Spandau Phoenix

by Iles, Greg

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid Frau Apfel arrived in rather poor condition, sir. She had bruises about her legs and torso. I ordered the doctor to examine her. She wasn’t sexually molested, but he thinks the police lieutenant who accompanied her from Berlin probably used an intravenous barbiturate to quiet her.”

  Quivering with rage, Horn wheeled around to face the fire. “Can no one follow orders!” he screeched. “Where is the swine?”

  Smuts heard the old man wheezing, as if unable to get enough oxygen. “He’s in one of the basement cells, sir. Do you have a particular punishment in mind?”

  Horn did not reply, but when he finally turned back around, his distorted face had regained its composure. “All in good time,” he mumbled. “Help me, Pieter.”

  Smuts moved behind the wheelchair, but the old man shook his head impatiently. “No, come around front.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  .“Help me up,” Horn demanded.

  “Up, sir?”

  “Do it!”

  Smuts bent slightly and with slim but powerful arms drew the old man bodily out of the chair. “Are you sure, sir?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” Horn croaked, trying to subdue the pain in ruined leg joints. “The Jungfrau will see me as a natural man before she sees me as … an invalid. Even after these past two years, Pieter, I still can’t accept it. That I, once a major athlete, should be reduced to this. It’s obscene.”

  “It comes to all of us, sir,” Smuts commiserated.

  “That’s no comfort. None at all. Is dinner ready?”

  “When you are, sir.”

  Horn’s shrunken legs trembled. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Take my arm, sir.”

  “Only to the hallway, Pieter. Then I’m on my own.”

  Smuts nodded. He knew the old man was in great pain, but he also knew that if Alfred Horn meant to walk to the dining room under his own power, nothing would stop him.

  Seated in the huge dining room, Ilse tried desperately to conceal the panic that knotted her stomach. She sensed the presence of the tall black woman behind her, watching. Fighting the urge to turn, she concentrated on the spectacular table. She had never seen such splendour gathered in one place before: Hutschenreuther china rimmed with eighteen karat gold; fine lead crystal from Dresden; antique silver from Augsburg. The fact that each piece was of German manufacture reassured her. On the plane she had worried that her captors might take her out of the country; now she felt Hans could not be too far away. As she stared up into a sparkling chandelier, Alfred Horn appeared in the doorway and strode with slow dignity to the head of the table.

  “Guten Abend, Frau Apfel,” he said, inclining his white-haired head with courtly grace.

  Ilse’s heart leaped. The moment she saw the frail old man, she knew that he had the power to free her. In spite of Horn’s advanced age, his gaze burned with an intensity Ilse had seen in very few men during her life. She started to her feet, but the strong hands of the Bantu woman pressed her firmly back into her seat.

  Struggling to silence the screams of his arthritic knees, Alfred Horn seated himself. “Please,” he said, “do me the honour of sharing my table before we discuss any details of this awkward situation. There will be no chains or rubber hoses here. You might even find this to be an enjoyable evening, if you but allow yourself to. Sit, Pieter.”

  Smuts took the nearest chair to Horn’s left.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the old man said. “I am Alfred Horn, master of this house. The man across the table from you is my security chief, Pieter Smuts.” Horn frowned at a large wooden clock hanging over

  the buffet to his right. “And any moment now,” he added, “we should be joined by a young man who—”

  A sudden flurry of footsteps in the hall heralded the arrival of the tardy guest, a young man who hurried in and took the seat next to Ilse without a word. He looked to be about Hans’s age, perhaps a couple of years older. His hair was short and thick, his head a size too large—indeed all is features seemed a little oversized—and his sandy hair, though freshly combed, was wet. Beneath his sunburned nose, Ilse noticed something she saw all too often at parties in Berlin, the gleam of clear mucus that often betrayed the recent use of cocaine.

  “You’re late,” Horn complained.

  “Sorry,” said the young man without a trace of apology.

  “There’s a late rerun of the Open on the telly.” He appraised Ilse with undisguised relish. “Who’s this little plum, Alfred?”

  “Frau Apfel,” said Horn, annoyed, “may I introduce Lord Grenville? He’s English, if you haven’t surmised that already.”

  “How do you do, milady?” the young man asked too courteously, and offered his hand.

  Ilse ignored it, keeping her eyes fixed on the white-haired man at the head of the table.

  Horn’s eyes twinkled. “Frau Apfel is not favourably impressed,” he observed. Noticing Ilse’s look of uneasiness, he softened his tone. “Linah—the Bantu woman behind you—remains only to bring us anything we require from the kitchen. Ask for whatever you like.”

  Ilse swallowed. “Do you mean I’m free to leave if I wish?”

  Horn looked uncomfortable. “Not exactly, no. But you do have the run of the house and grounds—with certain restrictions. I think you’ll find that out here on the veld, there isn’t much of anywhere to go. Not without an aeroplane, in any case.”

  While Ilse pondered the word veld, Horn began to eat his salad. Linah lifted the covers off large dishes of split-pea soup, red cabbage, and dark pumpernickel bread—all classic German fare. A huge roast ham sat at centre-table, but Horn ignored it. He talked between healthy bites of the cabbage, acting more like a patriarch presiding over a gathering of distant relatives than a kidnapper toying with his hostage.

  “You know,” he said, his mouth full, “I’ve tried to adapt myself to African cuisine—if one ventures to call it such—but it simply doesn’t compare to German food. Robust enough, of course, but terribly bland. Pieter loves the stuff. But then, he was raised on, it.”

  Africa … ? Fighting the urge to bolt from the table, Ilse remembered her vow to behave as unprovocatively as possible. “So you’re originally from Germany, then?” she stammered.

  “Yes,” Horn replied. “I’m something of an expatriate.”

  “Do you go back often?”

  Horn stiffened for an instant, then resumed eating. “No,” he said finally. “Never.”

  My God, she thought, her face hot. Africa! No wonder it feels so warm here. As Horn glanced around the table, Ilse realized that only one of the old man’s eyes moved. The other remained fixed in whatever direction Horn’s head faced. As she stared, she noticed faint scarring around the eye, stippled skin shaped in a rough five-pointed star. With a chill she forced herself to look away, but not before Horn caught her staring. He smiled understandingly.

  “An old battle wound,” he explained.

  Lord Grenville forked a huge slab of ham onto his plate.

  “And what does a beautiful woman like you do in the Rhineland?” he asked, grinning.

  “I believe the young lady works for a brokerage firm,” Horn interjected.

  Suddenly the double doors behind Horn bumped open. A young black man entered with a wheeled cart and took away the used dishes. A servant girl followed with another cart that bore an antique Russian samovar filled with steaming tea. She poured a brimming cup for Horn; Smuts, Grenville, and Ilse declined.

  “I suppose you’re wondering exactly where you are,” Horn said. “You are now in the Republic of South Africa, and unless you neither watch television nor read the newspapers, I’m sure you know where that is.”

  Ilse clutched the tablecloth as her stomach rolled. “As a matter of fact,” she said hoarsely, “my company maintained close ties with a South African firm before we ceased speculation in the Rand.”

  “You know something about our country, then?” Smuts asked.

  “A li
ttle. What one sees on the news paints a pretty bleak picture.”

  “For some,” Smuts said. “Not half as bad as they make out, though.”

  “I think what Pieter means,” Horn said smoothly, “is that … racial problems in any society are always more complex than they appear to an outsider. Look at the Asian question the White Russians must soon face. In twenty years the Soviet Union will be over forty percent Islam. Think of it! Look at America. For all their bluster about equality, the Americans have seen abuses as bad as those anywhere. In South Africa, Frau Apfel, prejudice does not wear a mask. And no one will forgive us for that. Because South Africa admits something that the rest of the world would prefer to hide, the world hates us.”

  “Do you think that’s an excuse?”

  “We’re not looking for excuses,” Smuts muttered.

  “Simply an observation,” Horn said, glaring at Smuts.

  “Isn’t this bloody marvellous,” Lord Grenville crowed. “Two Germans and a bloody Afrikaner debating the finer points of race relations! It’s really too much.” He poured himself a second brandy from a bottle he had claimed as his own.

  “You think England’s any better?” Smuts snapped. “All you’ve ever seen of it is public schools and polo fields, you—”

  “Pieter,” Horn cut in. He turned to Ilse. “Herr Smuts is what the Americans call a self-made man, my dear. He views the aristocracy as something of an obsolete class.”

  “That’s one view I sympathize with.”

  The Afrikaner inclined his head respectfully, his smoking gaze still on the Englishman.

  “Actually,” said Horn, “even the South Africans shrink from truly effective measures in the race question.”

  “Effective measures?”

  “State-sponsored sterilization, my dear. It’s the only answer. We can’t expect kaffirs or Mohammedan savages to regulate their own breeding habits. One might as well expect the same of cattle. No, the government health services should simply sterilize each black female after the birth of her first child. An entire spectrum of problems would disappear within a single generation.”

  While Ilse stared in astonishment, Horn signalled to the stone-faced Linah, who brought him a thick Upmann cigar, clipped and ready to light. He did so without asking if anyone minded, took several puffs, then exhaled the smoke in deep blue clouds that wafted gently above the table. “Well,” he said finally, “I’m sure you have many questions. I’ll try to answer what I can.”

  Ilse had not even touched her salad. Now she set her quivering hands flat on the table and took a deep breath. “Why am I here?” she asked softly.

  “Quite simply,” Horn replied, “because of your husband. I’m afraid your Hans stumbled upon a document that belonged to a man I knew well—a document he should have turned over to the proper authorities, but did not. Pieter decided that the most expeditious method of recovering the property was through you. That is why you are here. As soon as your husband arrives, the matter will be resolved.”

  Ilse felt a flutter of hope. “Hans is coming here?”

  Horn glanced at his watch. “He should be on his way now.”

  “Does he know I’m safe?”

  Smuts answered. “He heard the tape you made.”

  Ilse shivered, recalling the gun held to her head by the wild-eyed Lieutenant Luhr.

  Horn blew a smoke ring. “I assure you that such unpleasantness will not be repeated. The man who drugged you on the plane is now in a cell a hundred metres beneath your feet.” Horn smiled. “Now, if I may, I’d like to ask your opinion of the document your husband discovered in Spandau Prison.”

  Ilse studied her hands. “What about it? It looked like a hoax to me. Things like that have come up a dozen times since the war.”

  “Please,” Horn interrupted, his tone harder, “do not try my patience. Your discussion with Prefect Funk indicated that you well understood the importance of the papers.”

  “I only thought that they might be dangerous! I knew that because Hans found them in Spandau they’d probably been written by a war criminal. Because of that—”

  “Excuse me, Frau Apfel.” Horn’s single eye settled on Ilse’s face. “How would you define that term-war criminal? I’m curious.”

  Ilse swallowed. “Well … I suppose it means someone who has departed from the laws of morality so radically that it shocks the civilized world, even in time of war.”

  Horn smiled sadly. “Very articulate, my dear, but completely incorrect. A war criminal is merely a powerful man on the side that wins. Was Caesar a war criminal? By your definition? By mine? No. Was Alexander? Was Stalin? In 1944, Marshal Zhukov’s Red Army raped, murdered, and looted its way across Germany. Was Zhukov a war criminal? No. But Hitler? Of course! The Anti-Christ! You see? The label means nothing in absolute terms. It’s simply a relative description.”

  “That’s not true. What the Nazis did in the concentration camps—”

  “Maintained the German war economy and furthered medical science for the entire world!” Horn finished. “Of course there were excesses—” that’s human nature. But does anyone ever mention the advances that were made?”

  “You don’t believe that. Nothing justifies such cruelty.”

  Horn shook his head. “I can see that the Zionists have kept a firm grip on our country’s schools since the war. De-Nazification,” he snorted. “My God, you sound just like an Israeli schoolchild. Can you be so blind? In 1945 the Allied Air Forces attacked Dresden—an open city—and killed 135,000 German civilians, mostly women and children. President Truman obliterated two Japanese cities. That is not criminal?”

  “Then why is hiding the Spandau diary so important to you?” Ilse challenged. “Why not let it be known and publicly argue your case, whatever it is?”

  Horn looked at the table. “Because some chapters of history are best left closed. The case of Rudolf Hess has had a startling long-lived effect on relations between England, Germany, and Russia. It’s in the best interest of all concerned to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “But that’s what I don’t understand. What does it matter what happened fifty years ago?”

  “Nations have very long memories,” Horn said.

  “What happened to Rudolf Hess?” Ilse suddenly asked. “The real Hess.”

  “He died,” Horn said. “In Resistencia, Paraguay, in 1947. I knew him well, and he died a bitter man, less than two years after his beloved Führer.”

  “Beloved?” Ilse echoed, horrified. “But the man in Spandau—who was he?”

  “No one,” Horn said. “Anyone. The poor fool was part of a failed gambit in foreign policy, that’s all. But the result of that failure was that he had to remain in prison as Hess for the rest of his life. That is all in the past. Unfortunately, your husband reopened this sticky little case, and now it must be closed again. For me it is a small annoyance, but one cannot ignore details. ‘For want of a nail …’ “

  ” ‘For want of a nail,’” Ilse said thoughtfully, “‘the kingdom was lost.’ What is the ‘kingdom’ in this case?”

  Horn smiled. “My company, of course. Phoenix AG.”

  Ilse looked thoughtful. “I don’t recall seeing that name listed on any stock exchange.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. It’s a private holding company. If I were to furnish you with a list of my worldwide subsidiaries, however, I’m sure you would recognize quite a few.”

  Smuts smiled at Horn’s understatement.

  Ilse was genuinely curious. “So you’re multinational, then. How big are you? Two, three hundred million in revenues?”

  The young Englishman snickered.

  “Three hundred million in assets,” Horn corrected softly.

  Ilse stared, incredulous. “But that would put your revenues at over a billion dollars.”

  There was silence until Horn gracefully resumed the conversation. “I see you have a keen interest in business. Why don’t we excuse Pieter and Lord Grenville? You and I can continue our dis
cussion without boring them. Gentlemen?”

  “But I find this discussion extremely interesting,” the Englishman protested.

  “Nevertheless, ” Horn said icily.

  “How about some billiards, Smuts?” the Englishman asked gamely, trying to preserve some illusion of free will. Horn’s stare commanded the reluctant Afrikaner to accept the invitation.

  “Don’t suppose I’d mind taking a few rand off you,” Smuts said, chuckling. He had a brittle laugh, like a man who finds humour only at others’ expense. He gave Horn a shallow bow as they went out.

  “That man seems quite devoted to you,” Ilse observed.

  “Herr Smuts is my chief of security. His loyalty is absolute.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  Horn smiled. “A man in my position makes enemies, Frau Apfel.”

  Suddenly Ilse’s eyes glistened with moisture. The plea she had pressed down deep in her heart welled up into her throat at last. “Sir, please, isn’t there some way that you could forgive my husband? He meant no harm! If you only knew him, you would see—”

  “Frau Apfel! Control yourself! We will not discuss the matter again until your husband arrives. At that time I shall decide what is to be done—not before. Is that clear?”

  Ilse wiped her eyes with her linen napkin. “Yes … yes, I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to be sorry. Women are at the mercy of their emotions; it’s their biological flaw. If it weren’t for that regrettable fact, who knows what they might have accomplished throughout history.”

  Ilse remained silent. She saw nothing to be gained by antagonizing her captor further.

  “Frau Apfel,” Horn said, “the reason I excused the others was to invite you to attend a business meeting with me tomorrow evening. The gentlemen I’m meeting have a rather medieval attitude toward your sex, I’m afraid, so you would have to pose as my secretary. But I’m certain you would find the negotiations extremely interesting.” Horn raised his chin. “It will be the first meeting of its kind in history.”

  “It sounds ominous,” Ilse said, trying to regain her composure.

  “Let us say ‘momentous’ instead. It’s only business, after all. I’m sure the experience would prove invaluable to a young woman who plans a career in the world of finance.”