Spandau Phoenix

by Greg Iles

  “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 centre 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 yo
u.”

  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 behaviour 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 hulled 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 dialled her grandfather’s apartment.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  7.30 Pm. Polizei Abschnitt 53

  A stubborn group of reporters huddled on the sidewalk in the freezing wind, hoping for a break in the Spandau Prison story or the weather. As Hans idled his Volkswagen past the front steps of the police station, he saw klieg lights and cameras leaning against a remote-broadcast truck, evidence of how seriously the Berlin media were taking the incident. He felt a nervous thrill when he realized that even now the press was driving up the asking price of the Spandau papers for him. He accelerated past the journalists before they could get a decent look at him or the car and swung into the rear lot of the station.

  The unexpected summons had taken him by surprise, but upon reflection he wasn’t really worried. It made sense for the police brass to try to defuse the crisis before the Allied commandants got too involved—if they weren’t already. Nobody liked the Four Powers poking about in German affairs, even if Berlin still technically belonged to them.

  As he unlocked the rear door of the station, he spied Erhard Weiss’s red coupe parked against the wall. A good sign, Hans thought. At least he hadn’t been singled out for questioning. He flicked his cigarette onto the snow and walked inside. The back hallway was usually empty, but tonight a pinch-faced young man he didn’t know waited behind a rickety wooden table. The unlikely sentry leapt to attention when he

  saw Hans.

  “Identify yourself!” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “Your identification!”

  “I’m Hans Apfel. I work here. Who are you?”

  The little policeman shot Hans an exasperated look and reached for a piece of paper on his desk. It was apparently a list of some sort; he ran his finger down it like a prim schoolmaster.

  “Sergeant Hans Apfel?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Report immediately to room six for interrogation.”

  Under normal circumstances Hans would have challenged the man’s authority on general principles alone. Officers from other districts—especially snotty bureaucrats like this one—were treated coolly at Abschnitt 53 until they had proved their competence. Tonight, however, Hans didn’t feel quite confident enough to push. He walked on toward the stairs without comment.

  The oppressive block of interrogation rooms lay on the second floor, out of the main traffic of the station. At least they chose number six, he thought. Slightly larger than the other questioning rooms, “six” held a long table on a dais, some straight-backed chairs and, mercifully, an electric heater. Emerging from the stairwell on the second floor, Hans saw another unfamiliar policeman standing guard between rooms six and seven. A silent alarm sounded in his head, but it was too late to turn back.

  Suddenly a door further down the hall burst open. Two uniformed men with heavy beards bustled Erhard Weiss out of the room and down the hall away from Hans. Weiss’s feet seemed to be dragging behind him. He turned and gave Hans a dazed look; then he was gone. Hans slowed down. Something odd was happening here.

  “Interrogation?” the guard queried, noticing him.

  Hans nodded warily.

  “Wait in room seven.”

  Hans looked for a name tag on the man’s chest but saw none. “You from Wansee?” he asked. When the man didn’t answer, he tried again. “What’s going on in there, friend?”

  “Room seven,” the man repeated.

  “Seven,” Hans echoed softly. “All right, then.”

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door. There was only one man inside the smoky room—Kurt Steger, one of the four recruits from the Spandau assignment. Kurt jumped to his feet like a nervous puppy when he saw Hans.

  “Thank God!” he cried. “What’s going on, Hans?”

  Hans shook his head. “I’ve no idea. It looks like the whole place has been taken over by strangers. What have you seen?”

  “Nichts, almost nothing. We started in here together—all of us from Spandau except you. One by one they call us into room six. Nobody comes back.”

  Hans frowned. “They were practically dragging Weiss down the hall when I walked up. It didn’t look right at all.”

  He hated to ask the next question, but he needed the information. “Have you seen Captain Hauer, Kurt?”

  “No. I think the prefect’s handling this.”

  Hans considered this in silence.

  “I haven’t been on the force very long,” said Kurt, “but I get the feeling Captain Hauer and the prefect aren’t too fond of each other.”

  Hans nodded thoughtfully. “To say the least. They’ve been at each other’s throats since Funk took over eight years ago.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that Funk is an ass-kissing bureaucrat with no real police experience, and Hauer reminds him of it every chance he gets.”

  “Can’t the prefect fire whoever he wants?”

  “Firing Hauer isn’t worth the controversy it would start.”

  Hans
felt himself colouring as he went to the defence of the father he had accused of terrible things in the silence of his own mind. “He’s a decorated hero, one of the best cops in the city. He also works with GSG-9, the counter-terror unit. Connections like that don’t hurt. Plus he’s only got one month before retirement. Funk’s been waiting for that day a long time. Now he’s almost rid of him.”

  “What a bastard.” Kurt snapped his fingers anxiously. “You got any cigarettes? We smoked all we had.”

  Hans handed over his pack and matches. “Have they said who’s handling the questions?”

  Kurt’s hands shook slightly as he lit up. “They haven’t said anything. We’ve tried to listen through the wall, but it’s useless. They could beat a man to death in there and you’d never hear him scream.”

  “Thanks a lot. I’ll remember that while I’m in there. What about the Russians?”

  Kurt cut his eyes toward the door. “Weiss said he saw the very same bastard who tried to take the prisoners from us—”

  The door banged open, silencing the young recruit. A bearded man wearing captain’s bars

  stared back and forth between Hans and Kurt, then pointed to Hans.

  “You,” he growled.

  “But I’ve been here for two hours,” Kurt protested.

  The captain ignored him and motioned for Hans to follow.

  In the hall Hans saw another young officer being led around the corner toward the elevators, his arms pinned to his sides by two large policemen. Fighting a growing sense of unreality, Hans stepped into room six.

  The scene unnerved him. The sparsely furnished interrogation room had been transformed into a courtroom. A single wooden chair faced a long, raised table from which five men stared solemnly as Hans entered. At the centre of the table sat Wilhelm Funk, prefect of West Berlin police. He eyed Hans with the cold detachment of a hanging judge. A young blond man wearing lieutenant’s bars hovered at Funk’s left shoulder. Hans guessed he was Lieutenant Luhr, the aide who had summoned him by telephone. To the prefect’s right sat three men wearing Soviet Army uniforms.