The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

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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