Читать книгу Spandau Phoenix - Greg Iles - Страница 16

Hans reached the apartment building too winded to use the stairs. He wriggled into the elevator, yanked the lever that set the clattering cage in motion, then slumped against the wrought-iron grillwork. Despite his frayed nerves, he was smiling. Heini Weber could joke all he wanted, but in the end the joke would be on him. Because Hans knew something Weber didn’t: where he had found the papers. And that single fact would make him rich, he was certain of it. He jerked back the metal grille and trotted to the apartment door.

“Ilse!” he called, letting himself in. “I’m home!”

In the kitchen doorway he stopped cold. Wearing a white cotton robe, Ilse sat at the table holding the papers Hans had found at Spandau.

“Where did these come from?” she asked coolly.

Hans searched for words. This was not the way he’d planned to explain the papers.

“Your night duty was at Spandau Prison, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but Liebchen, give me a chance to explain. It was a secret detail. That’s why I couldn’t call you.”

She studied him silently. “You haven’t told anyone about this, have you?”

Hans remembered his conversation with Heini Weber, but decided that 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 Lützenstrasse, 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 others—Heydrich, 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 have 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 thing 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 years 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-Bahn.” 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 me—Jews 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, self-mocking 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 robe 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 bedroom 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 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 bulled 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 heroism, had been brief and fiery. He was promoted to sergeant, and they were married as his splash of celebrity faded from the picture magazines.

Ilse had always believed she made a good choice, no matter what her snobby friends or her grandfather said. But this madness from Spandau was no traffic accident. Hans couldn’t summon a burst of physical courage to stop the danger she felt tightening around them now. The papers lying on her kitchen table were like a magnet drawing death toward them—she knew it. She did not believe in premonitions, but as she thought of Hans driving anxiously toward a situation he knew nothing about, her heart began to race. A wave of nausea rolled inside her. The pregnancy …? Afraid she might throw up, she hurried into the kitchen and leaned over the sink. She managed to choke down the nausea, but not her terror. With tears blurring her eyes, Ilse lifted the phone and dialed her grandfather’s apartment.