TWELVE
NAT’S GREAT HOPES for Baltimore died with the swipe of a card, the turn of a key, and the opening of an iron door. There before him on the concrete floor, looking lost and forlorn in the five-by-five storage locker, was a single item, barely bigger than a fist. It was wrapped in bubble plastic and smothered in tape. Definitely not the missing folders.
Berta said nothing, but Nat sensed an I-told-you-so chill.
At least they hadn’t wasted much time getting there. He had planned on using Sunday to drive Viv back to Wightman for a Wednesday memorial service. She instead decided to wait on her sister, which freed Berta and him to catch a midday flight from Albany to Baltimore. They drove straight to Fairfield, rattling down its potholed lanes among the rail yards and chemical plants of an industrial waterfront. Fittingly, they wound up briefly on Tate Street, where Viv and Gordon had lived after the war. Only one house remained on the block, and it was boarded up. The trail ended at a fenced compound with a “U-Store-Em” sign out front. Nat bounded from the car, but his excitement was short-lived.
“Well, let’s see what it is,” he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
He slit the tape with a car key and unwrapped the plastic. Inside was an old book with a red cloth cover and a German title, Der Unsichtbare Henker (The Invisible Hangman), by Wolf Schwertenbach. Was this the crime novel that had made Viv so jealous? He doubted Viv had been familiar with the author, but Nat certainly was. Wolf Schwertenbach was the pen name of the late Paul Meyer, a Swiss diplomat who during the war opened a secret back channel between the Swiss and German intelligence agencies. He was also an OSS source who met Dulles several times. But none of that seemed to explain why Gordon had gone to the trouble of putting the book into storage.
The publication date was 1933, although this was a 1937 printing. Nat checked inside the front jacket. Sure enough, a girl’s name was penned in cursive in an upper corner, just as Viv had said. “Sabine Keller.”
“Noir pulp by a hack diplomat,” Berta said. “Not even a first edition. You might get five euros for it. Shall we go?”
“Hold on.”
Nat flipped carefully through the brittle pages. No hidden note. No scribbles in the margins. No cryptic inscriptions from the famed author. But on page 186 he found the very wildflower Viv must have seen. Crushed yellow blossom, bent stem. Nothing special, like edelweiss. Just a buttercup plucked from a field. He left it in place, feeling that somehow Gordon would have preferred that.
“Shall we go?” Berta repeated.
“Let’s see who’s on duty.”
They walked to a small office. A big fellow with a buzz cut and a weight lifter’s build looked up from a cramped desk behind the counter.
“Would you be Matt Boland?” Nat asked, using the name from the business card.
“That’s me.” He seemed surprised to actually be speaking with a customer.
“Do you keep records of customer visits?”
Boland shook his head.
“For some people that’s half the point. You’re not a cop, are you?”
“I’m here for a friend. So you have no way of knowing when somebody would have last visited locker 207?” Nat held up the key and swipe card.
“If that key belongs to you, wouldn’t you know?”
“It was a colleague’s. He died yesterday.”
“Sorry.”
“His name was Gordon Wolfe. Ring a bell?”
“Can’t say it does.”
“Have you got the paperwork for 207?”
“How do I know you didn’t steal that key?”
Nat pulled out the FBI letter of introduction and placed it on the counter.
“Maybe this’ll help.”
“You said you weren’t cops.”
“We’re not. Let’s just say we’re working on contract.”
“Is this some kind of terrorist thing?” Boland was getting into the spirit of things.
“Something like that.”
“Cool. Why didn’t you say so?”
Boland crossed the room to a set of gray drawers, where he retrieved a yellow invoice.
“What’d you say the name was?”
“Gordon Wolfe.”
“Wrong guy.”
“With an address in Wightman, Pennsylvania? 819 Boyd Circle?”
Boland glanced down.
“Yeah. Home phone?”
Nat rattled it off, and for good measure recited the number for Gordon’s cell.
“Three for three. In that case, who the heck is ‘Gordon Bern-hard’?”
“Bernhard?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Hold on a second. I’ll be right back.”
Berta sighed with impatience while Nat went to the car. He returned with one of Gordon’s books that Viv had given him that morning and opened it to the author photo.
“Is this the man who called himself Gordon Bernhard?”
“Absolutely. He was in here a couple weeks ago.” Boland stepped to a wall calendar, where he ran his finger across a row of days. “May seventh, to be exact. The Monday from hell. We had a power outage later that afternoon, which always screws things up and gripes out the customers. Mr. Bernhard needed a new swipe card. He was probably the only customer that day who wasn’t screaming at me.”
The timing put Gordon’s visit only a few days after the gotcha story broke in the Daily Wildcat, the one that had sent him heading for the hills.
“Have you got a surveillance camera with a view of 207?”
“We’ve got cameras covering every part of the building. Want to check it for the seventh? It’s a digital system, stored on a hard drive.”
Boland called up the log on a PC. The door of 207 showed up at a great angle from camera 4. Boland easily found the right day slid the time bar back to the approximate hour of Gordon’s visit, and scanned forward on high speed until a blurry figure darted in and out of the frame. Then he backed up, slowed down, and there it was, a black-and-white image of Gordon Wolfe from behind, as if they were peeping over his shoulder from the ceiling. He was empty-handed, except for the key. He turned the lock, went inside 207, and shut the door behind him. The time signature read 1:12 p.m.
“So by this time he’d already stopped by for the new swipe card?” Nat asked.
“Correct. Said his old one wasn’t working.”
That meant Gordon had put the new swipe card in the box in the attic during the past week. He had certainly been attending to a lot of old business lately. Tidying up. Getting ready for something.
Boland scrolled ahead. Gordon reemerged at 1:38, still empty-handed.
“What the hell?” Nat said. Had Gordon just spent twenty-six minutes visiting a taped-up novel? “Any way to slow that down?”
“Sure.”
Boland scrolled back. This time Gordon exited in slow motion.
“Hold it! Back it up to when he opens the door, then freeze it. There, do you see it?”
Just behind Gordon’s right leg was the right edge of a box, the size of the ones found at the Wolfes’ summer home. By now even Berta was riveted.
“He left without them,” he said. “He must have come back later.”
“Couldn’t have,” Boland chimed in. “Like I said, we lost power right after that. The swipe card system went down, so I had to let people in manually the rest of the day. I’d have seen him.”
“I guess he could have come back some other day,” Nat said. “But if not, then he was right about one thing. Somebody planted those boxes at his house. Could you rerun his exit one more time?”
Boland nodded, and they watched again.
“Something’s funny,” Nat said. “Have you got any shots from farther down the hall?”
“Sure. Camera 5.”
“Let’s see ’em. Arrival and departure.”
Boland complied. Gordon arrived at the bottom of the screen at 1:12 and walked slowly up the hall, staying on camera for eleven steps. At 1:38 he reappeared in the opposite direction, but with an altered gait. He paused halfway to hitch up his pants.
“Does it look to you like he’s limping?”
“Yes,” Berta said. Now she was leaning forward intently. “Run it again.”
Boland wrinkled his nose at the sound of her accent. She obviously didn’t fit his idea of who should be working for the FBI. But he did as she asked.
“Maybe he stiffened up while he was on the floor, looking at everything,” Nat said.
“No,” Berta said. “It’s something else.”
They watched again.
“It’s like his pants were bothering him,” Nat said.
Then it came to him, a bolt straight from memory.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “It’s just like George Wood.”
“You’re right,” Berta said in amazement.
“Woody who?” Boland asked. By now he was as engrossed as they were.
“George Wood,” Nat said, unable to resist the urge to teach. “Code name for an old German spy named Fritz Kolbe. During the war he smuggled documents out of the Foreign Ministry by taping them to his thigh and carrying them all the way to Switzerland by train. All Gordon had to do was make it to the parking lot.”
“But why not just take them out in a briefcase?” Berta asked.
“Maybe he knew someone was watching him. Either way, if he hid them up at the summer house, I suppose the FBI will find them soon enough.”
“No!”
“Afraid so. Holland said they’d be making a thorough search as soon as Viv left. They’ll take the place apart board by board before they come up empty.”
“Scheise!”
“Hey, I thought you were working for the FBI,” Boland said warily.
“Like I said, contract employees. If an agent comes up with the goods first, we’d, uh, lose our commission.”
“Oh.”
“Gordon’s rental agreement—how old is it?”
Boland checked the invoice.
“Wow. Way before my time. Nineteen seventy-eight.”
“Place looks newer.”
“They’ve modernized a few times, but this was one of the first self-storage joints in the city. He must have been one of the original customers.”
Seventy-eight, Nat thought. Probably around the time bulldozers started knocking down the neighborhood to make way for industry. He had a feeling those boxes had been sitting around Fairfield, one way or another, for quite a while.
THEIR NEXT STOP was the National Archives, right down the road in College Park. They had two days to search for leads before returning to Wightman, so Nat had booked a pair of rooms at a Holiday Inn. An impatient message from Holland was waiting at the front desk when they checked in: “Where are you? Please call.”
Berta took her key and announced curtly that she would be eating room service and retiring early. Hot and cold, this strange woman. Or maybe just cold, now that she had secured Nat’s cooperation. Just as well, considering his first order of business. Holland could wait. It was time to check up on Berta’s credentials.
He quickly found her name on the Web site of the history department at Berlin’s Free University. The thumbnail bio matched what she had told him. Several published papers were referenced. Most concerned the Berlin activities of the White Rose. A slender thread of scholarship, even by the eccentric standards of historians. Berta’s grandmother must have told her some great tales to get her this hooked.
Surprisingly, there were almost no other online traces of Berta or her work. No quotes in the media. No speeches or seminars. It told him two things: She didn’t crave attention, and she kept to herself.
Next, he Googled Kurt Bauer. Holland was right. It took about ten minutes to figure out why the FBI must be interested in helping the man.
Nat was already familiar with the family’s industrial dynasty. The Bauers were a sort of junior version of the Krupps—not as rich or colorful but nearly as well connected—by virtue of their long-standing ability to produce weapons for emperors and despots the world over. Kurt entered the picture during the postwar years, when he took over management of the company in his early twenties, an impressively callow age for an arms merchant. The company’s rise from the ashes was a prototype of West Germany’s “economic miracle,” which had been nurtured by the Western Allies as a hedge against communism.
Today most people knew the Bauer name from coffeemakers, televisions, and aircraft components. But it was the company’s dealings in a more arcane line of products that had attracted the FBI’s interest. Or so Nat concluded from a series of hits on Web sites tracking nuclear proliferation.
In the 1970s a shipment of Bauer jet nozzles was used to help enrich uranium for South Africa’s nuclear bomb program. In the ’80s and ’90s, Bauer plants provided isostatic presses, vacuum furnaces, and specialized tubing to shady middlemen, who in turn funneled the parts to Libya, Israel, and Iraq.
Most of the Web sites had an axe to grind, and several tried to imply that Kurt was an unreconstructed Nazi. It didn’t take a professional historian to see that their case was half-baked. Kurt’s dad, Reinhard, had certainly been a card-carrying member, and he had employed slave labor in his wartime factories. But even Reinhard joined the Party late, which suggested opportunism more than zeal. It was the same reason he later tried to curry favor with Dulles—because it was good for business. If the man were alive today he would probably be working for an outfit like Halliburton, cutting deals with dictators and then helping to engineer their downfall. Whatever paid the bills.
Other critics tried to damn Kurt by association with his older brother, Manfred, who had served with a Wehrmacht unit implicated in some atrocities on the eastern front. But Manfred was killed at Stalingrad, and Kurt himself had been too young for the army during most of the war. According to the sketchy biographical record on the Internet, the Bauer family fled to Switzerland when Kurt was eighteen. That must have been when he met Gordon, if Berta’s information was credible. Maybe the archives had the answer.
It was in more recent decades that the Bauer nuclear dealings had become most interesting. In the late ’90s the company supposedly helped ship heavy water to North Korea and Pakistan. That transaction linked Bauer for the first time to A. Q. Khan, the father of Pakistan’s A-bomb program and an infamous supplier of nuclear know-how to several rogue nations. The Bauer-Khan partnership continued through further transactions in parts and technology, according to the proliferation Web sites. Each deal was more damning, but Bauer’s role became progressively harder to pin down. As a result, investigators for the German government hadn’t yet laid a glove on him.
They came close in 2004, after centrifuge components in Bauer crates were seized aboard a German freighter en route from Dubai to Libya. Bauer again managed to wriggle off the hook, but a few months later he retired as chairman of the family companies. His timing suggested he had brokered a deal to avoid further scrutiny, and one of the more strident Web sites commented: “Of all the Western industrialists tainted by tawdry connections to this ruthless field of endeavor, Kurt Bauer may well be the one with the most intimate knowledge of its innermost secrets and nefarious web of contacts.”
Melodramatic, perhaps, but it certainly explained the FBI’s current interest in currying favor with the man. Bauer’s Rolodex alone would be a valuable weapon in trying to dismantle the black market in nuclear materials, much less the man’s insider knowledge. The flip side was that any nation aspiring to build a bomb would also covet the information, and that seemed to narrow the possibilities for Holland’s “competition” to Iran or Syria, especially since the FBI was seeking a Middle Easterner. Probably Iran, given the current state of play.
Sobering news, to say the least. Competing with historians who might retaliate with a nasty review was one thing. Going up against an Iranian spy was quite another, especially if Nat ventured abroad, where Holland would be less able to protect him.
He realized his palms were sweating on the keyboard. Calm down, he told himself. You’re working for people who know all about this stuff. Surely they would warn him if things got too hazardous, right? It seemed like an appropriate time to check in with Holland. The agent picked up on the first ring.
“You should have told me the competition was Iran,” Nat said.
“Is this your idea of a progress report?”
“So you’re not denying it.”
“Sorry, I’m not hearing you well. Maybe I should call back.”
“I thought you’d at least be impressed that I’m doing my homework.”
“Point taken. I assume the storage locker was a dry hole.”
Nat mentioned his theory that Gordon had smuggled the folders out in his pants. He suggested that Holland have someone scan the surveillance video from that day forward to check for a return visit—by Gordon or anyone else.
“Good idea.”
“Where are you now? What’s all the hammering?”
“Gordon’s summer house. We did a top-to-bottom. They’re nailing the paneling back in place.”
Ouch. Yet another grievance for Viv.
“Find anything?”
“A box of your books, actually.”
“The one in the attic?”
“How’d you know?”
“I, uh, Viv told me.”
“Sounds like you did some poking around the other night. I also recall you leaving the house with a box.”
“Like I told you. A guest list, a few keepsakes.”
“Don’t remember you mentioning any keepsakes.”
“You’re right. This connection is terrible.”
“Whatever you say, Turnbull.”
“I need a favor.”
“Try me.”
“I want someone to keep an eye on my daughter. She moved into my house today for the summer. She got a hang-up call from my cell phone, the one I left in the library. Guy with a foreign accent.”
“Relax. We’re a step ahead of you. We’ve got her covered.”
“So you’re saying it had already occurred to you that she was in danger?”
“I’m saying you have no reason to worry. We’re on it.”
“If you’re ‘on it,’ then how come you didn’t get my cell phone back? You were going to go pick it up when the doors opened.”
“Our man was the first one in the library the next morning. It was already gone.”
“Meaning someone else must have been there when Neil Ford came for me.”
“Draw your own conclusions.”
“Why do I get the idea you’re downplaying the danger?”
“Am I?”
“This Middle Eastern character, for one.”
“He’s our concern, not yours. And do me a favor. Get yourself a new cell phone. You need to be accessible 24/7.”
“Tomorrow, if there’s time. I’ll be at the archives all day.”
“Happy hunting, then. I’ll await your call.”
Not exactly reassuring. Nat needed to know that Karen was okay. He tried her cell and got a recording. Then he called his house. When she didn’t pick up after three rings, he began to panic. She answered on the fourth.
“Karen?”
“There you are. I was worried about you.”
Likewise, he almost said. But he didn’t want to upset her.
“I guess you heard about Gordon.”
“News of the day here. I’m sorry, Dad. It must be horrible for you. Especially after the way he was outed in the Wildcat.”
“Not how he wanted to go out, that’s for sure.”
“How’s Mrs. Wolfe?”
“About like you’d expect. I offered her a ride to Wightman, but her sister was driving down.”
“Where are you, then?”
“College Park. Via an afternoon in Baltimore.”
He told her about the odd visit to the storage locker. He didn’t mention Berta.
“So you’re saying he really was, like, a thief?”
“Looks that way.”
“Then maybe his little divorce from you was, like, a favor. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be trashing him. This must be hard.”
“Well, at least he left me with something to do. I may be on this for a while. The FBI wants me to follow up, see if I can find the material that’s still missing. Apparently the stakes are a little higher than I’d thought. Not that you should breathe a word of this to anyone, especially strangers.”
“Which reminds me. I got another one of those funny hang-ups from your cell. Same guy. You really should, like, cancel the number. I mean, he could cost you a fortune.”
The news made him angry. Where the hell were Holland’s people? He tried to keep his voice calm for Karen.
“Well, at least you’ve got Dave to keep you company.”
“Dave drove home to Cleveland. So don’t worry, you can rest easy.”
“Actually, I was kind of hoping he’d stick around.”
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
“I don’t like it that you’re there alone. Have you thought about visiting your mom until I’m back? Especially if I have to go off for a while?”
“Already trying to get rid of me?”
“No. It’s not like that at all.”
“You sure? I mean, you haven’t really been a full-time dad in like, what, five years?”
“No. Truthfully. I’ve been looking forward to this all semester. Just do me a favor. Lock the dead bolt till I’m back, and keep an eye out for anybody who might be paying a little too much attention to you or to the house. If they’re in an unmarked black Chevy, it’s probably just some federal people, making sure my stuff isn’t disturbed. Anybody else, let me know right away.”
“You’re making this sound dangerous.”
“I’m probably overreacting. But if I stay on this job much longer, maybe we’ll have to make other arrangements. Just for a while. Look, I’ll be back Tuesday night, so sit tight until then. And I hope you can go to the memorial service on Wednesday. I have to speak, so I’ll need the moral support. I might not be showing up alone, by the way. There’s this, uh, German researcher traveling with me.”
He was grateful she couldn’t see him blush.
“I’m guessing from your tone of voice that the German is a woman. And maybe even kind of hot?”
“Not hot. Just obsessed. Worse than me, even.”
“A perfect match.”
“Easy. Risky business, dating colleagues.”
“Risk is what makes it interesting.”
“You’re too young for us to be having this conversation.”
“But not too young to give you advice, especially when I’m the one with the boyfriends and you’re all alone.”
He was about to ask why “boyfriend” was plural when he heard her flipping pages. The ever present Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, no doubt. Karen’s Holy Bible.
“Why do I have the feeling you’re about to quote some verse?”
“Because I am? Here it is. Poem 1377. From her ‘Life’ series.”
There was a pregnant pause.
“Well. Are you going to read it?”
“Too embarrassing.” She giggled. “Besides, it will be more effective if you look it up later. It’s the perfect message to sleep on, especially if your German is there with you.”
“Separate rooms. And she’s not my German.”
“Well, read it anyway. And don’t worry, I won’t talk to any strangers.”
He tried to laugh. But it was far too easy to imagine her alone in the house. She’d be standing in the kitchen with the curtains open and a single light on, visible to anyone in the backyard. Those old mullioned windows, which you could unlock simply by smashing a single pane. He resisted the urge to phone Holland, lest the man conclude he had gone batty. Rest easy, he told himself. The feds are on the job.
Just before climbing into bed he fired up his laptop to track down the poem. He was hoping vainly for a bit of daughterly encouragement, or maybe a little solace over the death of a friend. But, no, Karen had of course become fixated on Berta.
Even so, he had to smile at the poem’s ring of truth. It was obvious that Karen knew him all too well in spite of their years of estrangement, and as he scanned the words he imagined her reading them aloud, embarrassed or not, in a tone of amused irony:
Forbidden fruit a flavor has
That lawful Orchards mocks—
How luscious lies within the Pod
The Pea that Duty locks—
Forbidden fruit, indeed. This assignment had it by the bushel, and not just in the form of Berta Heinkel.
For one thing, Nat couldn’t help but wonder if he was about to play one of those hidden roles in a momentous affair—the sort of obscure but significant action he always enjoyed unearthing years later. It was quite a temptation for a historian, this idea of a cameo upon the stage of his own discipline.
But it did seem to violate some unwritten rule of the profession. And he, as well as anyone, knew how often such actions, no matter how well-meaning, produced unintended consequences. He was also aware of the typical fate of influential minor players. The reason history tended to forget them was that they were so often erased by the very forces they set in motion. Blotted out, like the names in a classified document.
Nat folded up his laptop and slid beneath the sheets, but he didn’t fall asleep for hours.