"I may have seen Kurt in Berlin just before he left. We were both still too young for the draft, so we had time for socializing, such as it was, with the blackout and all. They even closed the beer gardens, you know. Worst decision the Cripple ever made."

"Did your father know about this problem with the Bauers' ancestry?"

"Of course."

"And he didn't order you to stop seeing him?"

"You know, people always a.s.sume that any German in those days would have simply been appalled to find out that a friend had even a drop of Jewish blood."

"Can't imagine why they'd think that."

"See? You are the same. And in my case, it is only because of my father, and some meeting he supposedly attended, and a single law that bears his signature. Say what you will, but I am not at all ashamed of my father. He was a legal technician, nothing more. They asked him to draft laws and he did so, just as he was obligated to do. Not by the German Reich, but by his professional code of conduct. The same way that any lawyer would defend some criminal, some murderer, to his very last breath if that was his duty. Does that mean the lawyer is complicit in the murder? Of course not."

"Yes, I see your point." The last thing Nat wanted to encourage was further lecturing. "So his Jewishness didn't bother anybody, then-is that what you're saying?"

"It was merely some old blood, a mistake made long ago by a distant relative. Or not a mistake, but you know what I mean. I suppose there was some reaction among a few people. But no one of importance. His girlfriend, for example. If anything, she was probably pleased by it. Not because she was a Jew, of course. More because of her politics. I always suspected that deep down she was a little Bolshevik."

Stuckart laughed, the smoke issuing in bursts.

"What makes you say that? Because of this little group they were mixed up in, the White Rose?"

Stuckart's smile disappeared.

"I don't know a thing about any of that."

"Nothing?"

"Quite right."

"But wasn't Bauer arrested? Surely you heard about that. He was interrogated by the Gestapo, even put into prison for a while."

"I don't know."

"Your best friend goes to jail for five months and you don't know about it?"

"We were friends, not best best friends. And if these things indeed happened, then it must have been during a period when I didn't see him much. There were a lot of bombings of the city in that period. Life wasn't exactly proceeding in a normal fashion. So when people went missing from your life for a while, it didn't seem out of the ordinary." friends. And if these things indeed happened, then it must have been during a period when I didn't see him much. There were a lot of bombings of the city in that period. Life wasn't exactly proceeding in a normal fashion. So when people went missing from your life for a while, it didn't seem out of the ordinary."

"I see." Lying son of a b.i.t.c.h. But why cover for Bauer on a matter that, presumably, would make the man look good, even n.o.ble? "What else do you remember about Bauer's girlfriend?"

"Not so much. It was a poor match. My father detested her. But all the same he was fine with letting her dine in his house, because that is the kind of man he was."

"Tolerant."

"Of course. His duties and his work he kept to one side, his friendships and his hospitality he kept to another. As is only proper."

"Of course." Nat wished he had all this on tape, if only for the circuitous marvel of Stuckart's rationalizations. He had heard some splendid examples over the years from Germans of that era, but this was a virtuoso performance.

The discussion of Bauer's girlfriend, however, had jarred loose his memory of Berta's findings on the deaths at Plotzensee Prison, plus all those photos of the elderly Bauer arriving at the site on the fourth day of every month, flowers in hand.

"This girlfriend. I suppose you're referring to Liesl Folkerts?"

Stuckart tilted his head and gave Nat a long, silent look, as if reappraising his questioner. His next words emerged with great deliberation.

"How much, exactly, have you dug up on old Kurt?"

Was it Nat's imagination, or had Stuckart's tone contained a hint of gleeful malice? Yes, this was a complicated friendship.

"Bits and pieces. She died, didn't she? Some misadventure at Plotzensee Prison?"

"She was killed in a bombing raid. There was a big one that night, and the prison took a direct hit. A few people even managed to escape as a result, but Liesl was buried under a collapsed wall. Kurt was inconsolable."

"I thought you didn't see him any then?"

"This was all secondhand, of course. From mutual friends. As for myself, I, uh, didn't see him again until-"

"Switzerland?"

"Of course."

"Let's go back there for a second."

Stuckart shrugged and reached again for his cigarettes. He stubbed out the first one even though it was only half finished.

"As I told you, we hardly saw each other in Bern. I recall running into him once on the Kornhaus Bridge, but that was about it."

Nat consulted his notes from the Swiss surveillance reports.

"This meeting on the bridge, would that have been on the twentieth of July, 1944?"

"I have no idea. It was so long ago. That could have been the date, but I would hardly describe it as any sort of 'meeting.'"

"Well, I'm not sure what else you would call it. You and Kurt were witnessed together on the bridge. Then both of you walked to a house in Altenberg, where you were inside for several hours."

Stuckart was stone-faced, silent. Nat continued.

"A few days later you visited him at his room at the Bellevue, where his family had a suite. You stayed two hours, then the two of you had dinner together on the terrace, where you were also seen chatting with members of the German legation. One of them was a new addition to the staff of the Gestapo."

Stuckart exhaled twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. A long column of ash drooped from his cigarette, on the verge of collapse.

"Where did you come by this ludicrous hearsay?"

"It's not hearsay. It's a surveillance report by Swiss intelligence. An original, not a copy. Swiss agents observed a third lengthy meeting between the two of you as well. It was also attended by the new staff member of the Gestapo. Maybe now that I've refreshed your memory you could fill in some of the details?"

"I'm afraid that isn't possible."

"Isn't possible, or isn't desirable? Why keep protecting Bauer?"

"Look, when I said earlier that Kurt Bauer and I were still friends, perhaps I was being a bit boastful. We are in touch from time to time, but we really don't see each other. Not face-to-face, or out in public. So, naturally, we never have occasion to revisit these old conversations, meaning that my memory of any time we may have once spent together has faded over time. Quite a bit, in fact. Do you see?"

"Yes, I see. And I'm beginning to understand your friendship. It's based on mutual leverage, because you both have something to hide. For you, the Stuckart ident.i.ty. For him, something that happened during the war, here or in Bern. In a strange way you're still valuable to each other. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he helped arrange your little vanishing act, in that fake accident. You probably didn't have the right connections at the time. But he did. And he was glad to help, because if his own secret ever got out, well, that would be almost as embarra.s.sing as having people know you were the son of a convicted war criminal."

"I think it is time for you to leave, Dr. Turnbull."

"I think so, too. Your memory's not getting any better."

Nat stood. Stuckart struggled to his feet.

"Remember," the old man said, "you have your threats, but I also have mine. If you do not keep your word, I will not hesitate to take action."

"Don't worry, Herr Schmidt. I know how to keep a secret."

"Oh, I am not at all worried. You're the one who should be worried."

For all the excitement of the encounter, Nat realized as he was describing it to Berta that he really hadn't learned much new information. As a result, she was suitably unimpressed. The one item that seemed like a genuine revelation-verification that Liesl Folkerts had been Bauer's girlfriend-bounced right off her. Meaning she probably already knew. He considered telling her that he had found her stash of photographs, then decided against it. No sense bickering just before their important meeting with Gollner.

"You should have called me in," she said. "I could have gotten more out of him."

"You'd have only gotten us thrown out of the house quicker. Besides, Gollner's transcript should tell us what Stuckart was trying to hide."

"Maybe."

They grabbed a quick lunch at a nearby Imbiss. Feeling upbeat about their prospects, he ordered a Schulteiss lager with his Currywurst. Maybe they would soon have something to celebrate.

WHEN THE APPOINTED HOUR ARRIVED, Martin Gollner was waiting for them on the sidewalk outside his building. It was immediately clear he was in no condition to transact business.

His body was flattened against the pavement with his black overcoat fanned out around him like the garments of a melted witch. Two policemen stood over the body while a third taped off the scene. Gollner's skull had split on impact. The crack oozed pink foam like an overripe melon. Blood pooled around his open mouth. His house slippers had somehow remained on his stocking feet.

Nat looked up toward the fifth floor, where lace curtains blew out from Gollner's open window. Was it his imagination, or did he hear the oompah blat of a tuba issuing faintly from the neighbor's nonstop Oktoberfest? One of the policemen pulled back the flaps of Gollner's overcoat. No papers of any kind were visible.

"Come on," Nat hissed. "Let's try to get in while there's still a chance."

They dashed through the building's open front door, and they were out of breath by the time they reached the fifth-floor landing. Bra.s.sy music was indeed playing loudly from the apartment across the hall, and Gollner's door was ajar. They pa.s.sed through to the living room with its flapping curtains. No sign of any doc.u.ments. They reached the door of the bedroom just as a middle-aged cop in plastic gloves looked up from Gollner's bureau.

"What's going on? Who the h.e.l.l are you?"

"We, uh ... had an appointment with Herr Goll ... uh, Mannheim."

"Well, this is a crime scene, and you've f.u.c.ked it up enough already, so don't move a muscle." He approached them with a weary air. "Identification, please." Exactly what Nat had hoped to avoid. "C'mon. Both of you."

The cop scanned the entry stamp in Nat's pa.s.sport.

"American," he muttered. "You arrived only yesterday?"

"Yes."

"From where?"

"Zurich."

"What is your business here?"

"I'm a historian. Here's my university ID. Mannheim was an old Gestapo man, named Martin Gollner. Was he pushed?"

The policeman took the ID while ignoring the question.

"Someday we'll be through with all of these people," he said. "Then there will be no more of their messes to clean up. Then all we'll have is old people dying the way they always do, with no complications from the past. My partner will want to speak with both of you."

A half hour later they were back on the sidewalk, having just finished speaking with a detective, who said he might want to talk with them later as well. Nat watched as Gollner's body was carted to an ambulance. His only sorrow was of a professional nature, and not simply because they had missed out on the transcript. Gollner's death meant that another portal to the past had closed forever. One less eyewitness to the most murderous era in history.

He now had to confront the issue of Berta Heinkel. In revealing the whereabouts of Stuckart she had presumably placed her last card on the table, and no matter what Holland said, Nat needed to get away from her. The woman trailed death like the train of a wedding gown, and he didn't want to be the next person to trip on it. It was time for a clean break.

"Maybe we could come back later," Berta said. "See if we can get in."

"I've no doubt you you could. You're pretty skilled in that department." could. You're pretty skilled in that department."

"What do you mean?"

"Larceny of all kinds. You're the expert."

"I admitted I was overzealous at the archives, but-"

"I was talking about the storage locker. The way you followed Gordon there and then broke in. Climbed a fence, wore a cap. You should see the surveillance video-you're a star. For a plain old historian you really are mult.i.talented. You can jimmy a lock, fake a license, seduce a source. Seduce. No wonder you like that word. It's your best trick, pun intended. So I'm sure you'd be able to get into this dump. But you heard the cop. There were no papers found. Nothing suspicious except the way he died, flying out the window in his overcoat. So tell me, did you break into the jail, too, on the night Gordon died? Or did you just pay someone else to mix too many pills into his dinner?"

Berta's mouth was agape, her eyes shocked. He had blindsided her, and for the first time since they'd met she seemed truly fl.u.s.tered. Even the confrontation over her thievery at the National Archives hadn't unstrung her like this. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.

"Pills? What are you talking about?"

"Ask Willis Turner."

"I didn't kill Dr. Wolfe. I could never kill anyone. You'd know that if you really knew me."

"I don't think I'm willing to take the risk of really knowing you. Turner and Holland would be happy to take your offer, though. Why don't you call them?"

"When did you talk to them?"

"Does it matter?"

His cell phone rang.

"That's one of them now, isn't it?" she said. "I guess you've missed your time to report in on me. Like an informant."

"You should know. You're the one with the Stasi file."

She slapped him, hard, then turned away just as her face dissolved into tears. He had expected the anger, but not this. She sobbed as his phone rang again, but as he stepped toward her she broke into a run, coat flapping, just like Gollner's must have done as he sailed to his death. Let her go, he told himself. Wasn't this exactly what he wanted?

The cops were watching the dustup with interest, so he turned in the opposite direction to take the call. The screen showed that it was from a blocked number.

"Nat?"