The arms maker of berlin by Dan Fesperman

Author:Dan Fesperman [Dan Fesperman]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Policier
ISBN: 9780307388728
Published: 2010-09-15T07:00:00+00:00

GöLLNER’S, or rather Mannheim’s, neighborhood in Moabit had seen better days. His building, just across the street from a small, scruffy park, looked like a place where the tenants were barely hanging on. Peeling paint. Smudged windows. Pigeons on the eaves and windowsills. You had to be buzzed in for entry, so they waited until an old Turkish man in a skullcap came out the door, and they slipped inside. The nameplates on the dented mailbox told them Mannheim was on the fifth floor. The stairwell smelled of disinfectant and rot. The walls were sprayed with graffiti.

Nat knocked at Mannheim’s door. Berta waited on the landing of the floor below, explaining that she hadn’t gotten such a great reception on her previous visit. The brassy commotion of a Bavarian oompah band—music you rarely heard in Berlin—emanated from a stereo system across the hall. It sounded like Oktoberfest in full swing.

“Who is it?” A man’s voice, scratchy but strong. Nat addressed him in German.

“My name is Professor Doctor Nathaniel Turnbull. I am here to see Hans Mannheim.”

An eye appeared at the peephole. A lock slid back, and the door opened to the limit of a security chain. A stooped old fellow with pale blue eyes silently assessed Nat. He wore a black wool overcoat and thick house slippers, and even with the stoop he was well over six feet. The steamy smell of boiled sausage and potatoes emerged through the crack.

“Your credentials, please.”

“Chairman of the Department of History,” Nat said, handing over his passport and campus ID. A lie, but he knew from experience that big titles often carried weight with ex-Nazis.

Mannheim-Göllner handed everything back.

“My apologies, Professor Doctor, but I don’t wish to address matters of the past.”

“Perfectly understandable, considering what you must have lived through in 1945 and beyond. But it’s not your past, per se, that interests me. Not even as it relates to an old friend of yours, Martin Göllner.”

Mannheim flinched, but didn’t shut the door. If anything he seemed more interested.

“I’m not familiar with this Göllner fellow you speak of.”

“That’s fine, because I’m seeking information on others. People who have not yet been held accountable to the degree that Mr. Göllner has.”

“All the same. How did you learn of his name?”

“Research. But no one else seems to know, and I don’t intend on telling anyone.”

Mannheim squinted at him for several more seconds. Then he shut the door, slipped off the chain, and opened the door wide.

“You have three minutes to make your case.”

And Nat was betting the old Prussian wouldn’t need a watch to keep track. The fellow ushered him in. Nat glanced around at a small kitchen and the remains of a late lunch. The living room window was propped open to let in the raw air. His host took a seat on the couch and gestured toward a straight-backed wooden chair directly opposite. It was small and wobbly, very uncomfortable, which of course put Nat at a disadvantage. Just like old times on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, he thought.

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