The four narrow boxes held about two linear feet of material, which meant about four thousand pages. Both of them moving at top speed might need eight hours to photograph everything, and the feds might return with a court order in as little as four. Something had to give. Nat had already been through half the material, and he could sort out the stuff that wasn’t worth copying. The rest they could cull on the fly. It would be close.
Berta said little as they set up tripods on a long table beneath a fluorescent light. They opened the boxes and got to work, quickly easing into a rhythm and stopping only to change batteries. Turner made a run for coffee and kept an eye out for the feds.
Nat cringed at the way they were manhandling the pages. A professional archivist would have read them the riot act. But at the rate the CIA was declassifying material these days, some of this stuff might not again see the light for years. Even at that, he swore loudly when Turner placed a sweating Big Gulp cola only inches from a memo personally signed by Allen Dulles.
When Berta left for a bathroom break, Turner leaned across her tripod for a closer look and said, “Pardon me, Professor, ’cause you’re the expert. But from what I’ve seen so far, this stuff looks pretty routine. Mind telling me what all the fuss is about?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Maybe your patron could offer some hints.”
Turner grinned slyly.
“Like I said. I’m just gathering evidence in an investigation.”
“Whatever you say.”
“But these boxes aren’t the first bit of funny business we’ve had up at the Wolfes’ place this spring.”
“No?”
“There was a break-in, ’bout a week ago. A few doodads missing, but not much else. Just enough to let ’em know someone had been poking around. When I was filling out the paperwork, the missus said their place in Wightman had also been burgled.”
“When?”
“Gordon hushed her up before she could say. But apparently we’re not the only ones around here who think this is hot stuff. Our friend Mr. Holland asked me last night if I’d noted the presence of any foreign nationals.”
“You mean like her?” Nat nodded toward the ladies’ room.
“Males.”
“Nationality?”
“ ‘Middle Eastern origin’ was all I could get out of ’em.”
“Middle Eastern? In a hunt for American files from Switzerland about a bunch of old Nazis?”
“That was pretty much my reaction.”
On second thought, Nat could certainly think of a few Israelis who might have a keen interest in acquiring some of this information. Nazi hunters, mostly, although that job description was dying out along with the Nazis themselves.
Also, Bern had been a popular wartime crossing point for all kinds of contacts—Italians, Yugoslavs, French, Bulgarians, Rumanians, and even a few shady travelers from Arab lands. He supposed anything was possible.
“So what did you tell him?” Nat asked.
“No trace. But I’ve put in calls to every inn and B&B within a twenty-mile radius, so we’ll see what turns up.”
He was about to ask Turner more, but Berta returned, and the lawman flashed him a warning look that said the discussion was over. Not American enough for him, Nat supposed. Just as well. There was work to be done.
By 4 p.m., with stomachs growling, they were only a folder or two from completion when Turner announced from the window, “Here they come!” Nat heard the rumble of engines and the slamming of doors. That was when an even bigger problem occurred to him.
“The cameras,” he said, looking over at Berta in horror. “They’ve probably got an order to seize any duplications.”
“Hand me your flash drive,” Berta said. He tossed it as voices approached. There was a sharp knock at the door, and Turner looked over in panic. Nat then watched in astonishment as Berta placed the first of the tiny memory chips onto her tongue like a communion wafer, paused, and then gulped hard, as if swallowing an oversized pill. Then she repeated the process with her own as a second knock sounded.
“Here,” she mumbled, looking a bit queasy. “Load fresh drives into the cameras. Give them something to confiscate.”
“Can’t hold ’em off any longer,” Turner said.
Nat and Berta shoved in the new flash drives just as Holland barged in the door. Four other agents trailed in his wake. One was a woman Nat hadn’t seen before.
“Gentlemen, take everything you see, and look for whatever you don’t,” he said. “Officer Turner, since you’re such a stickler for paperwork, here are my marching orders. You three are damned lucky you’re not under arrest, given the presence of those tripods and cameras. But if you’ll hand them over along with any memory cards, I’ll be willing to call it even. Then I’m afraid all three of you are going to have to be searched. Thoroughly.”
The woman agent took Berta into the restroom for that chore. Turner complained loudly about having to strip, but Nat figured he might as well get it over with and complied as quickly as possible. Within a minute or two they were dressed again, and Holland kicked them out so his people could finish the job.
Berta came out the door with the hint of a smile and excused herself to a snack bar next door. From the sound of it, the feds seemed to be taking a greater-than-usual joy in rifling through Turner’s office. The cop moaned as he listened to the groaning of nails, presumably as the paneling was being peeled back from the studs.
Berta didn’t come out of the snack bar until the feds had packed up and driven away. Her face was flushed, but when she held out the palm of her right hand there sat both flash drives.
“Like coughing up a poker chip,” Turner said. “I’m impressed.”
“It wasn’t so hard. I was bulimic once.”
She said it as matter-of-factly as if mentioning she’d once had the measles. Somehow Nat wasn’t surprised, but he wondered about her use of the past tense. Berta Heinkel already struck him as a particularly complex specimen of the Tortured German Soul, and what else but a sort of mania could have driven her to pursue such a narrow strain of knowledge for so many years? Perhaps the bulimia was just another aspect of that kind of personality. And it was all the more reason she would try to hide all her soft curves beneath such baggy clothes. But Nat knew from years of experience with college students that something deeper and more complicated was often behind an eating disorder as serious as bulimia. A family crisis, perhaps, or some catastrophic event at a critical age.
“Better let me hang on to those,” he said. Fortunately she handed them over.
“All this talk of bulimia’s making me hungry,” Turner said with his usual tact.
“Me, too,” Berta answered, unfazed. “I could use something a little more filling.”
First they used Nat’s laptop to copy the contents of the flash drives onto CD-ROMS, one set for each of them. He then stopped by the B&B to hide the copies in his room, while Berta put hers in her rental car. At last they walked to the diner.
Now that the excitement was over, Nat was drained, and all he could think about was Gordon’s death, looming out there like a void. They said little during the meal. Nat and Willis Turner plowed through a platter of the meat loaf special. Neither of them could help noticing that Berta ate only about half of a chef’s salad. By the time they were done it was well after sundown.
“Where does your investigation stand, now that you’ve got all your, um, evidence?” Nat asked.
Turner shrugged.
“Damn near finished, I guess. The doc didn’t seem to think it was anything out of the ordinary.”
“Poor Gordon. Not to mention Viv. Shit. What time is it?”
“Half nine.” Berta offered.
“A German’s way of saying eight thirty,” Nat explained to the puzzled Turner. “I’ve got an appointment to keep. See you guys later.”
Berta wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye. She followed him to his car, which was still parked outside the inn, and after he climbed into the driver’s seat she hung on to the open door like a teenager angling for an invitation home.