The Arms Maker Of Berlin Part 4

"Yes?" Holland was halfway across the living room.

"I promised I'd attend the arraignment. Vouch for Gordon's character, if necessary."

"No objections, as long as you don't get too chummy. It's at nine. We'll be there, too. But if you speak to him, use absolute discretion concerning anything we've discussed. That goes for everyone you deal with. Family, colleagues, even the waitress at the diner."

"National security, huh?"

He was expecting a laugh, or at least a smile. Holland offered neither.

A half hour later Nat emerged from the world's weakest shower to b.u.mp his head on a sloped ceiling. FBI agents had taken all the rooms with tubs and canopy beds, leaving him an attic s.p.a.ce that would have once been called a garret. He threw open the curtains on a tiny gabled window. A few townspeople were out and about, their breath clouding in the chilly morning air. He spotted his next destination just down the block, a diner where the windows were fogged with steam.

Ten minutes later he slid into a booth while a waitress poured coffee. No sooner had he opened the menu than two of the agents took the next booth down and nodded h.e.l.lo. Was this how it would be from now on-watched and herded until the job was done?

They followed him to the arraignment, too, three blocks to the so-called courthouse at the end of town. It was a converted body shop, just as Neil Ford had said. Someone had whitewashed the cinder-block walls, but faint lettering underneath still boasted of tune-ups for $39.95. Wood-grain paneling was tacked over the old garage doors, and orange carpeting had been rolled onto the concrete slab. Church pews of varnished mahogany provided the seating-five rows on either side of a center aisle. Holland was already seated on the left, along with the two agents from the diner. No one had turned on the heat, so everyone was keeping their coats on. Nat took a seat near the front on the opposite side.

The judge's bench was a plain desk and a folding chair, flanked by flags. On the back wall was a calendar advertising the local Sh.e.l.l station, presumably the one owned by the judge and the town cop. Nat was prepared for entertainment. Gordon could be wittily combative even when sober, and who knows what he might say in this tinhorn setup.

A new arrival took a seat on Holland's side. A woman, early thirties, blond and attractive. Nat guessed she was a reporter, or had come for another case. Something about her was unmistakably arresting. It wasn't style or polish. If anything, she looked like she'd had a rougher night than Nat. Her hair stood out like Viv's, and her clothes were frumpy-brown corduroy pants, a bulky white peasant blouse, no coat. Part of the attraction was her heart-shaped face, cla.s.sic features in all the right places. Full lips were set in a determined pout, smoldering or ultra-serious, depending on your interpretation. But what really set her apart was her eyes. Deep brown, bright and alert, they broadcast a beacon of needful intensity. Even in repose, she was a woman of urgency.

A door opened up front. In came Gordon, followed by a policeman who took him to a chair on Nat's side of the room. He looked pretty good, considering. Red-nosed but clear-eyed, and he had shaved. He studiously ignored Nat.

The judge followed, tall and ungainly, late fifties. He shrugged on a black robe over jeans and a plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt. No shave for him, and Nat could have sworn there were toast crumbs in his stubble. Just the sort of fellow you could imagine shaking his head and saying, "It's only a busted hose, but we gotta pull the engine." He sat at the desk and cleared his throat just as Viv entered from the rear and took a seat a few rows behind Nat.

"Looks like everybody's here," the judge said. "I'm Darrell Dewey, and over there by the flag is Officer Willis Turner. Welcome to the town court of Blue Kettle Lake, State of New York. We are now in session."

He glanced at some papers.

"What've we got, Willis, two cases?"

"A drunk and disorderly from guess who, along with the celebrity professor."

Dewey peered down his nose at Gordon, who smiled at the description.

"And where is our friend Mr. Wellborn-now there's a contradiction in terms. You gonna bring him out now, or wait till we're done with this one?"

"His wife brought breakfast. He's still eating."

"Well, isn't that sweet. Then let's get to it. The case of Ashford County versus Gordon Wolfe. I take it you're Professor Wolfe?"

"Yes, sir." His voice was clear, strong.

"Lawyered up?"

"Don't need to."

Dewey raised his eyebrows and looked around, as if someone might volunteer.

"You might want to reconsider. Especially since it's my understanding that certain federal authorities-your peanut gallery over there-have taken a keen interest."

"Need one even less as long as they're involved."

"Your business. And mine is to set bail. Officer Turner has requested, presumably at the urging of others" others"-he glanced theatrically toward the federal contingent-"that bail be set at half a million."

Viv gasped. Gordon smiled.

Dewey continued, "Frankly, I can't do that in good faith on a simple possession of stolen goods charge, which as far as I can tell from the paperwork is all we have at this point."

"Go ahead, Your Honor," Gordon said, looking far too confident for his own good. "Won't bother me. I don't intend to pay no matter what the amount."

"Suit yourself. But this is my courtroom, and I'm setting bail at twenty-five grand." He slammed the gavel down as if hammering a dented fender. "Willis, go see if Ed Wellborn can squeeze us into his social schedule."

The policeman went to fetch the other man while the judge fiddled with paperwork. Nat slid down the pew toward Gordon, who finally acknowledged him with a wink.

"Viv says you've made camp with the barbarians," he whispered. Not angrily, but with a twinkle in his eye.

"Not exactly. I just-"

"Don't worry, Nat. I understand completely. It's the first thing they've done right. Just do as they say. Inspect everything carefully and diligently, and tell them exactly what you find. Or more to the point, exactly what you don't don't find." find."

"You act like you know what they're looking for."

"More than you do, apparently."

They were on sensitive ground, especially with Holland only twenty feet away.

"Don't get nervous," Gordon said. "I won't ask you to say anything you shouldn't."

It was already their most congenial conversation in years. Maybe jail agreed with him.

"So you're not posting bail?"

"I'd just as soon stick it out in here than out there where they are."

"You need anything? Your meds, maybe?"

"Viv brought 'em over. Could sure use a drink, though."

"Can't help you there."

"Didn't think so. How 'bout some pens and paper, then? Tell Viv to send some over."

"I can take care of it."

"No. You concentrate on your work. It's the best thing you can do for me, even though Viv doesn't know it yet. The faster the better. But the most important thing is that you proceed thoroughly and professionally. The way you always do."

His first compliment in ages, and it still had the power to please.

"You sure you don't want a lawyer? I could make some calls."

"h.e.l.l, Nat, they planted those boxes. The way I figure it, they've been setting this up for quite a while. Where do you think that story in the Daily Wildcat Daily Wildcat came from?" came from?"

"The feds?"

"The kid that wrote that had more of my military records than you'd even get from a freedom of information request. You really think that's the work of a second-year journalism student?"

"Why bother?"

"Flush me out. Give them leverage."

"For what?"

"Except I'll be the one with the leverage. You'll see."

"For what what, Gordon?"

"Just do your job, Nat, and your employers will be ready to deal. The sooner you finish, the sooner your old professor gets out of this chicken coop."

"Unless they move you to some federal chicken coop."

"That's the last thing they want."

"Let's go, sir." It was the cop, Willis Turner, who had arrived with the other prisoner. Gordon stood, then stooped toward Nat for a final word.

"Actually, there is one thing you can do. Tell your Mr. Holland that as long as he's going to all this trouble, maybe he should give me some protection. This place is wide open."

"Protection from what?"

"Her, for starters." He nodded toward the mystery woman in the peasant blouse, who to Nat's surprise had moved to the front row just across the aisle. "She's a d.a.m.ned nuisance. But it's the others that really worry me."

"What others?"

"Holland will know. Just tell him."

Typical Gordon. Playing up the drama for all it was worth, now that he was the center of attention. The cop led Gordon away before Nat could ask more, and the old man's age showed in the stiffness of his first steps. Nat thought he heard a sob from Viv in the back, but Gordon was grinning as he went out the door.

Nat turned, half expecting Holland to be glaring in disapproval. But the only person paying any attention was the young woman, who looked away quickly, as if she had been eavesdropping. Maybe she was his federal minder. He tried staring her down, but she kept her eyes averted, and he was too intimidated by her looks to introduce himself.

When he stood to leave, he was mildly disappointed that she didn't follow. Oh, well. If she really was with the FBI, he supposed they'd be meeting soon enough.

FIVE.

ONLY HOLLAND and the two agents from the diner were at Gordon's house when Nat began reviewing the files. No sign of Viv or the mystery woman. Agent Neil Ford had vanished, presumably to wherever he'd come from. and the two agents from the diner were at Gordon's house when Nat began reviewing the files. No sign of Viv or the mystery woman. Agent Neil Ford had vanished, presumably to wherever he'd come from.

"I'll leave you to your work," Holland said. "Let me know of any special needs."

"Peace and quiet should do it."

"And do you have a camera? A notebook?"

"Uh, yeah. Both."

"Sorry, but you're to lock the camera in your car until completion. Keep note taking to a minimum. Anything you write down belongs to us."

At least they couldn't confiscate his memory. Another reason to proceed slowly.

For all his eagerness, the first hours were tedious. The archive was cluttered, as such things usually are, with grunt work-German press summaries, translations of n.a.z.i speeches from Radio Stuttgart, interoffice correspondence over matters so trivial that they had become irrelevant within days. So far, not a single mention of the White Rose.

But here and there were tantalizing glimpses of people and events that Nat knew about, and he paused to savor them. It wasn't just scholarly indulgence. It was the only responsible way to proceed, lest he miss an obscure but previously unknown connection to either White Rose activities or the Scholls.

Nat was reasonably familiar with the major players of wartime Bern-the spies, businessmen, and diplomats that Dulles and his pickup team of operatives had mingled with. In one folder he spotted a reference to a meeting between Dulles and Gero von Gaevernitz, a debonair German financier who spent the first years of the war shuttling between Bern and Berlin while piling up an impressive h.o.a.rd of intelligence.

Fearing for his safety, Gaevernitz left Germany for good in late 1941 to take refuge in Bern, where he became a confidant of Dulles. They met almost daily at the spymaster's ground-floor flat at Herrenga.s.se 23, and Gaevernitz often arranged introductions with visiting Germans willing to pa.s.s along information. Switzerland's wartime blackout made it easy for clandestine visitors, who approached a back entrance via an uphill path through terraced gardens overlooking the River Aare. As an extra precaution, Dulles talked the locals into removing the bulb from the streetlamp that illuminated his doorway.

Dulles's status was an open secret. That was the way he wanted it, calculating that the best way to join the spy game was to let it be known that he was open for business. It was one reason the British never put much stock in his product. They figured he was being played for a fool. Too bad for them. By war's end Dulles was an expert at separating fact from rumor, information from disinformation.

He brought to the job a masculine but genteel clubroom manner, puffing a pipe and sipping port during amiable hearthside chats. Considering the privations of rationing, he offered one of the best tables in town. Shucked oysters, perhaps, followed by roast leg of lamb. Nat had seen those items and more on the household cook's grocery lists, which were on file in a tattered notebook at the National Archives. The cook turned out to be jotting down other items as well, and she was promptly fired when Dulles found out she had been pa.s.sing information to the Germans.

That was par for the course in wartime Bern-a crowded nest of espionage hatchlings, all crying for their daily feed, then wondering what it was they were really digesting for their masters back home. And Gordon Wolfe, even if nothing but a lowly clerk, had been stationed at the center of it all. That much soon became clear to Nat from the "GW" notations penciled at the corner of several filings. It was eerie to come across his initials, especially while knowing that at the time Gordon was roughly half Nat's current age. Hard to think of him as an ambitious young snoop after having just seen him at the courthouse, shuffling off to jail.

Nat wondered anew why Gordon seemed so eager for him to do a thorough job. And what was it that everyone really wanted him to find? Or not not find, in Gordon's case. White Rose materials, while interesting, would hardly seem to have much impact on the here and now. And if Nat came up empty, how was that supposed to strengthen Gordon's hand with the feds? Theft was theft, whether the goods were helpful or not. find, in Gordon's case. White Rose materials, while interesting, would hardly seem to have much impact on the here and now. And if Nat came up empty, how was that supposed to strengthen Gordon's hand with the feds? Theft was theft, whether the goods were helpful or not.

Halfway through the first box Nat still hadn't found anything even remotely connected to the White Rose, not even in the news summaries. But he had noticed a potentially important anomaly. The label on the box's spine said it contained folders 1-37. A quick count showed that only 33 folders were inside. Numbers 4, 5, 11, and 12 were missing. Was this what Gordon had meant? If so, then where was the missing material, and what was its significance?

Shortly before lunch Nat came across a few items that he figured might someday be useful in his own research. One was a lengthy and colorful account from February 1943 of a visit to Dulles by a German banker, Dieter Elsner. The poor man swallowed so much of Dulles's port that he ended up facedown in the rear garden-next to a grape arbor, appropriately enough. The cook, presumably more reliable than her turncoat predecessor, helped drag the portly fellow back indoors, where Dulles and she revived him long enough for Elsner to groggily telephone a business a.s.sociate to come retrieve him.

The a.s.sociate turned out to be industrialist Reinhard Bauer, whom Nat was familiar with from the man's prominent role in Germany's wartime armaments industry. He also became a player in the country's postwar economic renaissance, partly by switching from tank parts to coffeemakers. Bauer was one of those eager-to-please Hohenzollern blue bloods who had dropped the "von" from the family name to appease Hitler's mistrust of the aristocracy. But he was never enough of a gung-ho n.a.z.i to attract the attention of war crimes investigators.

Dulles's typewritten account noted that Bauer arrived at his rear entrance within minutes of Elsner's phone call, which led the spymaster to believe that the whole evening had been a ruse to arrange an introduction. Bauer showed up impeccably dressed, even though it was 2 a.m., and before they even reached his supposedly drunken friend, Bauer was already offering to share his insights on the German rearmament effort led by Reichsminister Albert Speer. The conversation began with such promise that Dulles summoned an interpreter to the house shortly afterward to help translate, since his German and Bauer's English weren't exactly the best. Dulles then a.s.signed the code name "Magneto" to Bauer for use in all ensuing correspondence. It was a decent find for Nat, because up to then he had never come across any evidence that Reinhard Bauer had a.s.sisted the Allies. Already the trip was worthwhile.

The odd part was that Gordon had never before mentioned the meeting or Bauer in either his published work or any of their conversations. Yet Gordon had been the summoned translator, and his initials appeared on the memo-a lonely "GW" penciled into the lower left corner.

Nat's stomach growled. It was one thirty. He had been at it for four hours, and to his surprise he was nearly done with the first box. At this rate, two days might actually be enough to complete the a.s.signment, just as Holland had said. How disappointing.

"Hungry?"

It was one of the agents, who had been babysitting Nat from a seat in the living room.

"Yes."

"I could get us some takeout."

"Thanks, but I could use some fresh air. I'll try the diner."