Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

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 work

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?"