The deskman cocked his head.
“May I ask your name, please?”
“Nathaniel Turnbull.”
The fellow broke into a grin. He raced breathlessly around the partition and thrust out a hand in greeting while Nat clumsily dropped his bags to the floor.
“Dr. Turnbull! But of course! I am Bernhard Jurgens. We have been expecting you. Your assistant indicated you would be here by noon, so we were beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong. I hope your journey was not too stressful?”
“My assistant?” Nat had a sinking feeling about this.
“Yes. Miss Larkin? She presented your letter of introduction.”
Christa Larkin. Berta’s alias.
“And did, uh, Miss Larkin do any work on my behalf while she was here?”
“She spoke with my mother, and said that you would probably wish to do the same. We then entrusted to her care the parcel which Mr. Wolfe sent us some months ago, with instructions to hold it for you. She signed for it, thanked us very graciously, and took it upstairs to her room. She said she wanted to rest until you arrived.”
“She’s here?”
“Of course. My mother would not have been very comfortable giving her the parcel if she had simply taken it away into the streets. Although both of us are certainly curious to learn what is inside. As was Mss Larkin.”
“Yes, I’m sure she was.”
“She asked me to phone her room when you arrived. Shall I do that now, or would you rather check in first? You will be staying with us for the night, I hope?”
“Uh, sure. But why don’t you go ahead and phone her?”
The deskman nodded and went back behind the counter.
Surely it was too good to be true. Nat kept telling himself that as the old fellow punched in the number. He watched with resignation as the deskman’s expression slowly changed to one of puzzlement, then disappointment, while the phone rang and rang.
“She doesn’t seem to be answering. Perhaps she is a very sound sleeper. Or maybe she is in the shower.”
“Do you have a rear entrance?”
“Yes, but that is only for use after closing hours.”
“Maybe we should go up there.”
A look of concern crossed the deskman’s face.
“Surely you don’t think that—I had better phone my mother. She lives around the corner.”
“What’s the room number?”
“Three-ten. But, please, wait.”
Sure. What was another five minutes when Berta had probably been gone for hours? By now she might even be in Berlin, already writing up her results for some scandal sheet, or one of the less reputable historical journals. He saw it all clearly now, every reason for why she had become so driven. She had pursued Bauer a bit aggressively, and he had retaliated by digging up her Stasi file, which pushed her off the deep end. Her search then became a ruthless quest of personal vengeance, nothing more. She was determined to ruin Bauer just as he had ruined her. Nat felt soiled just by being a party to it, and now his bumbling had allowed her to succeed. It was not a result worthy of his calling, and certainly not of Gordon’s legacy, which would perhaps also be ruined as a result. Sickening, really, now that he saw everything so plainly. He sagged into an easy chair in the lobby while the deskman punched in another number, and for the next several minutes he was lost in thought. The chase had finally done him in.
“Sir? Dr. Turnbull?”
It was the deskman, leaning over him like an orderly in an emergency ward.
“My mother is on the way. Shall we go upstairs now?”
Looking closely at the man’s face, he again noted the odd familiarity of the features. And that’s when everything clicked into place, striking him like a splash of cold water.
“Your mother’s name is Sabine, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, I thought you understood that.”
“And you were born in, what, 1945?”
“Yes, the last year of the war. How did you know that?”
Because you were the crying baby on the bench, he almost said. The one held by the sad young Sabine as she turned away in misery from Murray Kaplan, all those years ago in the streets of Bern. This old fellow, Bernhard, staring at him with such concern, was the son of Gordon Wolfe. Same eyes, same forehead, same ears. Nat also recalled the pseudonym that Gordon had used to rent the storage locker in Baltimore: Gordon Bernhard. Another bread crumb dropped along the way.
“Are you all right, Dr. Turnbull? Can I get you something? You’ve had such a long journey.”
“I could use some water. Anything without caffeine.”
“I shall fetch it this instant.”
As he watched Bernhard hustle back around the counter, the door opened and a sweet voice called out his name.
“Dr. Turnbull?”
It was Sabine, wrinkled and a little stooped, but clear-eyed and trim, and flushed with health. Like an aging farm girl in a meadow, or, perhaps, for the sake of historical accuracy, more like a busy waitress at an Alpine retreat. He stood to greet her, beginning to feel like himself again as he took her hand in his.
“I’m here for Gordon,” he said.
“Yes, I know. It is a pleasure to at last meet you, after all that Gordon has told me.”
A terrible thought occurred to him.
“Are you aware that Gordon is, well …”
“Yes,” she said. “We heard the news last week.” She lowered her eyes and gently released his hand. “A terrible blow. But seeing as how it has been years since I’ve actually seen him, well … Ours was not exactly an ordinary relationship.”
“No, I don’t suppose it was.”
“Had he told you much about me?”
Nat shook his head.
“Nothing at all. But I’ve been finding out a few things the last week or so. Enough to lead me here.”
She frowned, seemingly puzzled.
“He did not leave specific instructions for you to come here?”
“Not as such. If you really want to know the truth, I think he wanted to make it a challenge. A test, teacher to student.”
“That sounds like Gordon. He never explained to me when or why you might come here. He just said to give you the parcel if you did, at whatever hour of the day.”
“And now, I’m sorry to say, I might have arrived too late to claim it.”
Sabine furrowed her brow in apparent confusion. This time her son supplied the answer—a bit sheepishly, Nat thought.
“Dr. Turnbull believes that Miss Larkin may have left through the back entrance. She is not answering her phone. We were about to go up and check her room.”
Sabine shook her head disapprovingly.
“You see, Bernhard?”
“I know, Mother. You were right.”
“Bernhard gave her the parcel before I arrived, or I never would have allowed it. But by then she was preparing to check in to her room, and I decided it would be impolite to ask for it back. She did seem very tired, but I’m afraid it was her pretty face that won him over.”
Like father, like son. Because, for all of Sabine’s wrinkles, the contours of past beauty remained. She must have been a stunner.
They climbed the stairs in brooding silence. Bernhard knocked loudly, and there was no answer. He unlocked the door.
The bed was still perfectly made. No luggage was in sight. Through the bathroom door Nat saw that every towel was folded in place on the rack. Even the paper seal on the toilet was unbroken.
“Oh, dear,” Bernhard said. “I am such a fool.”
“But look,” Sabine said. “On the dresser!”
It was a small padded mailing envelope, five by seven inches, the kind you can buy in any U.S. post office. Tape had been peeled back from one end, and a flap was open.
“That’s the parcel,” she said.
Nat was stunned.
“All of it?”
“I don’t know if everything is still inside. But it’s certainly the envelope we’ve been holding for you.”
It was too small. There was no way four folders, or even their contents, could be squeezed inside it. Even Berta must have realized that right away. Maybe that explained her convincing look of weariness. She would have been devastated. Unless, of course, Gordon had somehow shrunk everything to a more manageable size—microdots, for instance, approaching the job as a spy might have.