She smiled.

“These spirits, do they ever tell you things?”

“No. And they’re not spirits. I don’t believe in ghosts. But they do seem to arrive with some sort of intent. To help or to hinder.”

“And this one?”

He faced away from her so she wouldn’t see him blush.

“She seemed to think we were doing fine.”

“She?”

“You asked. That’s how it felt.”

But hours later, as they sat in the Bundesarchiv, Nat questioned the accuracy of his reaction, because they were getting nowhere. The Erich Stuckart lead had literally reached a dead end, and the files on Erich’s father, Wilhelm, had offered nothing useful.

“I guess our next stop is Martin Göllner,” he said. “Your Gestapo man.”

“He lives under a different name now. Hans Mannheim. His apartment is in Moabit.”

“You’re certain that he once interrogated Bauer?”

“In late ’43, just as the White Rose was collapsing all over the country.”

“And you know this how?”

“A Gestapo rota sheet that I came across a few months ago. But there was no transcript of the interrogation. It was either destroyed by bombing or looted by the Russians.”

“Or stolen.” By someone like you, he thought but didn’t say. “This Göllner. Or Mannheim, I guess I should say. Hasn’t he already blown you off once?”

“Last month. I was a little aggressive.”

“Imagine that.”

“At least I’m not the one seeing ghosts.”

“They’re not ghosts. It’s a gut feeling.” He wished he’d never told her. “And right now my gut feeling is that it’s 2 p.m. and I’m starved. Let’s try the café across the street.”

“Sure. Maybe your spirit will pick up the tab.”

THE CAFé ZEN WAS A GREEK PLACE in the German style, meaning the dishes were bland, and most of them tasted the same. Nat ordered a gyro, and had eaten about half and spilled about a quarter when his cell rang. He answered guiltily, figuring it was Holland, whom he still owed a call from the day before.

“Dr. Turnbull?”

“Speaking.”

“Willis Turner, in Blue Kettle Lake. What’s your ten-twenty?”

“Berlin.”

“Wow. Good signal.”

“Aren’t you up kind of early?”

“It’s eight thirty, and I had an important question. That German gal you were working with, any idea how to get ahold of her?”

“Maybe. Why?” He gave her a glance and took another messy bite of gyro.

“I’m beginning to think Gordon Wolfe really was murdered, and as of now she’s my only suspect.”

The meat caught in his throat. He looked away from Berta and swallowed hard, while trying to maintain a normal tone of voice.

“How could that be possible?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. It might be nothing. But there are some things that don’t add up, so how ’bout letting me know if you happen to run into her?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, and you had asked about that anonymous tip, the one on the boxes?”

“Yes?”

“The call came from a little B &B just up the highway. Their only guest that night was a Christa Larkin of New Jersey. Ring any bells?”

“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. Göllner’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.”

GöLLNER’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 brassy 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 assessed 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 passport and campus ID. A lie, but he knew from experience that big titles often carried weight with ex-Nazis.

Mannheim-Göllner 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 Göllner.”

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

“I’m not familiar with this Göllner 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. Göllner 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-Strasse, 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 circumstances…”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a transcript?”

“Of course, but you said-”

“What I 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.”

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

“Exactly.”

“Wise of you.” Not to mention potentially helpful for Göllner 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 assure 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 circumstances. I can assure 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 Göllner’s reach.

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

Göllner 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 cocky young boys playing at spies, like Emil and the Detectives.”

The skin prickled 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 snatched 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 Göllner.

“Icarus was an American, correct?”

Göllner nodded.

“Describe him.” Nat handed over the second fifty.

“He walked with a limp. A war wound. Wore a bomber jacket. One of those bastards 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,” Göllner said, “but Icarus said his handlers wanted to know if Bauer did. So I gave him what I had.”

“Sold it, you mean.”

Göllner 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 pissing on their rivals’ choices. Meaning sometimes they had to clean the piss off a few of their own.”

“And you think Icarus was cleaning the piss 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,” Göllner 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 Göllner had peddled.

“What did Icarus pay for this document?”

“The most valuable thing he had to offer. A new identity.”

“That’s how you became Hans Mannheim?”

“There were a lot of people looking for that fellow named Göllner. Some of them were fairly important. I decided Göllner would be better off dead, figuratively speaking, so Icarus agreed to make him go away.”

“And what did Icarus say, once he’d seen the transcript?”

“No more. Not until I have received full payment for the transcript.”

“How soon can you have it?”

“Tomorrow. Sixteen hundred hours. And do not try to follow me to it. I am old, but I still remember my training, and I still have friends.”

“Sixteen hundred hours, then. I’ll be here.”

“One other thing. Two of you came in downstairs. Who’s the other one?”

Now how the hell did he know that?

“A colleague. She’s waiting on the landing.”

“If it’s that obnoxious hippie woman from the Free University, then I know how you found out my name. Bring her with you tomorrow. I have been avoiding her for two years, but now there is some information I want from her. It’s mandatory, part of my price. People have been poking around here lately, and I think she may be responsible.”

“What kind of people?”

“Tomorrow. Just bring her.”

Berta was waiting just outside the door. The music from next door was still loud enough that she couldn’t have overheard their conversation, even with her ear to the keyhole. Just as well. He had already decided not to tell her about Gordon’s visit in 1945.

“Success?” she asked.

He glanced back, wondering if Göllner was watching through the peephole.

“Outside.”

Nat checked the building entrance for a security camera but didn’t find one. Maybe Göllner had been watching from his window.

“Well?” she asked.

“He’ll have a copy of the transcript tomorrow at four. He wants ten thousand euros.”

“Greedy bastard!”

“If it’s everything he claims, it will be worth it. He says three people lost their lives as a result. I’m assuming he was referring to members of the Berlin White Rose.”

“Only three?”

“Isn’t that enough for you?”

Then he realized what she meant. Her Plötzensee fact sheet listed four fatalities. But one had simply been listed as “killed.” Göllner must have been referring to the executions. Of course, Nat couldn’t make that point, nor could Berta make hers, without either of them revealing their deception.

“Where will we get ten thousand euros?” she asked.

“I’m betting he’ll settle for half as a down payment.”

“But even five thousand is a lot. For me, anyway.”

“I’ll take out a cash advance on my plastic. It’ll probably max out my credit cards, so you’re welcome to chip in. Especially if you want to share the material.”

Her mouth dropped in surprise.

“You’re as bad as him,” she said. “I’ll have to check with my bank.”

“Maybe we should take care of that now, separately. We could probably use an afternoon off from each other. We can meet tonight back at the hotel. Deal?”

Berta gave him a searching look, but nodded. She seemed a little hurt, and it bothered him until he recalled what Willis Turner had said. She turned on her heel and strolled away without a further word. Nat watched her for a block. Then he turned in the opposite direction, rounded the nearest corner, and hailed a cab.

“The Free University in Dahlem,” he said. “History Department, on Koserstrasse.”

It was time to find out more about the real Berta Heinkel.