"Security!" the librarian shouted. "Someone call a guard!"

"Don't touch me!" Berta shouted, yanking back as the woman held firm. Nat bounded toward them. The librarian's fingers were making white marks on Berta's skin. Researchers in every corner stood to get a better view. Others drifted closer like kids toward a schoolyard brawl. Forget the dead voices of history-this was live action.

A security guard hustled into view, keys and handcuffs jangling.

"This one's a thief," the librarian said, finally releasing her grip. "Caught her in the act a few weeks ago, and now she's back. Please escort her from the building, but search her first. Strip her if you have to."

"Hold it, now," Nat said. "I can vouch for her."

"Should I call PG County police?" the guard asked, ignoring Nat.

"Not if she's clean. Just take her card and kick her out. In fact, take her card now."

Berta grudgingly handed over her ID and looked sheepishly toward Nat as the librarian read aloud the name.

" 'Christa Larkin.' No wonder you got in. The real name's Berta something, isn't it?"

So that's why she had been keeping her head down. Yet even now her expression was more defiant than shamed.

"I'll meet you out front," she said to Nat. He nodded, dumbfounded.

"Not out front," the librarian said. "You're leaving the property entirely."

Nat wanted to challenge that, but the crowd of gawkers had grown, so he watched in silence as the guard led Berta away. Nat waited for the crowd to break up before following the librarian back to the service counter. The Icarus personnel file was still in his right hand.

"Could I have a word?" he said in a low voice. The tall woman abruptly looked up.

"Aren't you Dr. Turnbull? I'm surprised you're keeping such disreputable company."

"Look," Nat whispered-heads were already turning-"I don't know what went on before, but I can a.s.sure you she wasn't here today to steal anything."

"Sure she wasn't. Why else use a fake ID. Last time she tried to take an entire folder."

"Maybe it got mixed in with her papers."

"It was stuffed beneath her blouse, tucked in her jeans. She would have made it, too, if the guard downstairs hadn't been staring at her b.o.o.bs. He saw the green cardboard between her b.u.t.tons."

"A whole folder?" Her words had knocked the wind out of him.

"Just like the one you're holding. In fact-"

Her mouth dropped open.

"This one?" he asked.

"For 'Icarus.' Yes. It had just been decla.s.sified."

No wonder Berta had been so dismissive of his findings. She'd already seen them. But why steal a file that you could copy? To sell it? Possibly. Or maybe she wanted to make sure no one else ever saw it.

"I should probably take that off your hands, sir," the librarian said.

"I, uh, need to make some copies first," he said weakly. Fortunately she nodded.

He headed to his desk before she could change her mind. It now seemed important to get as much done today as possible. By tomorrow who knows what sort of orders would have come down from the archival overlords. He was now guilty by a.s.sociation.

As it turned out, though, the only item of interest for the rest of the day came not in a folder but in an e-mail message from CIA archivist Steve Wallace, who replied to Nat's earlier request: "Hi, Nat. Job No. 79-003317B currently too hot to touch. Sorry. As for the four items which I understand you have already seen, I may soon have further info, but only if you're willing to swap. Watch this s.p.a.ce."

So Steve knew all about the boxes found in the Adirondacks and wanted to arrange a quid pro quo. Nat could live with that. It sounded like there might be high-level disagreement over the handling of these materials, and he wondered why.

HE FOUND B BERTA WAITING in the shade of the bus shelter on Adel-phi Drive, well off the premises. She began talking before Nat was even within twenty yards. Perhaps she saw the look in his eye, the one that said this had better be d.a.m.ned good or you're finished. in the shade of the bus shelter on Adel-phi Drive, well off the premises. She began talking before Nat was even within twenty yards. Perhaps she saw the look in his eye, the one that said this had better be d.a.m.ned good or you're finished.

"It was all a stupid mistake. I was in too much of a hurry that day. I was desperate."

"Obviously."

"My camera was broken, the copy machines were tied up, the place was closing in ten minutes, and I had to catch a flight. I didn't even have a chance to see if anything was worth copying. My grant was running out and the whole trip was crashing. It was stupid, all right? I was going to mail it back once I made copies. But it wasn't like there was anything worthwhile. You saw how I reacted when you showed me. I couldn't care less."

"Finished?"

She nodded.

"Of course you couldn't care less, because you'd already seen it. And if it's so unimportant, then why did you try to make sure no one else would ever see it?"

"It wasn't like that. I told you."

"Yes, but you're a liar."

Her face creased and she began to cry. He had expected that, but was nonetheless unprepared. Because all of it-her embarra.s.sment, her shame, and now her sorrow-seemed genuine. Maybe her lame explanation was at least partially true. He'd certainly heard sillier tales of misconduct. Researchers did strange things while caught in the grip of gold fever, especially when facing the cruel limitations of closing hours and dwindling grants. Even so, pulling a stunt like that at the National Archives was on another level. It was a place where you were monitored not only by tigress librarians but also by surveillance cameras. You weren't even allowed to wear a sweater or overcoat, or bring in a bag or briefcase. Every piece of paper from the outside was stamped and inspected upon entering and and leaving. Berta's actions bordered on professional insanity. leaving. Berta's actions bordered on professional insanity.

"If you don't believe me, I understand." She wiped away the tears. "It was the stupidest thing I've ever done."

"How'd you get the new ID?"

She fumbled in her bag and showed him a fake New Jersey driver's license. Christa Larkin, of Hackensack.

"When I came here last week I went to the security station and had them make me a new ID, like I was visiting for the first time. Then all I had to do was avoid that b.i.t.c.h who'd nailed me before."

Nat would have liked to check the date of her new archives ID to at least verify that part of her story, but the librarian had confiscated it.

"You've seen how obsessive I get," she said. "It always rubs people the wrong way."

"I know. It's a disease. I've had it myself."

"Let me know if you ever find a cure."

For the first time in days she offered the beginnings of a smile, then quickly shut it down, receding back into the role of uber-Berta.

"Well, I do know this," Nat said. "Another screwup like this and we're finished."

"I'll prove myself. And I am still in good standing with the archives we'll need to check in Bern and Berlin."

"Whoa now. We're getting ahead of ourselves."

"Not really, no. Look, I'll show you."

He half expected her to produce a stolen doc.u.ment from her blouse. Instead, she retrieved her camera and found an image for him.

"It's a memo, newly decla.s.sified, from a Swiss source to the OSS. He was feeding them information on the local flatfoots."

The "flatfoots" were the Swiss operatives who kept tabs on Allied and Axis spies. By war's end, the Swiss had arrested more than a thousand people on espionage charges. The memo Berta had found-to Loofbourow in Zurich in December 1944-said that operative Icarus and source Magneto II had drawn increased Swiss scrutiny due to a recent flurry of clandestine meetings. Their local shadows were then mentioned by name in hopes that no no (Dulles) could persuade the Swiss to back off, especially with the war winding down. So there it was, further evidence linking Gordon Wolfe and Kurt Bauer. The names of the Swiss operatives were Gustav Molden and Lutz Visser. (Dulles) could persuade the Swiss to back off, especially with the war winding down. So there it was, further evidence linking Gordon Wolfe and Kurt Bauer. The names of the Swiss operatives were Gustav Molden and Lutz Visser.

"Molden's and Visser's surveillance reports might be in the State Archives in Bern," Berta said. "I have a source there. And Molden is alive."

"How do you know?"

"Well, I had to do something something while I was waiting. So I went online with a wireless connection and found a Gustav Molden, age eighty-eight. He lives within blocks of where he was working during the war. The age is right, and he's the only Gustav Molden in Bern." while I was waiting. So I went online with a wireless connection and found a Gustav Molden, age eighty-eight. He lives within blocks of where he was working during the war. The age is right, and he's the only Gustav Molden in Bern."

Yes, she was beyond help all right. Banished to a bus bench and she had kept right on working. And with impressive results, no less.

"Switzerland, then. Okay, I can buy that. But why Berlin?"

"Martin Gollner."

"Never heard of him."

"Remember when I said in the Adirondacks that I had a few names for you? He's one of them. He was Gestapo, a junior investigator. During the war he interrogated Kurt Bauer. I'd like to know what was said, wouldn't you?"

Nat spent all of five seconds deliberating.

"I'll finish up here tomorrow," he said, "while you pursue more overseas leads. The memorial service is in Wightman on Wednesday. Can you leave that night for Bern?"

"Do I look like I have anything else to do?"

"Maybe we should we try reaching Molden and Gollner, set up an interview."

She shook her head.

"A call could scare them off. We should just show up."

Obviously she, too, had experience in tracking ghosts. Best to sneak up on them whenever possible, an approach that Gordon Wolfe had always favored.

Nat then heard a faint echo of Gordon's voice inside his head, laughing lightly and offering encouragement. Death had done wonders for the old boy's disposition. He hadn't sounded this welcoming in ages.

FOURTEEN.

Berlin-Thursday, December 10, 1942 KURT BAUER NO LONGER RODE his bicycle past Liesl's house each and every day, pinging his bell in hopes she would appear at the window. Fifteen tries without a response finally convinced him he was a making a lovesick fool of himself, and as weeks turned to months he avoided her side of town altogether, not even venturing into the Grunewald. his bicycle past Liesl's house each and every day, pinging his bell in hopes she would appear at the window. Fifteen tries without a response finally convinced him he was a making a lovesick fool of himself, and as weeks turned to months he avoided her side of town altogether, not even venturing into the Grunewald.

But one evening toward sunset eleven months later, with the anniversary of their breakup approaching, he found himself exiting the Krumme Lanke U-Bahn stop with his bicycle. As if drawn by a homing beacon, he began pedaling hypnotically toward the quaint little house on Alsbacherweg. He had no clear plan in mind. He knew only that he had to return to the scene. So on he rode even as his hands grew numb.

Pale light cast long shadows across the small lawn, and he braked to a stop as if facing a shrine. Looking up to her window, he flexed his left thumb to flick the tiny bell. Once, twice, a third time. Then he waited, breath huffing like steam from an idling locomotive.

Was it his imagination, or had the curtain twitched? He watched until his eyes hurt from the cold, but nothing budged. Finally he turned and pedaled away, slower now, but still with a sense of mission. He crossed the frozen ground of leafy woodland trails for twenty minutes until he reached the sand beach of the Wannsee.

Kurt stared across the chop toward the far horizon, where a pale band of orange lined the treetops in the last light of dusk. You couldn't see the Stuckart villa from here, so he settled for the nearest familiar landmark-the conference house where Erich's father had gone that day for the big meeting. Kurt now viewed it as a symbol of his failure-of that terrible moment when his nerve had faltered and Liesl's had exceeded the bounds of common sense. So many things he should have done differently.

Fortunately no harm had come to Liesl as the result of her reckless remarks, although the elder Stuckart had looked into the matter further the following morning. He had then pa.s.sed along his findings to Reinhard Bauer, father to father. Kurt's dad took him aside that night after dinner.

"Herr Stuckart told me of this foolishness with that Folkerts girl you're seeing. Are you sure you're quite sane, spending time with people like her?"

"What of it?" Kurt answered, not wanting to admit she had rejected him.

"What of of it? Well, seeing as how you only seem capable of thinking of yourself, go ahead and forget for a moment what this could have meant for your family, or for our future livelihood. Do you realize what can happen to people who say things like that, and, in turn, to all of their friends?" it? Well, seeing as how you only seem capable of thinking of yourself, go ahead and forget for a moment what this could have meant for your family, or for our future livelihood. Do you realize what can happen to people who say things like that, and, in turn, to all of their friends?"

Kurt stared at the floor, unwilling to even nod. The pain Liesl had inflicted still hurt more than anything his father could dish out.

"Well, do you?"

"Yes," Kurt said without looking up.

"They line you up and shoot you, or drop you from a gallows. Or maybe they lop off your head. Not that you get to choose. And first, of course, they take you down to the cellar on Prinz-Albrecht-Stra.s.se, where they do G.o.d knows what so that you'll tell them whatever they want to hear. That is why I want you to stay away from people like the Folkerts girl, who, by the way, according to Stuckart's sources, also spends her Sunday afternoons meeting with friends at that renegade Pastor Bonhoeffer's house. Or did you, perhaps, already know this?"

Kurt kept his head down.

"As I suspected. You are even more foolish than I thought. That is why I'm making this more than a request or a plea. It is an order. Understand? You will no longer see this girl. For the sake of all of us."

Kurt looked up abruptly.

"You needn't worry," he said in disgust. "She refuses to see me anymore."

His father's look of relief was infuriating, and Kurt was only enraged further by the hypocrisy of his father's next words.

"She was right, of course. That's why it was so dangerous for her to say it. The war is lost. Any fool can see it."

Then, as if to make it clear he wasn't faulting the current leadership, or the German national character, Reinhard Bauer proceeded to a.n.a.lyze the situation from the point of view of an industrialist. Perhaps he saw it as another opportunity to further his son's education, because he then took out pencil and paper and began toting up precise columns of numbers. Production quotas and available raw materials. Shortages across the board. Here was the reason Germany could no longer win, he said. Because they could no longer outproduce the American and Russian makers of guns, planes, and ammo.

"Do you remember all those men who came here from America during the Olympic Games?" he asked.

Kurt nodded, holding his tongue. The Bauer companies had thrown a reception in 1936 for a delegation of manufacturing tyc.o.o.ns from the American heartland. At the time, Berlin had been putting its best face forward for a skeptical world. Every street was clean. b.u.ms and ne'er-do-wells were swept from view. The Americans, to a man, had spoken enviously of the orderly nature of the new regime. No unions, no strikers, and no one stirring up the rabble. Everything worked, and everything ran on time. FDR could learn a thing or two from Hitler, they gushed.

But now those same men were working overtime to make sure Berlin was reduced to cinders, so of course defeat was inevitable.

"What that means, Kurt, is that if you really want to go running around with young girls who insist on speaking their mind, then all you have to do is wait. Because it will only be a matter of years, or even months, before the fighting will end. Understand?"