The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

  "I hope I killed the son of a bitch," growled the other.

  "That wouldn't go over too well upstairs, ROIL"

  "Who gives a shit?

  The bastard broke my ribs."

  Hans heard a low chuckle. "Be more careful the next time. Come on,

  we've got to clear a space in there for this thing.

  "Fuck it. Just throw this filthy Jew in on top of that one.

  Not much left of him, anyway."

  "Apfel isn't a Jew."

  "Jew-lover, then."

  "The doctor said leave this one on the gurney."

  "Make him clear a space," said Rolf, pointing in at Hans.

  "Sure. If you can wake him up."

  Rolf picked up a rusted joint of pipe from the floor and rankled the

  bars with it. "Wake up, asshole!"

  Hans ignored him.

  "Get up or we'll kill you."

  Hans heard the metallic click of a pistol slide being jerked back.

  Christ ... Slowly he rose to his feet.

  "See," said Rolf, "he's not dead. Clear out a space in there, you. And

  be quick about it."

  Hans tried to see who lay on the gurney, but Rolf smashed the pipe

  against the bars near his face. It took him forty seconds to clear a

  space wide enough to accept the gurney.

  "Get back against the wall," Rolf ordered. "Go on!"

  Hans watched the strange policemen roll the man on the gurney feet-first

  into the cleared space, then slam the door behind him.

  "You stay away from this Jew-boy, Sergeant," @olf warned.

  "Anything happens to him, it's on your head.

  The pair hurried up the stairs, taking the shaft of light with them.

  Hans couldn't make out the face of his new cellmate. He felt in his

  pocket for a match, then remembered he'd given them to Kurt in the

  waitin room upstairs. He put his hands on the unconscious man's

  shoulders and stared downward, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the

  blackness, but they didn't. Moving his hand tentatively, he felt

  something familiar. Shoulder patches. Surprised and a little afraid,

  Hans felt his way across the man's chest like a blind man. Brass

  buttons ... patch ... collar pins ... Hans felt his left hand brush an

  empty leather holster. A police officer!

  Shutting his eyes tight, he put his right hand on the man's face and

  waited. When he opened his eyes again, he could just make out the lines

  of the face.

  My God, he thought, feeling a lump in his throat. Weiss!

  Erhard Weiss! For the second time tonight Hans felt cut loose from

  reality. Gripping his friend's body like a life raft, he began trying

  to revive him. He spoke into Weiss's ear, but heard no answer.

  He slapped the slack face hard several times. No response.

  Groping around in desperation, Hans crashed into the back wall of the

  cell.

  His palms touched something moist and cold. Foundation stones.

  Condensation.

  Rubbing his hands a@ross the stones until they were sufficiently wet, he

  returned to Weiss and laved the cool liquid over his forehead.

  Still Weiss lay silent.

  Alarmed, Hans pressed both forefingers against Weiss's carotid arteries.

  He felt pulse beats, but very faint and unbelievably far apart. Weiss

  was alive, but just. The jailers had mentioned a doctor, Hans

  remembered. What kind of doctor would send a man to a cell in this

  condition? The obscenity of the situation drove him into a rage as he

  stood by the cadaverous body of his friend. Someone would answer for

  this outrage! Lurching to the front of the cell, Hans began screaming

  at the top of his lungs. He screamed until he had no voice left, but no

  one came. Slipping to the floor in exhaustion, he realized that the

  stacks of boxes in the basement must be deadening the sound of his

  voice. He doubted anyone upstairs had heard even a whimper.

  Suddenly Hans bolted to his feet in terror. Someone had screamed!

  It took him a moment to realize that the scream had come from inside the

  cell. He shivered as it came again, an animal shriek of agony and

  terror. Erhard Weiss-who had lain like a corpse through all

  Hans's.attempts to revive him-now fought the straps that held him as if

  the gurney were on fire. As Hans tried to restrain the convulsing body,

  the screwning suddenly ceased. It was as if a great stone had been set

  upon Weiss's chest. The young policeman's right arm shot up and gripped

  Hans's shoulder like a claw, quivered desperately, then, after a long

  moment, relaxed.

  Hans checked for a pulse. Nothing. He hadn't expected one.

  Erhard Weiss was dead. Hans had seen this death before-a heart attack,

  almost certainly. He had seen several similar cases during the last few

  years-young, apparently healthy men whose hearts had suddenly stopped,

  exploded, or fibrillated wildly and fatally out of control.

  In each case there had been a common factor-drugs. Cocaine usually, but

  other narcotics too. This case appeared no different.

  Except that Weiss never used drugs. He was a fitness enthusiast, a

  swimmer. On several occasions he and his fiancee had dined with Hans

  and Ilse at a restaurant, Hans remembered, and once in their apartment.

  In their home. And now Weiss was dead. Dead. The young man who had

  argued so tenaciously to keep two fellow Berliners-strangers, at

  that-out of the clutches of the Russians.

  In one anguished second Hans's exhaustion left him. He sprang to the

  front of the cell and stuck his arm through the bars, frantically

  searching the floor with his right hand.

  There-the iron pipe Rolf had brandished! Steadily Hans began pounding

  the pipe against the steel bars. The siimr, ui the blows rattled his

  entire body, but he ignored the pain. He would hammer the bars until

  they came for Weiss-until they came for his friend or he &opped dead.

  At that moment he did not care.

  CHAPTER SIX

  8.12 pm. #30 Ldtzenstrasse, British Sector.- West Berlin Seated at the

  kitchen table in apartment 40, Professor Emeritus of History Georg

  Natterrnan hunched over the Spandau papers like a gnome over a treasure

  map. His thick reading glasses shone like silver pools in the lamplight

  as he ran his hand through his thinning hair and silver beard.

  "What is it, Opa?" Ilse asked. "Is it dangerous?"

  "Patience, child," the professor mumbled without looking up.

  Knowing that further questions were useless until her grandfather was

  ready to speak, she opened a cupboard and began preparing tea.

  Perhaps Hans would get back in time to have some, she hoped; he'd been

  gone too long already. Ilse had told her grandfather as little as

  possible on the telephone, and by doing so she had failed to communicate

  the depth of her anxiety. Professor Natterman lived only twelve blocks

  away, but it had taken him over an hour to arrive. He understood the

  gravity of the situation now. He hadn't spoken a word since first

  seeing the Spandau papers and brusquely questioning Ilse as to how they

  came into her possession. As she poured the tea, he stood stiddenly,

  pulled off his reading glasses, and locked the nine pages into his

  ancient briefcase.

  "My dear," he said, "this is simply unbeli
evable. That this ...

  this document should have come into my hands after all these years.

  It's a miracle." He wiped his spectacles with a handkerchief.

  "You were quite right to call me. 'Dangerous' does not even begin to

  describe this find:' "But what is it, Opa? What is it really?"

  Natterman shook his head. "In terms of World War Two history, it's the

  Rosetta stone."

  Ilse's eyes widened. "What? Are you saying that the papers are real?"

  "Given what I've seen so far, I would have to say yes."

  Ilse looked incredulous. "What did you mean, the papers are like the

  Rosetta stone?"

  "I mean," Natterman sniffed, "that they are likely to change profoundly

  the way we view the world." He squinted his eyes, and a road map of

  lines crinkled his forehead.

  "How much do you know about Rudolf Hess, Ilse?"

  She shrugged. "I've read the recent newspaper stories. I looked him up

  in your book, but you hardly even mentioned his flight."

  The professor glanced over to the countertop, where a copy of his

  acclaimed Germany: From Bismarck to the Bunker lay open. "I didn't feel

  the facts were complete," he explained, "so I omitted that part of the

  story altogether."

  "Was I right about the papers? Do they claim that Prisoner Number Seven

  was not really Hess?"

  "Oh, yes, yes indeed. Very little doubt about that now. It looks as

  though the newspapers have got it right for once.

  The wrong man in prison for nearly fifty years ... very embarrassing for

  a lot of people."

  Ilse watched her grandfather for any hint of a smile, but she saw none.

  "You're joking with me, aren't you? How could that even be possible?"

  "Oh, it's quite possible. The use of lookalikes was standard procedure

  during the war, on both sides. Patton had one.

  Erwin Rommel also. Field Marshal Montgomery used an actor who could

  even imitate his voice to perfection. That's the easiest part of this

  story to accept."

  Ilse looked skeptical. "Maybe during* the war," she conceded.

  "From a distance. But what about the years in Spandau? What about

  Hess's family?"

  Natterman smiled impishly. "What about them? Prisoner Number Seven

  refused to see Hess's wife and son for the first twenty-eight years of

  his captivity." He savored Ilse's perplexed expression. "The factual

  discrepancies o on and 9

  on. Hess was a fastidious vegetarian, Prisoner Number Seven devoured

  meat like a tiger. Number Seven failed to recognize Hess's secretaries

  at Nuremberg. He twice gave the British wrong birth dates for Hess, and

  he missed by two years. And on and on ad nauseam."

  Ilse sat quietly, trying to take it all in. Beneath her thoughts, her

  anxiety for Hans buzzed like a low-grade fever.

  "Why don't I let Number Seven speak for himself?"

  Natterman suggested. "Would you like to hear my translation?"

  Ilse forced herself not to look at the kitchen clock. He's I "Yes, all

  right, she told herself. Just wait a ittle longer please," she said.

  Putting his reading glasses back on, the professor opened his briefcase,

  cleared his throat, and began to read in the resonant tones of the born

  teacher: I, Prisoner Number Seven, write this testament in the language

  of the Caesars for one reason: I know with certainty that Rudolf Hess

  could not do so. I learned Latin and Greek at university in Munich from

  1920 to 1923, but I learned that Hess did not know Latin at the most

  exclusive "school" in the world-Reinhard Heydrich's Institute for

  Practical Deception-in 1936. At this "institute"@n isolated barracks

  compound outside Dessau-I also learned every other known fact about

  Hess: his childhood; military service; Party record; relationship with

  the Fuhrer; and, most importantly, his personal idiosyncrasies.

  Ironically, one of the first facts I learned was that Hess had attended

  university in Munich at the same time I had, though I do not remember

  meeting him.

  I did not serve as a pilot in the First world War, but I joined one of

  Hermann Gdring's "flying clubs" between the wars. It was during an

  aerial demonstration in 1935 that the Reichsmarschall _first noticed my

  remarkable resemblance to Deputy-Fuhrer Hess. At the time I did not

  make much of the encounter-comrades had often remarked on this

  resemblance-but seven months later I was visited at the factory where I

  worked by two officers of Heydrich's SD. They requested me to accompany

  them on a mission of special importance to the Reich- From Munich I was

  flown to the "Practical School" building outside Dessau.

  I never saw my wife and daughter again.

  During the first week at the school I was completely isOlated from my

  fellow students. I received my "orientation" from Standartenfiihrer

  Ritter Graf headmaster of the Institute.

  He informed me that I had been selected to fulfill a mission of the

  highest importance to the Fuhrer My period of training-which would be

  lengthy and arduous, he saidwas to be carried out in total secrecy.

  I soon learned that this meant total separation from my family. To

  alleviate the stress of this separation, Graf showed me proof that my

  salary from the factory had been doubled, and that the money was being

  forwarded to my wife.

  After one week I met the other students. I cannot express the shock I

  felt. In one room in one night I saw the faces of not only famous Party

  Gauleiters and Wehrmacht generals, but also the most celebrated

  personalities of the Reich. At last I knew what my mission was. Hermann

  Gdring had not forgotten my resemblance to Rudolf Hess; it was Goring

  who had given my name to Reinhard Heydrich, the SD commender responsible

  for the program.

  There were many students at the Institute. Some completed the program,

  others did not. The unlucky ones paid for their failure in blood. We

  were constantly reminded of this "incentive. " One of the most common

  causes for "dismissal" from the school was the use of one's real name.

  Two slip-ups were forgiven. The third guaranteed erschlessen

  (execution). We were known by our "role " names, or, in situations

  where these were not practical, by our farmer ranks-in my case

  Hauptmann.

  I trained in an elite group. There were eight of us: "Hitler" (3

  "students" studied him); "Gdring"; "Himmler"; " Goebbels "; "Stretcher

  "; and myself- "Hess. " The training for our group lasted one year

  During that year I had four personal interviews with Deputy-Fuhrer Hess.

  The rest of my training was accomplished through study of newsreels and

  written records. During our training, several of the "doubles "for the

  Party Gauleiters left the school to begin their duties. Apparently

  their roles did not riquire so much preparation as ours.

  At the end of the training period my group was broken up and sent to

  various locations to await duty. I was sent first to Grvnau, where I

  was kept in isolation, then later to a remote airfield at Aalborg,

  Denmark. I repeatedly requested to be allowed to see my wife and

  daughter, but by this time Germany was at war and my requests wer
e

  summarily rejected I spent my time in solitude, reviewing my Hess mate

  rials and occasionally being visited by an SD officer I did have access

  to newspapers, and from them I deduced that Hess's position in the Nazi

  hierarchy seemed to have declined somewhat in favor of the generals

  since the outbreak of war I took this to be the reason I had not yet

  been assigned a mission.

  I must admit that, in spite of the hardship of the duty, I was very

  proud of the degree to which I could impersonate the Deputy Fuhrer

  During my final interview with H at the school, he was so shocked by my

  proficiency that his reaction verged on disorientation.

  Actually, a few of the other "students" had honed their skills to a

  finer edge than my own, but what happened to them I have no idea ...

  Natterman removed his spectacles, put the papers back into his

  briefcase, then closed and locked it. "A rather detailed story to be

  made up out of thin air, wouldn't you say?

  And that's only the first two pages."

  Ilse was smiling with satisfaction. "Very detailed," she agreed.

  "So detailed that it destroys your earlier argument. If this 'double'

  was so meticulously trained to imitate Hess, he certainly wouldn't make

  factual mistakes as obvious as missing Hess's birthday, or eating meat

  when Hess was a vegetarian. Would he?"

  Natterman met his granddaughter's triumphant smile with one of his own.

  "Actually, I've been thinking about that since I first translated the

  papers. You're quite right: a trained double wouldn't make factual

  mistakes like that-not unless he did so on purpose."

  Ilse's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

  "Just this. Since the double remained silent for all these years, he

  could only have done so for one of two reasons: either he was a

  fanatical Nazi right up until the end, which I don't accept, or-and this

  is supported by the papers-the fear of some terrible retribution kept

  him from speaking out.

  If we accept that scenario, Number Seven's mistakes' appear to me to be

  a cry for help-a quiet but desperate attempt to provoke skeptics to

  investigate his case and thus uncover the truth. And believe me, that

  cry was heard. Hundreds of scholars and authors have investigated the

  case.

  Dozens of books have been written, more every year."

  Natterman held up an admonishing finger. "The more relevant question is