by Greg Iles
suppose you're right."
"But you are excellent at what you do, my friend. I am living proof of
your skill and dedication. I am the only one left who knows the secret.
The only one. And that is due in no small part to you."
"You exaggerate, Herr Horn."
"No. Though I have-great wealth, my power rests not in money but in
fear. And one instrument of the fear I generate is you. Your loyalty
is beyond price."
"And beyond doubt, you know that."
Horn's single living eye pierced Smuts's soul. "We can know nothing for
certain, Pieter. Least of all about ourselves. But I have to trust
someone, don't I?"
"I shall never fail you," Smuts said softly, almost reverendy.
"Your goal is greater than any temptation."
"Yes," the old man answered. "Yes it is."
Horn backed the wheelchair away from the desk and turned to face the
window. The skyline of Pretoria, for the most part beneath him,
stretched away across the suburbs to the soot-covered townships, to the
great plateau of the northern Transvaal, where three days hence Horn
would host a meeting calculated to alter the balance of world power
forever. As Smuts closed the door softly, Horn's mind drifted back to
the days of his youth ... the days of power. Gingerly, he touched his
glass eye.
"Der Tag kommt, he said aloud. "The day approaches."
CHAPTER THREE
3.-31 Pm. British Sector West Berlin Hans awoke in a sweat. He still
cowered inside a dark cave, watching in terror as a Russian soldier came
for him with a Kalashnikov rifle. The illusion gripped his mind,
difficult to break. He sat upright in bed and rubbed the sleep from his
eyes. Still the wrecked compound hovered before him.
His soiled uniform still chafed, still smelled of the dank prison yard.
He shook his head violently, but the image would not disappear.
It was real ...
On the screen of the small Siemens television two meters in front of
Hans, a tall reporter clad in the type of topcoat favored by West Berlin
pimps stood before a wide shot of the wasteland that yesterday had been
Spandau Prison. Hans clambered over the footboard of the bed and turned
up the volume on the set.
"... Deutsche Welled broadcasting live from the Wilhelmstrasse.
As you can see, the main structure of Spandau Prison was destroyed with
little fanfare yesterday by the British military authorities. it was
here early this morning that Soviet troops in conjunction with West
Berlin police arrested the two West German citizens whom the Russians
are now attempting to extradite into East Berlin.. There is virtually
no precedent for this attempt. The Russians are following no recognized
legal procedure, and the story that began here in the predawn hours is
rapidly becoming an incident of international proportions. To the best
of Deutsche Welle's knowledge, the two Berliners are being held inside
Polizei Abschnitt 53, where our own Peter Muller is following
developments as they occur. Peter?"
Before switching to the second live feed, the producer stayed with the
Spandau shot for a few silent seconds. What Hans saw brought a sour
lump to his throat. A hundred meters behind the reporter, dozens of
uniformed men slowly picked their way across the ruined grounds of
Spandau.
They moved over the icy rubble like ants in search of food, some not far
from the very mound where Hans had made his discovery. A few wore white
lab coats, but others-Hans's throat tightened-others wore the
distinctive red-patched brown uniforms of the Soviet infantry.
Hans scoured the screen for clues that might explain the Soviet
presence, but the scene vaporized. Now a slightly better-dressed
commentator stood before the great threearched doorway of the police
station where Hans reported to work every morning. He shifted his
weight excitedly from one foot to the other as he spoke.
"Thank you, Karl," he said. "Other than the earlier statement by the
police press officer that a joint investigation with the USSR is under
way, no details are forthcoming. We know that an undetermined number of
Soviet soldiers remain inside Abschnitt 53, but we do not know if they
are guests here, as is claimed, or if-as has been rumored-they control
the station by force of arms.
"While the Spandau incident occurred in the British sector of the city,
the German prisoners were taken by a needlessly lengthy route to
Abschnitt 53, here in the American sector, just one block from
Checkpoint Charlie. Informed sources have speculated that a
quick-witted police officer may have realized that the Soviets would be
less likely to resort to violence in the American-controlled part of the
city. We have received no statements from either the American or the
British milimq commands. However, if Soviet troops are in fact inside
this police station without the official sanction of the U.S.
Army, the Allied occupational boundaries we have all by familiarity come
to ignore may suddenly assume a critical importance.
This small incident could well escalate into one of the most volatile
crises of the post-glasnost era. We will update this story at 18:00
this evening, so please stay tuned to this channel. This is Peter
Muller, Deutsche Welle, live . .
While the reporter solemnly wrapped his segment, he failed to notice the
huge station door open behind him. Haggard but erect, Captain Dieter
Hauer strode out into the afternoon light. He looked as though he
hadn't slept in hours. He surveyed the sidewalk like a drill sergeant
inspecting a barracks yard; then, apparently satisfied, he gave the
reporter a black look, turned back toward the station door, and
dissolved into a BMW commercial.
Hans fell back against the footboard of the bed, his mind reeling.
Russian troops still in his home station? Who had leaked the Spandau
story to the press? And who were the men in the white lab coats? What
were they searching for?
Was it the papers he'd found? It almost had to be. No one cared about
a couple of homosexuals who happened to trespass public property in
their search for a love nest. The realization of what he had done by
keeping the papers hit Hans like a wave of fever. But what else could
he have done? Surely the police brass would not have wanted the
Russians to get hold of the papers. He could have driven straight to
Polizei headquarters at Platz der Luftbriicke, of course, but he didn't
know a soul there. No, when he turned in the papers, he wanted to do it
at his home station. And he couldn't do that yet because the Russians
were still inside it!
He would simply have to wait.
But he didn't want to wait. He felt like a boy who has stumbled over a
locked chest in a basement. He wanted to know what the devil he'd
found! Anxiou@ly, he snapped his fingers. Ilse, he thought suddenly.
She had a gift for languages, just like her arrogant grandfather. Maybe
she could decipher the rest of the Spandau papers.
He lifted the phone and punched in the first four digits of her wo
rk
number; then he replaced the receiver. The brokerage house where Ilse
worked did not allow personal calls during trading hours.
Hans would break a rule quicker than most Germans, but he remembered
that several employees had been fired for taking this rule lightly.
A reckless thought struck Hans. He wanted information, and he knew
where he could get some. After sixty seconds of hard reflection, he
picked up the telephone directory and looked up the number of Der
Spiegel. Several department numbers were listed for the magazine. He
wasn't sure which he needed, so he dialed the main switchboard.
"Der Spiegel, " answered a female voice.
"I need to speak to Heini Weber," Hans said. "Could you connect me with
the proper department, please?" "One moment."
Thirty seconds passed. "News," said a gruff male voice.
"Heini Weber, please. He's a friend of mine." A bit of an
exaggeration, Hans thought, but what the hell?
"Weber's gone," the man growled, "He was just here, but he left again.
Field assignment."
Hans sighed. "If he comes back-"
"Wait, I see him. Weber!
Telephone!"
Hans heard a clatter of chairs, then a younger male voice came on the
line. "Weber here. Who's this?"
"Hans Apfel."
"Who ?"
"Sergeant Hans Apfel- We met at-"
"Right, right," Weber remembered, "that kidnapping thing. Gruesome.
Listen, I'm in a hurry, can you make it fast?"
"I need to talk to you," Hans said deliberately. "It's important."
"Hold on-I'm coming already! What's your story, Sergeant?"
"Not over the phone," Hans said, knowing he probably sounded ridiculous.
"Jesus," Weber muttered. "I've got to get over to Hannover. A mob of
Greens is disrupting an American missile transport on the E-30 and I
need to leave five minutes ago."
"I could ride with you."
"Two-seater," Weber objected. "And I've got to take my photographer. I
guess your big scoop will have to wait until tomorrow."
"No!" Hans blurted, surprised by his own vehemence. "It can't wait.
I'll just have to call someone else."
A long silence. "All right," Weber said finally, "where do you live?"
"Lijtzenstrasse, number 30."
"I'll meet you out front. I can give you five minutes."
"Good enough." Hans hung up and took a deep breath.
This move carried some risk. In Berlijf, all police contact with the
press must be officially cleared beforehand. But he intended to get
information from a reporter, not to give it.
Without pausing to shower or shave, he stripped off his dirty uniform
and threw on a pair of cotton pants and the old shirt he wore whenever
he made repairs on the VW. A light raincoat and navy scarf completed
his wardrobe.
The Spandau papers still lay beneath the rumpled mattress. He retrieved
them, scanning them again on the off chance that he'd missed something
before. At the bottom of the last page he found it: several hastily
written passages in German, each apparently a separate entry: The
threats stoppedfor a time. Foolishly, I let myself hope that the
madness had ended. But it started again last month.
Can they read my thoughts? No sooner do I toy with the idea of setting
down my great burden, than a soldier of Phoenix appears before me. Who
is with them? Who is not? They show me pictures of an old woman, but
the eyes belong to a aurtger I am certain my wife is dead My daughter is
alive! She wears a middle-agedface and bears an unknown name, but her
eyes are mine. She is a hostage roaming free, with an invisible sword
hanging above her head But safe she has remained I am strong! The
Russians have promised to find my angel, to save her, if I will but
speak her name. But I do not know it! It would be useless if I did.
Heydrich wiped all trace of me from the face of Germany in 1936. God
alone knows what that demon told my family!
My British warders are stern like guard dogs, very stupid ones.
But there are other Englanders who are not so stupid.
Have you found me out, swine?
And a jagged entry: Phoenix wields my precious daughter like a sword of
fire! If only they knew! Am I even a dim memory to my angel?
No. Better that she never knows. I have lived a life of madness, but
in the face of death I found courage. In my darkest hours-I remember
these lines from Ovid: "It is a smaller thing to suffer punishment than
to have deserved it. The punishment can be removed, the fault will
remain forever " My long punishment shall soon cease.
After all the slaughtered millions, the war finally ends for me.
May God accept me into His Heaven, for I know that Heydrich and the
others await me at the gates of HelL Surely I'have paid enough.
Number 7
A car horn blared outside. Strangely shaken, Hans folded the pages into
a square and stuffed them back under the mattress. Then he tugged on a
pair of old sneakers, locked the front door, and bounded into the
stairwell. He bumped into a tall janitor on the third floor landing,
but the old man didn't even look up from his work.
Hans found Heini Weber beside a battered red Fiat Spyder, bouncing up
and down on his toes like a hyperactive child. A shaggy-haired youth
with a Leica slung round his neck peered at Hans from the Fiat's jump
seat.
"So what's the big story, Sergeant?" Weber asked.
"Over here," said Hans, motioning toward the foyer of his building. He
had seen nothing suspicious in the street, yet he could not shake the
feeling that he was being watched-if not by hostile, at least by
interested eyes. It's.just the photographer he told himself.
Weber followed him into the building and immediately resumed his nervous
bouncing, this time against the dirty foyer wall.
"The meter's running," said the reporter.
"Before I tell you anything," Hans said carefully, "I want some
information."
Weber scowled. "Do I look like a fucking librarian to you? Come on,
out with it."
Hans nodded solemnly, then played out his bait. "I may have a story for
you, Heini, but ... to be honest, I'm curious about what it might be
worth."
"Well, well," the reporter deadpanned, "the police have joined the club.
Listen, Sergeant, I don't buy stories, I track them down for pay. That's
the news game, you know? If you want money, try one of the American TV
networks."
When Hans didn't respond, Weber said, "Okay, I'll bite.
What's your story? The mayor consorting with the American commandant's
wife? The Wall coming down tomorrow? I've heard them all, Sergeant.
Everybody's got a story to sell and ninety-nine percent of them are
shit. What's yours?"
Hans looked furtively toward the street. "What if," he murmured, "what
if I told you I'd got hold of something important from the war?
From the Nazi period?"
"Something," Weber echoed. "Like?"
Hans sighed anxiously. "Like papers, say. Like a diary.
Weber scrutinized him for some moments; then his eyebrows arched
cynically. "
Like the diary of a Nazi war criminal, maybe?"
Hans's eyes widened in disbeliel "How did you know?"
"Scheisse! " Weber cursed. He slapped the wall. "Is that what you got
me over here for? Christ, where do they find you guys? That's the
oldest one in the book!"
Hans stared at the reporter as if he were mad. "What do you mean?"
Weber returned Hans's gaze with something akin to pity; then he put a
hand on his shoulder. "Whose diary is it, Sergeant? Mengele's?
Borinann's?"
"Neither," Hans snapped. He felt strangely defensive you ing t about
the Spandau papers. "What the hell are try 0 say?"
"I'm saying that you probably just bought the German equivalent of the
Brooklyn Bridge."
Hans blinked, then looked away, thinking fast. He clearly wasn't going
to get any information without revealing some first. "This diary's
genuine," he insisted. "And I can prove it."
"Sure you can," said Weber, glancing at his watch. "When Gerd Heidemann
discovered the 'Hitler diaries' back in '83, he even had Hugh
Trevor-Roper swearing they were authentic. But they were crap,
Sergeant, complete fakes. I don't know where you got your diary, but I
hope to God you didn't pay much for it."
The reporter was laughing. Hans forced himself to smile sheepishly, but
what he was thinking was that he hadn't paid n all papers. He had found
them.
o e Pfennig for the Spand And if Heini Weber knew where he had found
them, the reporter would be begging him for an exclusive story.
Hans heard the regular swish of a broom from the first-floor landing.
"Heini," he said forcefully, "just tell me this. Have you heard of any
missing Nazi documents or anything like that floating around recently?"
Weber shook his head in amazement. "Sergeant, what you're talking
about-Nazi diaries and things-people were selling them ten-a-penny after
the war. It's a fixed game, a scam." His face softened. "Just cut
your losses and run, Hans. Don't embarrass yourself."
Weber turned and grabbed the door handle, but Hans caught him by the
sleeve. "But if it were authentic?" he said, surprising himself.
"What kind of money would we be talking about?"
Weber pulled his arm free, but he paused for a last look at the gullible
policeman. The swish of the broom had stopped, but neither man noticed.
"For the real thing?" He chuckled. "No limit, Sergeant.
Stern magazine paid Heidemann 3.7 million marks for first rights to the
