“What we’re asking shouldn’t take long,” Holland said. “Quick and dirty.”
“Slow and steady would be better. You could do quick and dirty yourselves. Have you informed the National Archives? They’ll want to know right away.”
“Of course. They wanted to send one of their own people, but we preferred you.”
“Let me guess. Too proprietary for your tastes? These things technically belong to the CIA, you know. That’s where the archives will send them.”
“Like I said, speed is important. I’m sending you off to freshen up and get a bite to eat, then you can get cracking. We’ve booked you at a B&B if you want to shower and shave. Our treat, of course.” Then he stood, ready to roll.
“Okay if I have a quick look at the boxes first?”
The agent glanced at his watch.
“I suppose. This way.”
Nat’s anticipation built as they strolled toward the sunroom. Four narrow boxes—gray cardboard with metal corners—were stacked on a coffee table, awash in morning sunlight. They had flip-top lids like the ones on cigarette packs.
“Do you mind?” Nat said, reaching for the nearest.
“Go ahead. They’ve already been dusted.”
Nat saw smudges from fingerprint powder. The corners were dented, as if the boxes had been handled roughly.
“Were they stacked this way when you found them, two on top of two?”
Holland nodded.
“Then whoever put them here either didn’t know how to handle this kind of material or didn’t care. Meaning it definitely wasn’t Gordon.”
“His prints were all over them.”
“Maybe the prints are old. Even if he was drunk, he’d know better. They shouldn’t be stacked now, either. Or sitting in the sun.”
Nat knew how fragile this stuff could be. Many records from World War II were printed on cheap stock, high in acid. Even medieval parchment was sturdier. Another few decades would turn these papers to dust. They were probably as brittle as autumn leaves already.
Holland, cowed into silence, watched as Nat reverently pulled open the lid. The smell was of rotting cellulose, and he could have sworn there was also a whiff of coal smoke and Alpine air, an essence of Bern from those distant years when so much was at stake.
He gently thumbed a few folders, checking the labels. Already he saw snatches of writing in German. Despite his weariness from the overnight ride, being in the presence of such extraordinary material had cleared his head, and in that moment it occurred to him why the FBI must be insisting on “quick and dirty.”
“You’re looking for something specific, aren’t you?”
“You could say that.”
“Care to tell me now? That way I can be thinking about it over breakfast.”
Holland hesitated.
“Ever heard of a student resistance group called the White Rose?”
“Sure. They’re famous. A German director made a movie about them more than a decade before Schindler’s List, just when everybody was working up an appetite for tales of ‘good Germans.’ Led by Sophie Scholl, the pretty college student from Munich, and her older brother Hans, who fought on the Russian front. Cranked out a bunch of anti-Nazi pamphlets along with their friends until the Gestapo rounded everybody up. Hanged or beheaded, most of them. The Brits got hold of one of their pamphlets and dropped a few thousand copies out of a propaganda bomber, but that was about as far as their influence went. Unless you happen to believe the whole Berlin mythology.”
“Berlin mythology?”
Was it his imagination, or had Holland flinched?
“There were five or six White Rose cells besides the main one in Munich. The pamphlets found their way to maybe a dozen cities, and the Nazis arrested enough suspects for at least five trials. But no records of any trials or arrests in Berlin have ever turned up. Meaning that either the paperwork was blown to smithereens or there wasn’t any to begin with. And whenever you get a vacuum like that, well, people take liberties. Some of the resulting theories have been a little fanciful, to say the least.”
“Fanciful?” Holland seemed to brighten.
“Tying the White Rose to Dietrich Bonhoeffer, for example, the famous resistance cleric, not to mention the subject of my first book. Bonhoeffer was involved in the bomb plot against Hitler. You know, von Stauffenberg and the exploding briefcase.”
“I take it you don’t believe in those connections?”
“Only in the vaguest sense. Bonhoeffer knew a White Rose contact—that’s been established. And maybe there was a meeting or two in a church, like-minded friends talking things over, that sort of thing. But I’ve never believed in any material connection, no. And certainly the Berlin White Rose—if it even existed—never did anything of note.”
“Then I suppose that’s something you can keep an eye out for, this whole Berlin question. Two days should be sufficient, don’t you think?”
“Possible. But—”
“Good. All I needed to hear.”
“One other thing, before you send me to breakfast.”
“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 bump his head on a sloped ceiling. FBI agents had taken all the rooms with tubs and canopy beds, leaving him an attic space 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 hello. 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 Shell 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, classic 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.