EIGHTEEN
ORDERING THE SECOND BOTTLE of wine was a mistake. Nat realized that the moment Berta suggested they take the rest of it upstairs to her room. And not just any room, but a big one with a fine view, low lighting, and a soft queen-size bed at the luxurious Bellevue Palace. The sort of room that might have had a thumb tab for “Seduction” in the leather-bound guide to its amenities.
When reserving their accommodations earlier, Nat had chalked up his extravagance to his quirky urge to follow in Gordon’s footsteps. He also liked the idea of taking advantage of the FBI’s generosity. But as he swayed against Berta’s shoulder in the rising elevator he wondered if ulterior motives had also been in play. Because when the waiter began hovering with their bill as the night turned cool on the hotel terrace, it became all too easy to assent to Berta’s request that they head someplace warmer. That was when he decided the second bottle was overkill.
Not that he and Berta hadn’t earned the right to celebrate. Her contact at the Swiss Archives paid off nicely, letting them copy every surveillance report from Molden and Visser. Who knows what treasures might lie in wait in the details? While that alone wasn’t earth-shattering progress, between it and their lunch with Molden they believed they were forming a clearer picture of the Gordon Wolfe-Kurt Bauer backstory. Even if that didn’t lead directly to the missing files, they realized over dinner that it might lead to something equally valuable—the information that had prompted Gordon’s blackmail to begin with. Why worry about finding Gordon’s stash of copied secrets if you could unearth the secrets themselves?
They reached that triumphant conclusion just before Berta suggested that they enjoy the rest of the wine upstairs. She said it in an offhand tone, but Nat was immediately wary and excited, especially after having seen her in action that afternoon.
In dealing with the clerk named Karsten at the Swiss Archives, Nat had instinctively assumed the role of asexual, disinterested colleague while Berta set the tone. She went to work on the poor dupe with unwavering eye contact and a series of small touches to his forearm, his shoulder, and his knee as they sat side by side, reviewing a microfilm index. The fellow responded by letting them stay an hour past closing time to make copies. By the end of their session he was helping slide documents into place beneath their cameras.
So be on your guard, Nat told himself, as the elevator door opened to their floor. Yet he couldn’t suppress a thrill—as well as another characteristic response—when she tucked her arm under his as they strolled to her door.
Berta immediately threw open the window, with its bluff-top view of the River Aare. She leaned exultantly into the cool night. Fresh mountain air, from the peaks of the Berner Oberland.
“Look at that!” she said, holding out her glass for a refill. “If the morning isn’t hazy, we’ll be able to see the Eiger and the Jungfrau.”
Was she saying they would both be waking up here? Nat’s room was across the hall, with a view of an air shaft. He tried shoving his imagination onto another track by thinking of Gordon and wondering what the young airman’s first impression of this hotel must have been. Had he, too, been with an attractive young woman?
“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” Berta said. “Him and his waitress. You’re very spiritual in that way. In fact, I’ve never met such a spiritual historian. It’s almost like you believe these places are haunted.”
“Not haunted. But there’s something of him here. I do believe that. Nothing I could ever pin down, but it’s in the air.”
“And what’s your reading on this ‘presence’ of his, for lack of a better word?”
“Optimism. Deliverance. I’d wager those were his strongest emotions.”
“Why?”
“Have you ever seen the ball turret of a B-17? The gunner is practically in a fetal position, hanging out the belly of the plane for eight hours a pop. Air temperature at twenty below for most of the way. Flak and fighter planes coming at you from everywhere. Then, poof, his plane ducks out of the battle, lands in a Swiss meadow, and a few days later Allen Dulles offers him a job, asking if he’d like to play at being a spy, all expenses paid. Then on his first night in Bern he walks into a room just like this—hell, for all we know, this was the room—and instead of being crammed into a ball turret while being strafed by Messerschmitts he’s lying down on a big feather bed.”
“With a nice local whore.”
“Possibly. Either way, he must have been thinking he was the luckiest man in the world.”
“And what about you? Are you feeling lucky?”
She brushed a stray hair from his forehead. It was all the prompting he needed. He touched her face and drew her close, an effortless movement that brought her lips to his, open and willing. Subsequent events took care of themselves, or as much as they needed to once a man and a woman are in the proper state of mind and have consumed nearly two bottles of Neuchatel Blanc before retiring to a swank room where “Do Not Disturb” is printed in three different languages.
Afterward, Nat poured himself another glass, even though the wine had lost its chill on the bedside table. He felt more attuned than ever to Gordon’s mood upon arrival in Bern—the sudden sense of new possibilities, the hint of exotic risk. All of it familiar, if for different reasons. He also thought he had a clearer read now on Berta, and he turned to her with a question.
“What, or who, were you thinking of when you made that comment to Molden about the powerful force of love? And don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to say me.”
“My Oma,” she said, using the German word.
“Your grandmother?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” She seemed a little offended. “It’s still love, any way you look at it.”
“How disappointing. You sure it wasn’t some ex-boyfriend?”
“Oh, I’ve always had men in my life. But I’ve only known one grandmother, and she was with me every day for fifteen years. Living in the same small apartment, worrying about the same nosy neighbors. She was there when my mom and dad couldn’t be.”
“A nice old Hausfrau?”
“Only because the government wouldn’t let her work. She was quite the agitator in her day, a formidable woman. Of course, I thought it was my role to keep her out of trouble so the authorities wouldn’t take her away. Or maybe it was just because I was such a good little Communist and wanted her to be one, too.”
“You, a good little Communist?”
“Oh, goodness, yes.” She laughed. “Chapter leader of the Young Pioneers. Marched in every May Day parade. Read everything I could find about Rosa Luxemburg. When I think back, I don’t know how she put up with me.”
Berta seemed to get a little dreamy, then a little nostalgic. Enough to make Nat believe she really had been talking about her grandmother.
“She taught me so much, really. How to spot informants, or other people you couldn’t rely on. How to look for the truth when everyone else wanted to surround you with lies.”
“Your guardian against the Stasi?”
Nat said it whimsically, but Berta turned somber.
“Something like that,” she said, lowering her head.
He felt awkward, figuring he had killed the mood.
“And she, uh, got you hooked on this White Rose business?”
“Yes. She was sure that her friends from the war—the ones who didn’t make it—had been betrayed. And Bauer was one of only three or four people who could have betrayed them.”
“So he’s your prime suspect?”
“Oh, no. There are several. He just happens to be the one I’ve focused on lately.”
“Have you tried talking to him?”
“Only by mail. I’ve asked nicely several times, but he has always said no.”
Keep going, he thought. Tell me more. As helpful as it was to finally hear more about her motives, he wanted substance, too. Names. Details. But she must have noticed he was hanging on every word, because she quickly changed course.
“I should have known you’d think I was talking about a man when I mentioned love.”
“Well, it’s not like that would have been unusual. Love does tend to work that way.”
She shrugged. Her neck and shoulders were beautiful, perfectly smooth.
“This idea of finding a mate for life has never been so vital to me. Nothing personal, but when men are so readily available, after a while all you worry about is when to choose and when to reject.”
“You make it all so romantic.”
She smiled, and slid closer on the bed.
“You asked, so I told you. It is the way I choose to live my life. I research what I want, f*ck who I want, stay where I please, when I please, and I set my own hours each and every day. And if sometimes I choose to mix business with pleasure”—she stroked a fingertip down the inside of his thigh—“well, that is what works best anyway when things are going well. Don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
“Is there another woman in your life?” she asked. “A woman you’re serious about?”
“Not at the moment.”
“It would be quite all right with me if there was. I’m never exclusive in these matters. It’s part of what makes me attractive. Men sense my availability, but also that I will only be temporary. Safe, but a little dangerous, too. A very enticing combination, don’t you think?” Her fingertips again skimmed his thigh, a tickle of nails. She began just above the knee and ended just below the spot where he hoped she would keep going, now that it was standing at attention. Instead, she doubled back and continued to slide her fingers back and forth, silk on leather, while speaking in a warm, low monotone, her Prussian vowels suggesting the darker possibilities of a dominatrix. She could have commanded, “Show me your papers,” and it would have thrilled him to the marrow.
“I like that word, ‘enticing,’ ” she said. “It sounds exactly like what it means. The little hiss in the middle, like a whispered invitation. There is no German word quite that good for seduction. ‘Seduce.’ That is also a fine word. Although maybe with a dart of poison, too. Don’t you think?”
“Poison doesn’t sound very safe. And ‘safe’ definitely isn’t a word I associate with you.”
“Good. Because love is never safe. Lust, even less so. As for how well either of them mixes with this business we are pursuing, I suppose we will find out.”
But he was no longer interested in talking about their goals, or her linguistic preferences. Nor was she, apparently, because those were the last words they spoke for the next fifteen minutes.
Peace and darkness then descended upon the room. She spoiled the mood a bit by pulling a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table, but, this being Europe, Nat decided he could endure the smoke. At least the window was still open, and the clouds of her exhaust lent a period feel to the scene. They might have been hiding in a seedy room above a rail station at some wartime crossroads, traveling under false names with forged papers, on the run from the secret police. It was a nice fantasy to languish in, and he carried it into his dreams.
Then, as always happened to Nat on transatlantic trips, he found himself wide awake. The red digital display on the bedside clock said 3:19. It was his usual onset of Euro jet lag, and he knew from experience there wouldn’t be much more sleep until dawn. Berta, back on her home turf, still slept peacefully. He propped on an elbow to watch her, mildly aroused as he checked for any sign that she might soon join him in the waking world.
He thought of the verse Karen had offered, the one about forbidden fruit. Its taste was indeed sweet. What would his daughter make of him now, having succumbed so readily? Nat pictured her thumbing through the Complete Poems at top speed, searching for something appropriately salacious and disrespectful to sum him up. What time was it in the States? A little after 9 p.m. Good timing for a phone call, but the circumstances weren’t exactly optimal.
Looking again at Berta, he wondered about her love for her grandmother as the supposed motivator of her zealous research. According to the Wolfe-Turnbull school of historical thought, Berta’s explanation remained incomplete. Even assuming that her Oma had practically raised her and had taught her how to deal with Stasi bad guys, such generalities felt insufficient. There had to be some single big moment involved—a rescue, a failure, a near-death experience; take your pick. Nothing less would explain why a young woman as smart and pretty as Berta Heinkel had become such a single-minded vagabond in so narrow a field of research. And for fifteen years, no less.
Or was he misreading her? Maybe she had latched on to the topic only recently but had peddled the tale of lifetime obsession to win his allegiance. Other colleagues had certainly tried more underhanded tactics.
It was useless to just lie there, so he pulled on his trousers and went to the sink for a glass of water. Maybe he would go for a walk. He threw open the bathroom window for another look at the night. With the streets empty you could hear the river surging through a massive sluice gate. A lone car poked across the bridge.
What he really needed was a drink, something stronger than the dregs of the wine. He shuffled to the console cabinet and plunged into the minibar for a bourbon. Then he opened the refrigerator, hoping to retrieve some ice before the light awakened Berta. He shut the door, but not before the glow illuminated the edge of a manila folder atop the fridge, just beneath the shelf for the television. So far, Berta hadn’t shared the contents of either her briefcase or her camera. This might be a rare opportunity for a sneak peek.
He made sure she was still asleep. Then he took the folder, a pen, and a sheet of hotel stationery, slipped into the bathroom, and gently shut the door behind him. He turned on the light, flipped down the lid of the toilet and took a seat. Not exactly optimum conditions for research, but it would do.
The tab on the folder said “Pl?tzensee,” which he knew was a prison in Berlin during the war. The Nazis had often used it for political prisoners.
Inside was a typewritten sheet of names atop a stack of eight-by-ten photos in black and white. There were seven names on the list, next to two columns of dates. The first column was headed “Date of Incarceration.” The second, “Final Disposition.”
Was this, perhaps, a roster of members of the Berlin White Rose who had been arrested? If so, it was new ground indeed. No other historian had yet come up with this many names associated with the Berlin group.
The most interesting name was the first one: Kurt Bauer. Incarcerated March 20, 1943. Released September 3, 1943. Five and a half months in prison hardly seemed like evidence of betrayal, unless he had spilled his guts during interrogation. Even then, considering the Gestapo’s torture tactics, it certainly would have been forgivable for a teenage boy to break under pressure. More damning, perhaps, was that Bauer was the only one of the seven to be released.
The other six had also been incarcerated on March 20. Three of them—Dieter Büssler, Christoph Klemm, and Ulrich Lindner—were listed as “executed” on August 19, 1943. The fourth, Liesl Folkerts, was listed as “killed” on September 4, the day after Bauer’s release. The fifth, Hannelore Nierendorf, was listed as “escaped,” also on September 4. The sixth, Klara Waldhorst, was also executed, on September 12.
From his previous research, Nat knew of only three names besides Bauer’s that had been associated with the Berlin cell up to now—Helmut Hartert, Falk Harnack, and J?rg Strasser—and none of them was on this list.
Hartert was the only one of the three who was a Berliner. He had survived the war and, to Nat’s knowledge, had never been arrested. Harnack had communicated with the Berlin group as an emissary from the original Munich cell. He had apparently also visited Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the dissident cleric at the center of both of Nat’s books. Harnack had been arrested in a roundup of the Munich members, tried, and then released. Strasser, whose only apparent role was to transport a batch of White Rose leaflets to Berlin, had been questioned by the Munich Gestapo and released.
Nat supposed that any of those three might just as easily have betrayed the Berlin members as Bauer.
But when he reappraised this new information, Nat saw that the most intriguing name belonged to Hannelore Nierendorf, who had escaped. Might she still be alive? He aimed to find out. But he would have to do so without tipping off Berta, or else she would realize he had been rummaging through her papers. For all he knew, Berta had already interviewed the woman. He hurriedly copied the information onto the stationery.
There were no other documents in the folder, so he turned to the photos. The first, judging by the scenery, had been taken fairly recently. It was of an old man in a baggy dark overcoat clutching a small bouquet of flowers. His face seemed vaguely familiar, and he stood on a wide sidewalk before a high brick wall. There was some sort of historical marker in the background. Nat squinted to make out the lettering: “Gedenkstatte Pl?tzensee.”
Of course. The site of the infamous old prison was now a national memorial site. He then realized who the man was: Kurt Bauer. Nat had seen contemporary photos on the Internet.
Had Berta snapped it? If so, then she had probably followed him to the site, which struck Nat as a bit creepy. Maybe it happened the day she asked Bauer for an interview. But hadn’t Berta just told him that she had only tried contacting Bauer by mail? Nat turned over the photo. Berta had scribbled a date: “4 May 2007.” Less than a month ago.
The next photo was also of Bauer and was also taken at Pl?tzensee. Same overcoat, different lighting, different flowers and, on the back, a different date. “4 April 2007.”
There were three more shots of the elderly Bauer at Pl?tzensee. In two he glared at the camera as if he had recognized the person taking his picture. In each he held a bouquet. They had all been snapped on the fourth day of a different month the previous year.
Nat rechecked the roster of names. Every death except Liesl Folkerts’ had occurred on August 19 or September 12. Liesl died on September 4. Could she have been Bauer’s old flame? Judging from the flowers, Nat would bet on it. But why wasn’t she listed as “executed,” like all the others? The alignment of dates suggested she may have been shot while trying to escape with Hannelore Nierendorf. Perhaps Bauer had even been involved in the plot, since he had been released the day before and would have been in a position to help.
Interesting, all of it.
Berta’s doggedness in snapping the intrusive photos, on the other hand, was troubling, even by Nat’s standards. And the Pl?tzensee shots were only part of the story. There were seven more glossies in the file, and six were of Bauer. None was dated, but each looked recent: Bauer climbing into a limo outside an upscale town house; Bauer delivering a speech to a roomful of suits; Bauer at a posh restaurant; Bauer on a park bench reading an edition of Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung; Bauer again in a limo, this time while stopped at a traffic light; and finally, Bauer awaiting a flight at Tegel Airport in Berlin. Judging from the fuzzy images in the foreground, each photo had been shot through a long lens. The one at the airport had been snapped through a pane of glass. All of them had presumably been taken without his knowledge or consent.
The seventh photo was also an eight-by-ten, but Nat didn’t recognize the subject. It was another old man, around Bauer’s age, holding a newspaper as he stood on a front porch in his bathrobe. Somewhere in Europe, probably Germany, judging by the style of door and windows. Wooded neighborhood. No date, and no writing on the back. Another member of the Bauer family, perhaps? Or maybe a White Rose survivor?
Nat took a deep breath and wondered what to do next. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin as Berta called out from the bed.
“Are you all right in there?”
“Yes,” he replied through the door. “The, uh, dinner was a little rich, I guess. Plus all the wine.”
“Not to mention the excitement afterward.”
He heard Berta climbing out of bed, so he stood, grabbed a towel, and draped it around the folder and the sheet of paper. He then ran the tap for a second and shut off the light. When he opened the door he was holding the papers beneath the towel while awkwardly pretending to dry his hands. Luckily, Berta wanted a glass of water, and she brushed past him to get to the sink. Once he heard the tap running, he stepped to the TV console and hurriedly slid the folder back into place. Then he tucked the sheet of stationery into his pants pocket, pulled off his trousers, and got back into bed.
“You drank a bourbon?” she called out.
Shit. He had left the mini-bottle on the floor, along with his empty glass.
“Hair of the dog. As a precaution.”
“Already? Too early. It will never work.”
She emerged shortly afterward, naked and sleek in the dimness. A half hour ago the sight would have been arousing. But not after what he had seen in the folder. He shut his eyes, feigning sleep. She slid in beside him and was soon breathing evenly, but Nat remained awake. He couldn’t shake the image of Berta stalking the old man, capturing him unawares from behind trees and hedges and from her car. If the man had refused her request for an interview, her behavior amounted to little more than harassment, not to mention a waste of time.
The power of love? This looked more like the power of obsession. Nat tried to sleep. The next thing he knew, he was awakening to full sunlight. The clock said it was nearly seven. He dressed quietly to keep from waking Berta and crept into the hall.
The door to his room was ajar, and a maid’s cart was parked outside. They certainly started early around here. He entered to find a man in a hotel jacket stooped at the end of the bed, fussily tucking in the linens. But Nat hadn’t slept here, so why did the bed need making?
The man straightened quickly and brushed past him toward the door, moving briskly, face averted.
“Just finishing, sir.” An accent, not local.
He looked around in a panic for his things. The box of Gordon’s keepsakes was still in his bag, thank goodness, tucked between a pair of shirts. His laptop was still here, too, but the screen was up and the drawer of the disk drive was open. The bastard had copied his files—all the electronic versions of his documents, his sources, notes from the Molden interview, and everything they had photographed yesterday at the Swiss Archives. Nat ran into the hallway, colliding sharply with the laundry cart, but the man was gone. He heard elevator doors opening around the corner at the far end of the hall, so he sprinted in that direction. Then there was a faint ping, like a bell in a boxing ring, and he heard the doors shutting. By the time he rounded the corner the row of display lights showed that the car was just reaching the lobby.
Round one to the opposition, whoever he was. And last night’s bout, he now realized, had gone to Berta by technical knockout. She had maneuvered Nat into a corner of his desires and knocked him senseless. He had been stupid to drop his guard. For all he knew, she might even be working with the fellow who had just disappeared.
Even more worrisome, the next round would be staged in Berlin—Berta’s home, Bauer’s home, and, to Nat, a city of almost spectral power, haunted by millions.
He had better start being more careful, and soon.