“Please, call me Berta. I was in College Park doing research. A friend at the archives told me. He said there had been an arrest and that they were bringing in an expert.”
“The National Archives?”
She nodded.
“And you just dropped everything to come up here?”
“The first available flight. I rented a car at the airport.”
“Wow. That’s dedication.”
“It’s my life’s work.”
“Your life’s work,” he said, marveling at the phrase.
“I knew right away they would choose you. As their expert, I mean.”
“Did you, now?”
Ingrid Bergman. That’s who her eyes reminded him of, especially up close. The question was whether they were more like Ingrid’s eyes in Casablanca—liquid and warm, brimming with promise—or in Notorious—burning with intent, a troubled soul who knew what she wanted and would soon have it.
“Of course. You were the natural choice. The only choice.”
Such flattery. He was leaning toward Notorious.
“And what’s your particular interest in this discovery? Which, by the way, I’m not supposed to discuss.”
“You are probably also not supposed to discuss that you have not yet found what you are looking for. Yet I am sure this is true.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because what you are looking for is not there. The materials have been sanitized. Or that is what I think.”
“You sound like you’ve been talking to Gordon Wolfe. Or maybe you just overheard us in the courtroom.”
Her eyes flared, but she didn’t deny it.
“I couldn’t hear everything, of course. But neither of you said a word about the White Rose, yet I know that is the main object of your search, and it is mine as well.”
He was amazed, and a little alarmed.
“Look, I shouldn’t be having this conversation. You could be anyone.”
“What do you need to know about me? I am a scholar, quite qualified. I am single, thirty-three, have lived in Berlin all my life.”
“Where in Berlin?”
“Prenzlauer Berg.”
“East Berlin?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not since ’89.”
“I only want to help. I already know more than you ever will on this subject. Or the feds, either.”
The way she said “feds” was almost comical, like some Euro sophisticate trying to play the role of Chicago gangster.
“I’ll be happy to pass along your name and number to the FBI.”
She shook her head disdainfully, as if such work was beneath her.
“Then why have you come here?”
“To offer my assistance to you. For afterward. When you are done with your review, you will want to know more. That is the nature of materials like these. They develop their own attraction.”
Like you, he thought.
“That is when I will be able to help you. Because there is more material out there, waiting to be found. More than those four boxes.”
So she knew the number of boxes. Her friend at the archives had been indiscreet, and somehow Nat wasn’t surprised that the friend was a “he.”
“How do you know there’s more?”
“I have been studying this puzzle long enough to learn all its missing pieces.”
“Just because they’re missing doesn’t mean they still exist. There was a war going on. Things got burned, bombed, or looted.”
“Not in Switzerland.”
Good point.
“So you say you want to help me. But I’m guessing what you really want is for me to help you.”
“Describe it that way if you wish. I am convinced that between the two of us we can find what I’m looking for. When that happens, I will be happy to share the credit. And since you are far better known in our field, you will end up winning most of the glory. That is fine. It is not my concern. I am only interested in locating the information.”
“I take it that your specialty is the White Rose?”
She nodded.
“Since I was fifteen.”
“Goodness. It really is your life’s work.”
“My grandmother was a friend of a member when she was a girl. She told me all the stories. She said the friend was killed when the Berlin cell collapsed, or maybe ‘imploded’ is a better word. She said there were arrests, and even executions, but that all the official records were destroyed. She was determined to prove they had happened, but she was never able to travel into the West. A month after she died, the Wall came down. I took it as a sign that I was meant to continue the job for her.”
So, another believer in the so-called Berlin cell. But at least this one seemed to have some firsthand information, even if a bit vague.
“Nice story. And I’d love to hear more about your grandmother’s stories. But I’m afraid I still can’t help you. Not yet, anyway.” She nodded briskly, as if she expected nothing less from such a narrow thinker. “I do have one question, though. Any idea why Gordon Wolfe would refer to you as a ‘damned nuisance’?”
For the first time Berta seemed knocked off balance, but she recovered quickly.
“I suppose it’s because I approached him once as well. Several times. He, too, said no, and look where it got him. If you change your mind, my mobile number is on my card.”
She gathered her handbag and briefcase and stood to leave. Nat had a vague sense of having narrowly avoided involvement in a very complicated venture. He wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
But like any good salesman, Berta Heinkel hadn’t really finished. She had saved her best pitch for last.
“It’s not just the White Rose that is of interest to them, you know.”
“No?”
“No. It is the Berlin chapter in particular. Maybe they aren’t willing to tell you that. But I am certain.”
He shrugged and didn’t say a word, although his expression probably told her all she needed to know.
“I even have a name,” she said, reeling him in further. “Someone who is apparently mentioned in the materials.”
“Yes?”
“Kurt Bauer, the arms merchant. Quite famous now, but he was practically a boy then, not even old enough for the army. But there will be no trace of him in those boxes, either. Unless it is some passing reference to his father.”
“Reinhard Bauer?” It slipped out before he knew it.
“Yes. So you have already found it. They met, you know.”
“Who did?”
“Reinhard Bauer and your colleague, Gordon Wolfe. Kurt met Professor Wolfe, too, although they were both very young at the time.”
“In Switzerland?”
“Yes. It happened because your friend was a spy, and not a very good one. At least, that’s my theory. So you see? Already you know more than when I met you. Keep working with me and you will have a far better chance of getting all that you want.”
The remark was stirring on several levels. Then she turned and slipped out the door, baggy blouse and all, although at that moment she couldn’t have been more alluring to Nat if she’d been wearing high heels and a strapless gown. He watched her through the window all the way to her car, but she never once looked back. A virtuoso performance, he had to admit. He was breathless.
SIX
WAS IT REAL or was he dreaming?
Berta Heinkel crawled toward Nat across the bed in the half-light before dawn. She wore a short nightgown of antique silk, the kind of precious material that might once have been traded for war ration coupons or black-market Luckies. Slinky and smooth, like her skin. He stroked his fingers down her back, the perfect start to his day.
A sharp knock at the door rudely answered Nat’s question. He awoke to full daylight, an empty bed, and a painful erection. The innkeeper shouted crankily through the keyhole.
“Mr. Turnbull?”
“Yes?”
“You’re wanted downstairs. A Mr. Holland. He says it’s urgent.”