The Arms Maker of Berlin by Dan Fesperman Page B

translate, since his German and Bauer’s English weren’t exactly the best. Dulles then assigned the code name “Magneto” to Bauer for use in all ensuing correspondence. It was a decent find for Nat, because up to then he had never come across any evidence that Reinhard Bauer had assisted the Allies. Already the trip was worthwhile.
    The odd part was that Gordon had never before mentioned the meeting or Bauer in either his published work or any of their conversations. Yet Gordon had been the summoned translator, and his initials appeared on the memo—a lonely “GW” penciled into the lower left corner.
    Nat’s stomach growled. It was one thirty. He had been at it for four hours, and to his surprise he was nearly done with the first box. At this rate, two days might actually be enough to complete the assignment, just as Holland had said. How disappointing.
    “Hungry?”
    It was one of the agents, who had been babysitting Nat from a seat in the living room.
    “Yes.”
    “I could get us some takeout.”
    “Thanks, but I could use some fresh air. I’ll try the diner.”
    “I’ll get my car.”
    “Alone, if you don’t mind.”
    The man nodded, but looked disappointed. Probably bored out of his mind.
    “I have to check your notes before you go.”
    “Haven’t taken any.”
    “Gotta search you, too.”
    He patted Nat down from head to toe, then pronounced him good to go.
    To Nat’s relief, no one followed from the house as he departed in the rented Ford. But halfway down the mountain a sedan in a turnout tucked in behind him and stayed on his tail all the way into town. It was a black Chevy, like the ones the feds were driving. He parked across the street from the diner, and the Chevy took a space half a block back No one got out. Maybe they were just making sure he wasn’t visiting Gordon.
    Nat took a menu but decided he had better check in with Karen before ordering, in case news of his “disappearance” had spread. He reached for his cell phone, then cursed as he remembered it was still on his desk. The waitress directed him to a pay phone by the restroom doors and changed a few bucks into quarters so he could use it.
    Sending Karen off to Wightman had been his ex-wife Susan’s idea, and she had sprung it on him like a trap, by arriving unannounced on his doorstep the day of their daughter’s enrollment. At the time he viewed it as a vengeful prank, payback for years of neglect. But he saw now that it was a gift he hadn’t deserved, a last opportunity to make friends before youthful bitterness hardened into adulthood.
    During Karen’s first semester he dutifully visited each week, usually taking her to dinner. Their conversations were strained, awkward. When she inquired about taking one of his classes, he found himself subtly steering her elsewhere, and later wondered why.
    It wasn’t fear of favoritism, he decided, or a lack of confidence in his lectures. Nat was an engaging speaker, with a wall full of teaching awards. Then it came to him. He realized he had become the very sort of professor she would see right through and, ultimately, despise—glibly entertaining on the podium but AWOL whenever students or office hours beckoned. Sort of like the father he had been. Always leaving others—his graduate assistants, Karen’s mom—to deal with the messier affairs of disputed grades, delicate egos, and the youthful need to feel loved and included.
    Symptomatic of this approach was his standard preamble, the one he had been using for years to open each and every course:
    Faces to the front, you sons and daughters of YouTube and Facebook. Cell phones off. BlackBerries disabled. iPods silenced. Mouths shut .
    I will offer this information only once, so take heed. Henceforth we will proceed at my pace, not yours. No one is to ask me to back up, start over, or slow down. The lazy and the inattentive will be summarily abandoned, and from here onward you will need to know exactly where we are, where