by Greg Iles
until there was time to analyze the situation.
They laid Natterman on the sofa in the front room. Hauer sent Hans to
fill a sock with snow, then tried his best to determine the seriousness
of the professor's wound. Cleaning it started the bleeding again-which
seemed incredible given the amount of blood splattered throughout the
cabin-but the frozen compress stanched the flow nicely.
Hauer substituted adhesive tape for sutures, fastening the edges of the
severed nostril together with surprising skill. He leaned back to
survey his work. "Wouldn't pass inspection at a Bundeswehr hospital,
but not bad for a field dressing. Let's get a blanket on him." He
looked around.
"Hans?"
Standing rigid at the bedroom door, Hans gasped and staggered backward.
Hauer darted to the door, saw Karl Riemeck's body, then returned to
Natterman's side.
"Who's the man in the bedroom?" he asked, his mouth an inch from the
old man's ear. "A friend of yours?"
Natterman nodded.
"Who killed him? Did you see him killed?"
The professor shook his head, then opened his eyes slowly. "Karl was my
caretaker," he whispered. "The animal killed him."
"Animal? What animal?" Hauer groaned as the old man's eyes closed. He
was out again. "Hans! Get over here and help me!"
Hans didn't move. His eyes seemed to be fixed on some undefined point
in space. Hauer had seen the look before: American army officers called
it the thousand-yard stare. It was the Vietnam variant of shell shock,
but Hauer knew that neither bullets nor blood had caused Hans's torpor.
What had overloaded his mind was the justified fear of losing his wife
forever. Giving Hans hope became Hauer's primary objective, for he knew
that Hans's unearthly calm was merely the silence before the storm, the
moment when all his fear and impotent rage would explode through his
self-control like a hurricane.
"Ilse must still be on her way," Hauer said confidently, preparing to
restrain Hans physically if necessary.
Hans's jaw muscles flexed steadily. "I would have seen her," he
mumbled.
"You wouldn't have seen her. We crossed East Germany in the trunk of a
car, for God's sake. Maybe, she took a late train like the professor.
Maybe she hitched a ride in a truck.
She could still be waiting for a train right now." Keeping his eyes on
Hans, Hauer shook Natterman gently. "Is there a telephone, Professor?"
"Dead ... I think the man who attacked me cut the line."
"Repair it, Hans," Hauer ordered. "Check the unit, then trace the
wire."
Hans finally focused on Hauer's face. "No," he said quietly .
"I'm going back to Berlin." He was trying to rebutton his coat, but his
shaking fingers seemed unable to keep hold of the small buttons.
"You can't get back in," Hauer told him.
"It's Ilse's only chance . . . She could be@' "No! " Professor
Natterman's stentorian voice boomed through the small room like a
thunderclap. Hauer stared as the old man slowly raised himself and
leveled a long finger at Hans. "You will not go back. To return now
would be suicide. Can you help Ilse if you're dead? The telephone must
be our lifeline now."
The professor's rebuke left him winded, but it had a dramatic effect on
Hans. He rubbed his forehead furiously with both hands as he walked
away from the two older men. "If only I hadn't tried to keep those
goddamn papers," he muttered.
"You did the right thing," Hauer said firmly. "If you had turned the
papers in, Funk would have them now, and you'd be as dead as your friend
Weiss."
Hans looked up with red-rimmed eyes.
"Trace the wire," Hauer said softly, looking to Natterman for support.
"It runs out of a hole in back of the cabin," said the professor.
Hans still looked uncertain.
Hauer drew his Walther. "And take this. Whoever attacked the professor
may still be out there."
Hans snatched the pistol and disappeared through the front door.
Natterman turned to Hauer. "Will he try to leave?"
"He can't. I've got the keys."
Natterman studied Hauer's face. "You're Hans's father," he said after
some moments. "Aren't you? I can see the resemblance."
Hauer took a slow, deep breath, then he nodded curtly.
Natterman made a sound that was almost a chuckle. "Ilse told me you had
been at Spandau. So, you've acknowledged your son at last, eh?"
"I acknowledged him the first moment I saw him," Hauer said in a clipped
tone.
Natterman looked skeptical. "Tell me, Captain, you're the expert.
Do you believe I will ever see my granddaughter again?"
Hauer pursed his lips. "Who has the papers Hans found at Spandau?"
Natterman hesitated, thinking of the three pages that had disappeared
with Karl Riemeck's murderer. "I do," he confessed.
"They're safe."
Hauer wondered if the old man had the papers on him.
"Then I'll give you sixty-forty odds that she's still alive.
Frankly, I'd expect a ransom demand any time now. And you know what
they'll be asking for." He walked over to the cabinet that had
concealed the shotgun. He touched it softly, appearing to examine the
grain of the wood. "So," he said.
"Exactly what is in THESE papers Hans discovered?"
Natterman propped himself up on the arm of the sofa. It made him dizzy,
but he felt better able to deal with questions from an upright position.
' "You must realize that you'll need assistance to do anything from this
point on," Hauer said. "You must also realize that I'm the only man
within a great distance who is able to help you."
"On the contrary," Natterman said testily. "There are many nearby who
would help me."
Hauer sighed. "Men like the one in the,bedroom there?"
Natterman's eyes smoldered. "Why should you help me?"
he snapped. "What exactly are you after, Hauer?"
Hauer stiffened. In Germany, the cavalier omission of a man's rank or
title is an open insult. He was moving forward when boots clattered
loudly on the porch. The splintered door banged open.
"I need a knife," said Hans, his breath steaming as he closed the door.
He stamped his icy boots on the floorboards while he searched the
kitchen alcove.
"How long will it take?" Hauer asked, his eyes still on Natterman.
"Less than a minute if I didn't have to, climb that goddamn pole.
It's covered with ice, and the bastard cut the wire at the top."
Hans found a sharp paring knife in a drawer and clomped out again.
"I'm waiting," said Hauer.
Natterman sighed. He would have to say something, he knew, but
misdirecting a police captain shouldn't be too difficult. "All right,
Captain," he said. "What Hans found at Spandau-what your son found-is a
letter of sorts. A diary, if you will. A diary written in Latin by the
man known to the world for almost fifty years as Rudolf Hess."
"Perfect," said Hauer. "A dead language from a dead
man.
The professor sniffed indignantly. "This diary happens to prove that
that
particular dead man was not Rudolf Hess."
Hauer's eyes narrowed. "You believe that?"
Natterman looked sanguine. "It's nothing new. You've heard all the
theories, I'm sure. Himmler tricked Hess into becoming a pawn in his
quest for Hitler's job; Goring had Hess shot down, then-"
"I've heard the theories," Hauer cut in. "And that's just what they
are, theories. Bullshit."
"Your expert opinion notwithstanding," Natterman said, "I believe that
the man who died last month in Spandau was never the Deputy Fuhrer of
the Third Reich. And from what I saw on television today, I'd say the
Russians believe that too.
Hauer snorted. "The Russians would hound a rat right up their backsides
if they thought it endangered their precious Motherland.
What proof is there that the papers are authentic?"
Natterman bridled. "Why the diary itself, of course."
"You mean that it exists? That Hans found it where he did?"
The professor tugged at his silver beard. "No. Those things are
significant, but it's the papers themselves that are the proof."
"How?"
"The language, Captain. You might think that Prisoner Number Seven
wrote in Latin to conceal his words from the prison guards, or something
similar. But that's not the case at all. Think, man. Here was a man
who knew he was near death, who decided to leave a record of the truth.
Yet all proof that he ever lived had been wiped out long ago by Reinhard
Heydrich. How could he prove who he was? I'll tell you. As Hess's
trained double, Number Seven had studied everything about the Deputy
Fuhrer. Yet no matter how much like Hess he became, he still possessed
certain traits and abilities that Hess did not. And knowing those
abilities better than anyone, he used one to prove his identity. Thus,
he wrote his final record in Latin." Natterman's eyes flashed with
triumph. "And so far as I have been able to determine, Rudolf
Hess-though better educated than most of Hitler's inner circle-Aid not
know more than twenty words of Latin, if any. "
"That proves nothing," Hauer argued. "In fact, that suggests to me that
some crank wrote this diary."
"Why do you fight this so hard, Captain? Number Seven was the only
prisoner."
"At the end. There were others before."
"Yes," Natterman admitted. "A few. But cranks? No. And the searches,
Captain, there were thousands of them. The diary must have been written
near the end."
"It could have been slipped in by a guard," Hauer suggested. But the
cold ache in his chest belied his words.
Natterman shrugged. "It's not my job to convince you, Captain.
But given what's already occurred, I suggest we work on the assumption
that the diary is genuine-at least until I can take further steps to
authenticate it."
Hauer rummaged through his borrowed suit for a cigar.
"But what's the point of all this? The KGB and half the Berlin police
force haven't gone mad over some scrap of history. What does the diary
mean now?"
"Now?" Natterman smiled. "I suppose that depends on who you happen to
be. Paradoxically enough, the answer to your question lies in the past.
That is why the diary is so important." The old man's voice climbed a
semitone with repressed excitement. "It is a veritable tunnel into the
past ...
into history."
Hauer walked to the front window of the cabin and stared out into the
frozen darkness. "Professor," he said finally, "if this diary were
real, is there any conceivable way it could be embarrassing enough to
influence NATO? Possibly even the Soviet Union?"
Natterman raised an eyebrow. "Given the lengths to which certain
countries have gone to suppress the Hess story, I would say yes. Of
course it would depend on what one wanted to influence those nations to
do."
Hauer nodded. "Suppose someone wanted to use the diary to make the
superpowers more amenable to the idea of German reunification?"
Natterman's face darkened with suspicion. "I think I have answered
enough questions, Captain. I think you should@' The splintered cabin
door banged open again. When Hauer turned, he saw Hans hunched over,
dragging something into the cabin.
It took him a moment to realize that it was a human body. Then he saw
the hair-long, blond hair.
"Hans?" he said hoarsely.
Hans grunted and fell backward, breathing hard. The corpse's head
thudded to the floor. Hauer walked slowly across the room and looked
down at the body. It wasn't Ilse.
It was a man. A dead man with long blond hair. The right arm hung from
the torso by a single cord of tendon; the shoulder had been blasted into
mush by the professor's shotgun. But the most shocking sight was the
throat. It had been expertly cut from ear to ear.
"A thorough job, Professor," said Hauer.
"I-I didn't do that," Natterman stammered. "Not the throat."
Hauer glanced furtively'at the windows.
"There's someone else out there!" Natterman cried.
Hauer watched in astonishment as the old man flew at the carcass like a
grave robber. He rifled every pocket, then began groping beneath the
frozen, blood-matted shirt.
"What are you doing, Professor!"
Natterman looked up, his eyes wild. "I-I'm trying to find out who he
is."
"Any papers on him?"
Natterman shook his head violently, afraid for a moment that Hauer had
asked about the missing diary pages. But he doesn't know they're
missing, he reassured himself, getting to his feet. He doesn't know ...
Hauer said, "It's a good thing he didn't get hold of the Spandau papers.
There's no telling where they might be now."
"You have the papers?" Hans asked in surprise.
My God, Natterman thought wildly. Where are those pages? "Ilse gave
them to me," he said.
"The question," Hauer mused, "is who finished this bastard off?"
With a grunt he crouched over the body and heaved it onto its stomach.
The half-severed head flopped over last. Hauer probed the thick blond
hair behind the corpse's right ear. "Well, well," he said, "at least we
know who sent this one. Look."
Hans and the professor knelt and examined the spot Hauer had exposed
with his fingertips. Beneath the roots of the dead man's hair was a
mark just under two centimeters long.
It was an eye. A single, blood red eye.
"Phoenix," Hauer muttered.
Natterman jerked as if he had been stunned with electricity.
"It's the eye from the Spandau papers! The exact design!
The All-Seeing Eye. What does it mean there? On this man's head?"
Hauer stood. "It means that Funk's little cabal sent this fellow.
Or his masters did."
"You said 'Phoenix.' You haven't read the Spandau papers. What do you
know about the word Phoenix?"
"Not nearly enough."
"But who killed him?" Hans asked. "Whoever it was ...
it's almost as if he's helping us. Maybe he knows something about
Ilse."
Hans darted toward the door, but Hauer caught him by the sleeve.
&n
bsp; "Hans, whoever killed this man did it to get the papers, not to help us.
You were outside for ten minutes and no one talked to you.
Obviously no one wanted to. Whoever's out there could cut your throat
as easily as he did this fellow's, so forget it." He kept hold of
Hans's sleeve. "Did you fix the telephone?"
Hans looked longingly at the door. "The wire's spliced," he said in a
monotone.
"Good. I'll call Steuben at the station. If something's changed in
Berlin, we just might be able to slip back in before morning."
Hauer knew it was a lie when he said it. They wouldn't be going back to
Berlin. Not until they had followed the Spandau diary wherever it
led-until they had traveled the professor's "tunnel into the past" to
its bitter end. One look at the mangled carcass at his feet told him it
was going to be a bloody journey.
"We'd better stand watches," he said. "Whoever killed our tattooed
friend may still be out there. You're up first, Hans."
Thirty meters from the cabin, a tall @@ntinel stood in the deep snow
beneath the dripping trees. In one hand he held three bloodstained
sheets of onionskin paper, in the other a knife. By holding the blade
at a certain angle, he could illuminate the pages by reflecting light
from the cabin windows.
But it was no use. He spoke three languages fluently, but he could not
read Latin. As he watched the silhouettes moving across the yellow-lit
windows, he envied the old man's education . Not that it made any
difference. He had known what the papers said ever since he'd stood
outside the door of the Apfel apartment and listened to the arguments
inside. Stuffing the pages into his coat pocket, he murmured a few
words in Hebrew. Then he squatted down on his haunches in the deep
snow. He had lived in the burning desert for the past twelve years, but
the cold was nothing to him. Jonas Stern knew he could outwait anybody.
Especially Germans.
mI-5 Headquarters Charles Street, London, England
Sir Neville Shaw jerked his head up from the Hess file; he'd been poring
over it so long that he had dropped into a kind of half-sleep.
He snapped out of it when Wilson, his deputy, barged into his dim office
without knocking, something he was forbidden to do on pain of
bloodcurdling punishments.
"What the devil!" Shaw snapped.
"I'm sorry, sir," Wilson panted. "I think we've got a problem."
"Well?"
