by Greg Iles
African hotel room. Natterman shook his head to clear the fog of pain
medication.
"Guten Abend, Professor," Schneider said.
Natterman nodded.
"You look worse than you did in South Africa."
"Infection," Natterman explained. "By the time I reached a hospital
here in Germany, sepsis had set in. They say I'll be cured in two weeks
or so."
Schneider smiled. "Good for you." He removed his hat and overcoat and
stepped closer to the hospital bed. "You know, Professor, I just came
from a meeting where a lot of Allied officials asked me a lot of
questions about the Hess case."
Natterman looked suddenly wary.
"They wanted to know if any evidence of the truth remained. If there
were any photocopies, tapes, anything like that. You know? When I
thought about it, I did seem to remember some photographs Captain Hauer
had in the hotel room. Or negatives."
Natterman lay still as a stone.
Schneider sniffed the hospital air with distaste. "I hate these
places," he said. "Whenever I come, people I know seem to die." He
laid an arm on Natterman's shoulder. "I told those bureaucrats nothing
survived. To hell with them, you know?"
Natterman said nothing.
"But I've been thinking," Schneider went on, "about what should happen
to evidence like that. If it really existed, of course. Should it be
trumpeted in the press, or in a book?
Rehashed for the millionth time like all the other Nazi history?
Or should it be buried, like the Allies want it to be?"
After a long silence, Natterman said, "I've been doing some thinking
too, Detective. I've decided that the decision should not be up to us.
To Germans."
Schneider nodded slowly.
"Help me out of bed," Natterman said suddenly.
"What? The doctors said I couldn't visit you more than ten minutes. You
can't get up."
Natterman's face contorted in pain as he pulled something from beneath
his bedclothes. An envelope. "I've got something I need to deliver,"
he said. "And I want to make sure you take it where I want it to go.
So, help me up."
"How do we get past the doctors?"
"You're a policeman, aren't you?"
Schneider put on his hat and overcoat, then lifted the old man out of
bed as if he were a child.
At the Wilmersdorf post office, Schneider took a final glance at
Natterman as he walked into the building. The old historian's face,
framed in the open window of the taxi, was flushed by the freezing wind.
Inside the post office, Schneider withdrew Natterman's envelope from his
coat pocket. When he saw the address scrawled on the paper, he smiled.
Schneider suspected it had taken a great act of sacrifice on the
professor's part to give up what this envelope contained. If it
contained what Schneider thought it did. Unable to resist the
temptation, Schneider took a small knife from his pocket, slit open the
envelope, and looked inside.
He saw several strips of black-and-white photographic negatives.
He held one up to the light. He saw what could only be Latin.
The Spandau papers. The envelope also contained a note, written on a
piece of hospital notepaper. It said:
To whom it may concern:
I imagine your superiors will know what to do with these. The German
who wrote these words wanted his story told, but it is for your people
to decide what is best.
Signed, A good German Schneider folded the paper and slipped it back
into the envelope. Then, ignoring a long line, he stepped up to the
postal counter. The clerk made an extremely rude face and motioned for
him to move to the back of the line. Schneider pulled out his wallet,
threw a banknote on the counter, and showed the clerk his Kripo ID.
"Polizei," he grunted. "Give me some tape."
The clerk handed Schneider a tape dispenser. Schneider carefully
resealed the envelope; then he shoved it across to the clerk. "You make
sure this gets where it's going," he said. "And no slip-ups.
It's Polizei business."
The clerk snatched the envelope and stuffed it behind his counter.
He acted annoyed, but Schneider could tell he'd gotten the message.
Schneider pulled his coat collar around his big neck and ambled out into
the freezing Berlin wind.
He nodded to Professor Natterman; then he grinned. He better now.
Inside the post office, the clerk jerked the envelope out of its slot
and read the address.
Israeli Ambassador c/o Israeli Embassy 5300 Bonn 2 Simrock Allee #2
Bonn, Germany The return address was the same.
"Jews in the damned police department," the clerk muttered. "What the
hell is happening to this country?"
FB2 document info
Document ID: 5cb6e972-da1e-402a-ba07-23218a3e6b89
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 11.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.9, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Greg Iles
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