by Greg Iles
would be best kept private for now. "No," he lied, "I didn't have time
to say anything to anyone."
"Hans, you've got to turn these papers in."
"I know."
She nodded slowly. "Then why am I so worried about you?"
He took a deep breath, exhaled. "We have a chance here, Ilse. If you
looked at those papers, you know that as well as I do. Finding those
papers ... it's like winning the lottery or something. Do you realize
what they might be worth?"
Ilse closed her eyes. "Hans, what is going on? You could lose your job
for this."
"I'm not going to lose my job. So I found some old papers. What was I
supposed to do?"
"Turn them in to the proper authorities."
"The proper authorities?" Hans snorted. "And who are the proper
authorities? The Americans? The British? The French? This is Berlin,
Ilse. Every person, every company, every nation here is looking after
its own interests-nobody else's. Why shouldn't I look after ours for
once?"
Ilse rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips.
"Liebchen, " Hans insisted, "no one even knows these papers exist.
If you'd just listen for five minutes-if you heard how I found
them-you'd see that they're a godsend."
She sighed hopelessly. "All right, tell me."
Four floors below the apartment, in the cold wind of the Liitzenstrasse,
Jonas Stern accepted a thick stack of files from a young man wearing a
West Berlin police uniform.
"Thank you, Baum," he said. "This is everyone?"
"Everyone from the Spandau patrol, yes sir. I couldn't get the file on
the prefect. It's classified."
Stern sighed. "I think we know enough about dear Herr Funk, don't we?"
Shivering from the wind, the young policeman nodded and looked up at the
suntanned old man with something near to awe in his eyes.
"You've done well, Baum." Stern flipped through the computer printouts.
He stopped at Apfel, Hans but saw little of interest.
Hauer, Dieter, however, told a different story.
Stern read softly to himself: "Attached to Federal Border Police 1959.
Promoted sergeant 1964, captain in 1969. Sharpshooter qualification
1963. National Match Champion 1965, '66 ... Decorated for conspicuous
bravery in '64, '66, '70 and '74. All kidnapping cases. Transferred
with rank to the West Berlin civil police January 1, 1973. Hmm," Stern
mused. "I'd say that's a demotion." He picked up further down.
"Sharpshooting coach and hostage recovery adviser to GSG-9 since 1973@'
Stern paused again, memorizing silently. Credentials like those made
Dieter Hauer a match for any man. Stern read on.
"Member of International fraternal Order of Police since 1960 ...
Ah," he said suddenly, "Member of Der Bruderschaft since 1986. Now we
learn something."
The Israeli looked up, surprised to see his young informant still
standing there. "Something else, Baum?"
"Oh-no, sir."
Stern smiled appreciatively. "You'd better get back to your post.
Try to monitor what's going on in Abschnitt 53 if you can."
"Yes, sir. Shalom.
"Shalom.
Stern cradled the files under his arm and stepped back into the
apartment building. He reclaimed his broom and dustpan, then started
noisily back up to the fourth floor. This role of custodian isn't
half-bad, he thought. He had certainly known much worse.
Ilse's eyes flickered like camera lenses; they always did when she was
deep in thought. Hans had ended his account of the night at Spandau
with Captain Hauer's facing down the furious Russian commander.
Now he sat opposite Ilse at the kitchen table, staring down at the
Spandau papers.
"Your father," she said softly. "Why did he pick last night to try to
talk to you, I wonder?"
Hans looked impatient. "Coincidence ... what does it matter?
What matters right now is the papers."
"Yes," she agreed.
"I read what I could," he said breathlessly. "But most of it's written
in some strange language. It's like "Latin," she finished.
"It's Latin."
"You can read it?"
"A little."
"What does it say?"
Ilse's lips tightened. "Hans, have you told anyone about these papers?
Anyone at all?"
"I told you I didn't," he insisted, compounding the lie.
Ilse twisted two strands of hair into a rope. "The papers are about
Rudolf Hess," she said finally.
"I knew it! What do they say?"
"Hans, Latin isn't exactly my specialty, okay? It's been years since I
read any." She looked down at her notes. "The papers mention Hess's
name frequently, and some othersHeydrich, for instance-and something
called the SD. They were signed by Prisoner Number Seven.
You saw that?"
Hans nodded eagerly.
"The odd thing is that Prisoner Number Seven was Rudolf Hess, yet these
papers seem to be talking about Hess as if he were another person." She
pushed her notes away. "I've probably got it all wrong.
The writer describes a flight to Britain, but mentions a stop somewhere,
in Denmark. It's crazy. There seem to be two men in the plane, not
one. And I do know one thing for certain-Rudolf Hess flew to Britain
alone."
Hans blinked. "Wait a minute. Are you saying that the man who died in
Spandau Prison might not have been Rudolf Hess?"
"No, I'm saying that the papers say that. I think. But I don't believe
it for a minute."
"Why not?"
Ilse got up, went to a cupboard, and removed a beer, which she placed on
the counter but did not open. "Think about it, Hans. For weeks the
newspapers brave run wild with speculation about Prisoner Number Seven.
Was he murdered? Why did he really fly to Britain? Was he really Hess
at all? Now you find some papers that seem to indicate that the
prisoner wasn't Hess, just as some of the newspapers have been
speculating?" She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "It's too
convenient. This has to be some kind of press stunt or something.""My
God," he said, coming to his feet. "Don't you see?
It doesn't matter if the papers are real or not. The fact that I found
them in Spandau is enough. They could be worth millions of marks!"
Ilse sat down carefully and looked up at Hans. When she spoke her voice
was grave. "Hans, listen to me. I understand why you didn't turn in
the papers immediately. But now is the time for clear thinking. If
these papers are fakes, they're worthless and they can only get us into
trouble. And if they are genuine . . ." She trailed off, glanced up
at the clock on the kitchen wall. "Hans, I think we should call my
grandfather," she said suddenly. "I could only read part of this ...
diary, I guess you'd call it, but Opa will be able to read it all.
He'll know what we should do." She pushed her chair away from the
table.
"Wait!" Hans cried. "What business is this of his?"
Ilse reached out and hooked her fingers in Hans's trouser pocket.
"Hans, I love you," she said gently. "I love you, but this thin is too
; deep for us. I heard some of the news bulletins at work today.
The Russians have gone crazy over this Spandau incident. Imagine what
they might think about these papers. We need some good advice, and Opa
can give it to us."
Hans felt a hot prickle of resentment. The last thing he wanted was
Ilse's arrogant grandfather strutting around and telling him what to do.
"We're not calling the professor," he said flatly.
Ilse started to snap back, but she checked herself "All right," she
said. "If you won't call Opa, then call your father."
Hans drew back as if struck physically. "I can't believe you said
that."
"For God's sake, Hans. Three years without more than a nod to the man.
Can't you admit that he's in a position to help you? To help us?
He obviously wants to-"
"Three years! He went twenty year@ without talking to me!"
There was a long silence. "I'm sorry," Ilse said finally. "I shouldn't
have said that. But you're not acting like yourself."
"And what's so wrong with that? Liebchen, people get a chance like this
once in their lives, if they're lucky. I found these papers, I didn't
steal them. The man they belonged to is dead. They're ours now.
Imagine ... all the things you've ever wanted. All the things I could
never afford to buy you.
Your friends from work are always flaunting their fine houses, their
clothes, the best of everything. You never complain, but I know you
miss those things. You grew up with them. And now you can have them
again."
"But I don't care about those things," Ilse countered.
"You know that. You know what's important to me."
"That's what I'm talking about! Children aren't cheap, you know.
When you finally get pregnant, we'll need all the money we can get."
He snatched up one of the Spandau pages. "And it's right here in our
hands!"
For the first time since finding the papers, Ilse remembered the baby.
She had been so happy this afternoon, so ready to celebrate their
blessing. She'd wanted everything to be perfect. But now ...
"Hans," she said solemnly, "I wasn't being honest, okay?
I probably would prefer driving to work in a Mercedes rather than riding
the U-Babn." Suddenly Ilse laughed, flirting momentarily with the idea
of easy money. "I wouldn't turn down a new wardrobe or a mansion in
Zehlendorf, either. But if these papers are real, Hans, they are not
our ticket to getting those things. Finding these papers isn't like
finding a lottery ticket. If they are genuine, they are a legacy of the
Nazis. Of war criminals. How many times have we talked about the
Hitler madness? Even almost fifty years after the war, it's like an
invisible weight dragging us backward. When I spent that semester in
New York, I made some friends, but I also saw the looks some people gave
meJews maybe, I don't know-wondering about the blond German girl. 'Does
she think she's better than we are? Racially superior?' Hans, our whole
generation has paid the price for something we had nothing to do with.
Do you want to profit from that?"
Hans looked down at the papers on the table. Suddenly they looked very
different than they had before. In a span of seconds their spell had
been broken. Ilse's laugh had done it, he realized, not her impassioned
speech. Her musical, selfmocking laugh. He gathered up the loose
sheets and stacked them at the center of the table. "I'll turn them in
tonight," he promised. "I'll take them downtown right after supper.
Good enough?"
Ilse smiled. "Good enough." She stood slowly and pulled Hans to her.
He could feel the swell of her breasts through the cotton robe.
She laughed softly. "You see? Doing the right thing sometimes has its
rewards." She stood on tiptoe and nuzzled into his neck, at the same
time pressing her bare thigh into his groin.
Hans laughed into her hair. He wanted her, and his want was obvious,
but he sensed something more than desire behind her sudden affection.
"What are you up to?" he asked, pulling away a little. Ilse's eyes
glowed with happiness. "I've got a secret too," she said. She reached
up and touched her forefinger to his lips-then the telephone rang.
With a curious glance, Hans tugged playfully at her rot)e and walked
into the living room. "Hans Apfel," he said into the phone. He looked
back toward the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, Ilse opened her robe
with a teasing smile. He forced himself to look away. "Yes, Sergeant
Apfel. Yes, I was at Spandau last night. Right, I've seen the
television.
What? What kind of questions?" Sensing Ilse behind him, he motioned
for her to keep quiet. "I see. Formalities, sure."
His face darkened. "You mean now? What's the hurry? Is everyone to be
there? What do you mean, you can't say?
Who is this?" Hans's jaw tightened. "Yes, sir. Yes, I do realize
that, sir. Don't worry, I'll be there. I'm leaving now."
Slightly dazed, he returned the phone to its cradle and turned around.
Ilse had retied her robe. "What is it?" she asked, her eyes troubled@
"I'm not sure." He looked at his watch. "That was the prefect's aide
on the phone, a Lieutenant Luhr. He said the Russians are still in the
station. They're making some kind of trouble, and the prefect wants to
satisfy them before the Allied commandants get too involved. He wants
to ask everyone from the Spandau detail some questions."
Ilse felt a tremor in her chest. "What do you think?"
He swallowed hard. "I think I don't feel so good about that call." He
slipped into the bedroorii to change into a fresh uniform.
"Are you going to take the papers with you?"
"Not with the Russians still there," he called. "I'll pull somebody
aside when I get a chance and explain what happened. Maybe even the
prefect."
"Hans, don't be angry with me," she said. "But I really think you
should talk to your father first. He'd cover for you on this, I know he
would."
"Just let me handle it, okay?" Hans realized he had spoken much louder
than he'd meant to. He buttoned up the jacket of a freshly pressed
uniform and went back into the living room. He was reaching for his
gloves when the telephone rang again.
Ilse practically pounced on it. "Who is this, please?
What? Just a moment." She covered the mouthpiece with her palm.
"It's someone named Heini Weber. He says he's a reporter for Der
Spiegel."
Hans moved toward the phone, then stopped. "I'm not here," he
whispered.
Ilse listened for a few moments, then hung up. Her eyes showed
puzzlement and fear. "He said to tell you he made a mistake before,"
she said slowly. "He wants to meet you as soon as possible. He ... he
said money's no object." Little crimson moons appeared high on Ilse's
cheeks. "Hans?"
she said uncertainly. "He knows, doesn't he?"
She stepped forward hesitantly, her face flushed with fear and anger.
She tried to summon harsh words, but her anger faltered.
"Hans, take the papers with you," she said. "The sooner we're rid of
&n
bsp; them, the better."
He shook his head. "If I let the Russians get those papers, I really
could lose my job."
"You could slip them under somebody's door. Nobody would ever have to
know they came from you."
He considered this. "That's not a bad idea," he admitted.
"But not while the Russians are there. Besides, our forensic lab might
still be able to link me to the papers. It's scary what those guys can
do Ilse reached out, hesitated. The tendons in her neck stood out.
"Hans, don't go!" she begged. "There's something we need to talk
about."
He kissed the top of her head. Ilse's hair smelled of flowers, a scent
he would remember for a long time. "I don't have any choice," he said
tenderly. "Everything will be fine, I promise. We're just jumpy
because of the papers. Don't worry. I'll be back in an hour." Before
Ilse could say anything else, he slipped through the door and was gone.
Ilse sagged against the wood, holding back tears. Hans, I'm pregnant.
The words had been right on her tongue, yet she'd been unable to force
them out. The lie had done it.
First Hans's crazy idea about selling the papers-then the lie.
She wanted badly to call her grandfather, yet she hesitated . He would
probably take an "I told you so" attitude when Ilse admitted that Hans's
behavior had shaken even her. He had been against her marrying Hans to
begin with.
Ilse's doubts made her think back to when she had first met Hans.
Three years ago, at a traffic accident. An old Opel had broadsided a
gleaming Jaguar right before her eyes on the Leibnizstrasse, smashing
the Jaguar's door and trapping its driver.
There'd been a police patrol car behind the Opel.
Two officers had jumped out to help, but as they tried to free the
trapped driver, the Jaguar had burst into flame. All they could do was
hold back the crowd and wait for the fire police to arrive. Suddenly a
young foot patrolman had hulled his way through the crowd-right past
Ilse-and dashed to the Jaguar. Shouting at the driver to get down in
the seat, he drew his Walther, fired several shots through the stuck
window and kicked out what was left of the glass. He dragged the
stunned driver to safety only moments before the gas tank exploded.
The handsome young officer with singed eyebrows had taken Ilse's
slightly awestruck statement, then accepted her invitation to go for
coffee afterward. Their romance, like the newspaper accounts of Hans's