Free The Arms Maker of Berlin by Dan Fesperman

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
    W AS 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.”
    “Tell him five minutes.”
    The bedside clock read 6:07 a.m. He knew Holland was in a hurry for him to finish the boxes by this afternoon, but this was ridiculous, seeing as how he had worked until almost ten o’clock the night before.
    The innkeeper’s footsteps receded down the stairs, but their sound was soon drowned out by the brusque approach of a heavier tread. Nat barely had time to pull his trousers over the bulge in his briefs before the door flew open. In stepped Clark Holland, suit pressed, tie knotted.
    “Is this really necessary?”
    “Gordon Wolfe is dead. We’ve got work to do.”
    “What? Gordon’s dead? How?”
    “Heart attack, less than an hour ago. They found him on the floor of his cell. An EMT revived him for a minute or two, but that was it. Pronounced dead at 5:23 a.m.”
    Nat sagged onto the bed and took a deep breath. His voice emerged from high in his throat, as if someone were squeezing his windpipe.
    “His medication. Viv said—”
    “That wasn’t the problem. He got his pills yesterday.”
    “Does she know yet?”
    “You’re going to tell her. It’s our first stop. But first I need some answers.”
    Holland swung himself onto the room’s one and only chair, facing backward. He folded his arms on the top of it while Nat absorbed the blow. Nat was sitting where Berta had just been on all fours in his dream, and he was annoyed that he still couldn’t shake the image, even in the face of this terrible news. Gordon was dead. Impossible. It felt as if twenty years of his life had just been wrenched loose, thrown into a box, and abruptly carted away before he could even catalog the contents.
    “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
    “How did he seem when you spoke to him