The Arms Maker of Berlin

THIRTY

All hopes of overtaking Berta evaporated as Nat’s plane idled on the runway in Frankfurt. A one-hour delay had already turned into three. Now something else had apparently gone wrong.

Cell phone use was banned on the taxiway but calling ahead to the Hotel Jurgens would make little difference now. Berta had probably gotten there as early as eight thirty this morning, and it was now one in the afternoon. Even after arriving in Zurich he would have a train to catch, meaning he would be lucky to make it to Bern by five. If there was anything to be found, she would have found it, although he did wonder what sort of approach she must have used at the hotel, given her usual lack of tact.

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, was his pitch? Hi, I’m looking for Sabine Jurgens, because I’m convinced my old dead mentor sent her some valuable documents, and I know this because he left behind a matchbook with the name of this hotel. For all the certainty he had felt while sitting in Murray Kaplan’s Florida room, he was having plenty of second thoughts. For all he knew, the Hotel Jurgens was now owned by some impersonal hospitality conglomerate, or the Russian mafia.

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 farm girl in a meadow, or, perhaps, for the sake of historical accuracy, more like a busy waitress at an Alpine retreat. He stood to greet her, beginning to feel like himself again as he took her hand in his.

“I’m here for Gordon,” he said.

“Yes, I know. It is a pleasure to at last meet you, after all that Gordon has told me.”

A terrible thought occurred to him.

“Are you aware that Gordon is, well…”

“Yes,” she said. “We heard the news last week.” She lowered her eyes and gently released his hand. “A terrible blow. But seeing as how it has been years since I’ve actually seen him, well… Ours was not exactly an ordinary relationship.”

“No, I don’t suppose it was.”

“Had he told you much about me?”

Nat shook his head.

“Nothing at all. But I’ve been finding out a few things the last week or so. Enough to lead me here.”

She frowned, seemingly puzzled.

“He did not leave specific instructions for you to come here?”

“Not as such. If you really want to know the truth, I think he wanted to make it a challenge. A test, teacher to student.”

“That sounds like Gordon. He never explained to me when or why you might come here. He just said to give you the parcel if you did, at whatever hour of the day.”

“And now, I’m sorry to say, I might have arrived too late to claim it.”

Sabine furrowed her brow in apparent confusion. This time her son supplied the answer-a bit sheepishly, Nat thought.

“Dr. Turnbull believes that Miss Larkin may have left through the back entrance. She is not answering her phone. We were about to go up and check her room.”

Sabine shook her head disapprovingly.

“You see, Bernhard?”

“I know, Mother. You were right.”

“Bernhard gave her the parcel before I arrived, or I never would have allowed it. But by then she was preparing to check in to her room, and I decided it would be impolite to ask for it back. She did seem very tired, but I’m afraid it was her pretty face that won him over.”

Like father, like son. Because, for all of Sabine’s wrinkles, the contours of past beauty remained. She must have been a stunner.

They climbed the stairs in brooding silence. Bernhard knocked loudly, and there was no answer. He unlocked the door.

The bed was still perfectly made. No luggage was in sight. Through the bathroom door Nat saw that every towel was folded in place on the rack. Even the paper seal on the toilet was unbroken.

“Oh, dear,” Bernhard said. “I am such a fool.”

“But look,” Sabine said. “On the dresser!”

It was a small padded mailing envelope, five by seven inches, the kind you can buy in any U.S. post office. Tape had been peeled back from one end, and a flap was open.

“That’s the parcel,” she said.

Nat was stunned.

“All of it?”

“I don’t know if everything is still inside. But it’s certainly the envelope we’ve been holding for you.”

It was too small. There was no way four folders, or even their contents, could be squeezed inside it. Even Berta must have realized that right away. Maybe that explained her convincing look of weariness. She would have been devastated. Unless, of course, Gordon had somehow shrunk everything to a more manageable size-microdots, for instance, approaching the job as a spy might have.

Nat stepped to the dresser and reached inside the envelope. There were two pieces of paper, that’s all. On the first one he recognized Berta’s handwriting. It was a note on hotel stationery, scribbled only hours ago:

We have come for nothing, as you can see. But to once again prove my good intentions I have decided to let you share in the bounty of our disappointment. I still have my own leads to pursue, and will be willing to share them if you are willing to share your own findings with me. I believe that I am not the only one who has been hoarding secrets. If this is your desire, then I suspect you will know where to find me soon, on the fourth day of the new month.

At the Plötzensee Memorial, she meant, when she would presumably be stalking Bauer yet again. She must have realized he had rummaged through her photographs.

He checked the second page. It was typed on an old sheet of onion-skin, just like the stuff in the OSS archives. But it was dated only a few months ago:

Dear Nat,

Given the various neuroses associated with our profession, I suppose you will be trying to read between the lines here for all sorts of hidden meanings. But my message to you is blessedly simple and straightforward: Look no further. Leave the past in the past. Because even when we do our work well, we can only fathom the faintest of outlines of purpose and intent. The rest vanishes forever, and none of our tools can rescue it from obscurity. Rest easy, then. Let Sabine take good care of you during your stay, and please accept my humblest regards, as well as my deepest apologies if you believe that I have led you astray.

Fondly,

Gordon

Nat sagged onto the bed. He handed the page to Sabine, who read it carefully while Bernhard looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed softly. “I assume this is not what you were hoping for.”

“No. Not at all.”

“I will get your bags,” Bernhard said quietly. He practically tiptoed out of the room.

Sabine waited until they could no longer hear his footsteps.

“If it is not too forward of me, may I ask what you did expect to find?”

“Old documents. A bunch of OSS materials. The key to the past for a lot of people. Gordon. Kurt Bauer. You and your son, too, if I had to guess. Am I right in making that connection?”

“Yes,” she said faintly, looking very prim, even a little chastened.

“Does Bernhard know that Gordon was his father?”

She shook her head as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Don’t worry,” Nat said. “I won’t tell him.”

“But I should. And I should tell you about all that happened. But I’m afraid that my version is incomplete, and now there are parts of it that I will never find out. Things that Gordon always kept from me. That’s why I had high hopes for that parcel as well. You wouldn’t believe how many times I nearly opened it to take a peek.”

Bernhard clomped back upstairs with Nat’s bags. Sabine hurriedly wiped her eyes and turned away so her son wouldn’t see her face.

“I am going home for a while,” she announced over her shoulder, her voice barely under control. She paused at the threshold and seemed to gather herself. “Bernhard, please take good care of our guest until I return. I think he would probably like to rest now.”

NAT TOOK A LONG SHOWER, then wrapped a towel around his waist and unpacked his suitcase. He removed Gordon’s box of keepsakes and placed it on the dresser next to the typewritten letter, as if letting them mingle might somehow produce a new and better outcome. He stared at the items in the gloom of early evening and tried to feel something-a presence or a clue, anything that might tell him what to do next.

There was only exhaustion. No spirit call and no flash of inspiration. Just the dead, dull feeling that Gordon was gone forever, silenced for all time.

He lay down on the bed, afloat on weariness and frustration, although Berta’s decision to leave the package behind was oddly touching. He attributed it to the personal nature of Gordon’s note. Even she hadn’t been able to overlook that. Or maybe she simply still wanted his help, having implied as much. Now that they were again at a dead end, he might even consider her offer. Truly, this business of theirs was a shared sickness.

Shutting his eyes, he gave in to jet lag and drifted off. Sleep was dreamless, and it was dark when he awakened. The towel was dry, the room chilly. He was debating whether to dress for dinner or call it a night when the answer came to him, making him sit up so quickly that the bed shook.

It was a moment of sudden insight, much in the way that someone stumped by a crossword puzzle puts it down for an hour and then clearly sees every answer the moment he returns. Nat now realized what he had been missing before, and it was so easy that he laughed.

He stepped to the dresser, refreshed. Then he gathered up Gordon’s letter and the box of keepsakes and took everything back to the bed, too excited now to even consider eating or sleeping. He flipped on the bedside light, and as he reread the letter everything seemed obvious. The key words leaped out like a playground taunt:

Read between the lines… hidden meanings… Look no further. And, then, Gordon’s most obvious hint of all: The rest vanishes forever, and none of our tools can rescue it from obscurity.

Holding the letter at a low angle, Nat peered across it like a landscape and saw that it had a pebbly look, as if it had been moistened and then allowed to dry. He opened the wooden box and took out the bottle of “secret ink powder” along with the folded instructions that Gordon had written just after the war.

He read quickly. If Gordon really had used this stuff, or, more likely, something a lot like it but much newer, then all Nat had to do now was find a fluorescent light to read the hidden message. None here, and none in the bathroom. He was on the verge of racing downstairs when he realized he was practically naked. So he dressed and clattered down to the lobby with his shoes untied, taking the stairs two at a time while shouting for Bernhard.

“Phone your mother! And find me a fluorescent light, quick as you can!”

The devilish old goat, he thought. The damned troublemaker. Still provoking his old student with tricks and challenges, even after death. And thank God he had, or Berta would have gotten everything and run straight to Berlin with her treasure.

Nat could barely contain himself as they waited for Sabine. Bern-hard took him to the back office and switched on a fluorescent desk lamp. The three of them crowded around as Nat held the letter beneath the lamp.

His elation turned quickly to despair as rows of faint characters appeared. It was all numbers and hyphens.

“Well, damn.”

“What is it?” Sabine asked, sidling around for a better view.

“Another of his gags, I guess. See for yourself.”

Sabine gasped and clapped her hands to her cheeks. Then she giggled, sounding a little like the young woman she must have been.

“It’s our old book code,” she said. “I’d swear on it. Unfortunately, I no longer have the book.”

“The Invisible Hangman?” Nat asked. “By Wolf Schwertenbach?”

She put a hand to her heart and nodded, speechless.

“I have a copy upstairs. Your copy. Gordon left it for me. At least now I know why.”

He retrieved it with care and returned slowly down the stairs. With Sabine there to help, their efforts took on a ceremonial air, and he tried not to rush her. She sat at the desk with pencil in hand and a blank sheet of paper, ready to get started.

“It was how we always communicated from afar,” she said, “so that my father couldn’t read our messages.”

He handed her the book.

“We always used page 186.”

She thumbed to the right page, where the dried wildflower was lying in wait. She set the book down and looked away, blinking quickly.

“My old bookmark.” So faintly that he barely heard her. “The one I was using the day we met.”

She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. Then she showed Nat how the cipher worked, and it was blessedly simple. The message was a series of hyphenated numbers-12-09, 23–17, 05–11, etc. The first number in each couplet represented a line on page 186. The second stood for a letter on that line. Twelfth line-ninth letter, and so on. You couldn’t have cracked it without the book.

Sabine worked steadily, pausing only once to wipe away tears.

“I knew there would be memories,” she said, “but I never expected it would be quite like this. This was his gift to me, you know, his way of making sure I would remember him from his best days.”

Five minutes later she was finished. The message made it obvious that, for Nat, there was still more work to be done:

Go to gun shop address. Box stored in your name.

“Something new to figure out,” Sabine said. “I am sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know the address. It’s in Zurich. And, actually, all of this makes perfect sense.”

He wasn’t just being kind. Because even though Gordon was still having his fun, it struck Nat that this was the only way he could have kept the hiding place secure. It was a location that only he-not Berta, not Holland or the Iranians, and not any of Bauer’s old pals or minions-could have discovered. You had to have the book and the box, and, even more important, you needed Sabine’s trust. Even the blunder by Bernhard hadn’t come close to giving away Gordon’s last, best secret. The old man had constructed the perfect labyrinth, tailored for one.

And if Sabine had died before Nat found her? Well, in that case Gordon must not have thought the folders would still be worth finding. Nat figured their contents would soon tell him why.

He made plans to leave for Zurich first thing in the morning on an early train. Bernhard fetched a twenty-three-year-old bottle of champagne from the cellar so they could celebrate the discovery in style. When it was nearly empty, Nat retrieved Gordon’s box and showed them the odd assortment of items. The German officer’s hat took Bernhard by surprise, but not Sabine. She fingered the brim reverently.

“I never thought I would see this again,” she said.

“I was kind of hoping you’d know something about it.”

“He actually looked quite good in it, believe it or not. It was a little unnerving to see him in full uniform like that.”

“Gordon wore it?”

“For that terrible mission we went on.”

“You were with him?”

“Start to finish. A wartime infiltration across the border. All the way to Munich and back.”

Nat’s mouth dropped open. Bernhard’s, too.

“Mother, is this true?”

“Yes. An operation called Fleece.” She turned to Nat. “You’ll see. Or that’s my guess, once you have the documents you’re looking for. We can talk about it more then. I only hope you’ll be able to answer all my questions. Some of it I don’t even want to tell you, unless Gordon chooses to first.”

Nat wanted to know more, of course, but he respected her wishes. Soon enough, he supposed. They shared a simple dinner and another bottle. Then Nat went upstairs while Sabine lingered for a long talk with her son. Already the contents of the box had changed their lives. He wondered how Bernhard would feel about everything in the morning.

Nat slept soundly and woke early in a state of excitement. He shared a quick breakfast with a very quiet Bernhard.

“Your father was a great man, the best in his field,” Nat said.

Bernhard nodded, but said nothing in reply. Obviously this was going to take some getting used to. Nat packed his camera and tripod. He left his laptop and suitcase with Bernhard for safekeeping, but took along his empty laptop bag and set out for the Bahnhof. His spirits were high, but he was wary, and after only a block he began to sense he was being followed. Paranoia? Perhaps. The signs were small but disturbing. A face that seemed familiar, a lingering rearward presence that seemed to stop whenever he did.

On the train the sensation persisted. Averted eyes when he turned. A hastily raised newspaper. They were here-someone was, anyway-and he wasn’t sure he could shake them. Worse, he didn’t know whose side they were on.

He tried a few evasive measures as soon as he reached Zurich, ducking down alleys and into shops, speeding up and then slowing down. None of it seemed to do much good until, by chance, he spotted a place he remembered from one of the OSS documents he had seen in the National Archives. The name, Café William Tell, had stuck with him because Dulles had favored the location for its rear entrance-a door near the restrooms that led to a narrow alley out back. The alley in turn, emptied onto the next block.

Nat played it cool, taking a table and ordering a cappuccino and a croissant. Then he excused himself to the men’s room and ambled casually toward the back. Five minutes later he was free and clear, no one else in sight as he exited the alley one block over from the café. Had he lost them? Maybe. But it was the best he was likely to do. Two blocks later he stood at the door of Löwenstrasse 42, former location of the W Glaser Waffen Shop, the one advertised on the lid of Gordon’s wooden box.

The address was now home to a branch of Zürcher Bank AG, and Nat was among the day’s first customers. He went straight to the information desk, where a young woman in prim glasses and a navy business suit smiled and asked in English what she could do for him. The name-plate on her desk said she was Monique Binet.

Trying to act like he knew what he was doing, he handed her his passport.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle Binet. I am here to check on the contents of a safety deposit box.”

“Please, call me Monique. I shall check the status of your account.”

He held his breath while Monique made a few clicks on a mouse and typed in his name.

“Here we are. Yes, you are the co-holder of the account. I’ll summon the assistant manager, Mr. Schmidt. He will take care of you right away.”

Nat glanced toward the glass door at the entrance. No one appeared to be waiting outside.

Herr Schmidt, grave in manner and portly in build, approached in a charcoal suit and motioned toward the back of the bank, like a maître d’ gesturing toward a prime table. Nat didn’t say a word as they marched down a rear corridor to a small carpeted room with soundproofed walls, a tidy, square table, and a pair of black leather swivel chairs. Herr Schmidt double-checked Nat’s identification and then nodded.

“Please wait here, Mr. Turnbull. I will return in a few moments with your account box.”

Shortly afterward, Monique entered with a silver tray bearing a crystal glass and a bottle of mineral water. Herr Schmidt followed. He carried a long, flat metal box of stainless steel, or maybe titanium. Nat stood, partly out of politeness, but also because he could barely contain himself. The box-a drawer, really-was about nine by fifteen inches, and roughly four inches deep. Herr Schmidt placed it gently on the table, laid a key on top, and turned to go. He paused just before shutting the door.

“Will there be anything else for now, Mr. Turnbull?”

“How much time do I have?”

“As much as you need, sir. We close at four thirty.”

Roughly seven hours. More than enough.

“Thank you. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Nat sighed in anticipation as the door shut. He was so giddy he nearly broke into laughter. Then he checked himself. For all he knew, Gordon had one last gag up his sleeve.

He turned the key and slid open the drawer. No jokes this time. Four gray folders with faded labels stared up at him. Each was fairly thin. Beneath them were two letter-sized envelopes-one new, one old-and some sort of multipage memo, typed in German, with a swastika in the letterhead.

The new envelope was unsealed and bright white, and had Nat’s name on it in Gordon’s handwriting. The old one, yellowed with age, had a Swiss airmail stamp from long ago, and was addressed to Vivian Sherman, on Brady Avenue in Baltimore, MD, USA. It was sealed but not postmarked. Gordon had never mailed it.

Nat set the envelopes and the German memo aside and checked the headings on the folders: “Fleece,” “Magneto II,” “Stuckart, Erich,” and “Icarus Expenses-January 1945.”

It was all here.

He coughed nervously and opened the expenses file, just to see how much was there. There were three sheets of paper, each with columns of numbers and notations, nothing more. Hardly surprising. He shut it and quickly checked inside the other three folders. He was dying to read the contents, especially Fleece, the fattest of the bunch, but he needed to follow his plan to the letter, no matter how great the temptation for detours. If he was sidetracked now he might lose everything, because he was certain that Holland’s men-or somebody else’s men-were out there, probably still closing in.

So Nat pushed the folders aside, positioned his camera on the tripod, and methodically began shooting pictures of every page, one document after another. He didn’t dare stop to read, not yet, although he couldn’t help registering what each set of papers represented-agent reports, planning memos, surveillance logs, a concise dossier on Erich Stuckart and his circle of Nazi friends in Bern, and, in that final memo in German, the one separate from the folders, the transcript of Martin Göllner’s 1943 interrogation of Kurt Bauer. The very one that Gordon had purchased from Göllner in the ruins of postwar Berlin. Pure gold.

When he had photographed everything, he briefly checked a sampling of images for legibility, then ejected the flash drive wafer and inserted a new one. He then repeated the process, making copies upon copies for nearly two hours more.

Finally, with that chore completed, he repacked his equipment and reopened the folder marked “Fleece.” It was thirty-seven pages of black typescript on legal-size paper, stapled in the upper left corner. The lettering was faded but easily legible.

The cover page told him that it was the after-action report of Gordon Wolfe, aka Icarus, as dictated to OSS operative Frederick Loofbourow, or 493, at a time when Gordon still would have been in the hospital, being treated for his wounds. From the little Nat had already glimpsed, he was betting that this, along with Göllner’s interrogation report, constituted the heart of the matter. Or, as Gordon had once boasted, “Live ammunition. Pick it up and it might go off in your hands. Boom!”

Nat poured a fresh glass of water and checked his watch. Still plenty of time.

He began to read.

Live ammunition indeed.