Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

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

'Hitler diaries.' "

Hans's jaw dropped.

"The London Sunday Times went in for 400,000 pounds, and I think both

Time and Newsweek came close to getting stung." Weber smiled with a

touch of professional envy.

"Heidemann was pretty smart about it, really. He set the hook by

leaking a story that the diaries contained Hitler's version of Rudolf

Hess's flight to Britain. Of course every rag in the world was panting

to print a special edition solving the last big mystery of the war.

They shelled out millions. Careers were ruined by that fiasco."

The reporter laughed harshly. "Guten Abend, Sergeant. Call me next

time there's a kidnapping, eh?"

Weber trotted to the waiting Spyder, leaving Hans standing dumbfounded

in the doorway. He had called the reporter for information, and he had

gotten more than he'd bargained for. 3.7

million marks? Jesus!

"Make way, why don't you!" croaked a high-pitched voice.

Hans grunted as the tall janitor shouldered past him onto the sidewalk

and hobbled down the street. His broom was gone; now a worn leather bag

swung from his shoulder.

Hans followed the man with his eyes for a while, then shook his head.

Paranoia, he thought.

Looking up at the drab facade of his apartment building, he decided that

a walk through the city beat waiting for Ilse in the empty flat.

Besides, he always thought more clearly on the move. He started

walking. Just over a hundred meters long, the Liitzenstrasse was wedged

into a rough trapezoid between two main thoroughfares and a convergence

of elevated S-Bahn rail tracks. Forty seconds' walking carried Hans

from the dirty brown stucco of his apartment building to the polished

chrome of the Kurfiirstendamm, the showpiece boulevard of Berlin. He

headed east toward the center of the city, speaking to no one, hardly

looking up at the dazzling window displays, magisterial banks, open-air

cafes, art galleries, antique shops, and nightclubs of the Ku'damm.

Bright clusters of shoppers jostled by, gawking and laughing together,

but they yielded a wide path to the lone walker whose Aryan good looks

were somehow made suspect by his unshaven face and ragged clothing. The

tall, spare man gliding purposefully along behind Hans could easily have

been walking at his shoulder. The man no longer looked like a janitor,

but even if he had, it wouldn't have mattered; Hans was lost in heady

dreams of wealth beyond measure.

He paused at a newsstand and bought a pack of American cigarettes.

He really needed a smoke. As he sucked in the first potent drag, he

suddenly remembered something from the Spandau papers. The writer had

said he was the last ...

The last what? The last prisoner? And then it hit Hans like a bucket

of water in the face. The Spandau papers were signed Prisoner Number

Seven ... and Prisoner Number Seven was Rudolf Hess himself.

He felt the hand holding the cigarette start to shake. He tried to

swallow, but his throat refused to cooperate. Had he actually found the

journal of a Nazi war criminal? With Heini Weber's cynical comments

echoing in his head, he tried to recall what he could about Hess. All

he really knew was that Hess was Hitler's right-hand man, and that he'd

flown secretly to Britain sometime early in the war, and had been

captured. For the past few weeks the Berlin papers had been full of

sensational stories about Hess's death, but Hans had read none of them.

He did remember the Occasional feature from earlier years, though.

They invariably portrayed an infantile old man, a once-powerful soldier

'reduced to watching episodes of the American soap opera Dynasty on

television. Why was the pathetic old Nazi so important?

Hans wondered. Why should even a hint of information about his mission

drive the price of forged diaries into the millions?

Catching his reflection in a shop window, Hans realized that in his work

clothes he looked like a bum, even by the Ku'damrn's indulgent

standards. He stubbed out his cigarette and turned down a side street

at the first opportunity. He soon found himself standing before a small

art cinema. He gazed up at the colorful posters hawking films imported

from a dozen nations. On a whim he stepped up to the ticket window and

inquired about the matinee. The ticket girl answered in a sleepy

monotone.

"American western film today. John Wayne. Der Searchers.', "In

German?"

'Nein. English."

"Excellent. One ticket, please."

"Twelve DM," demanded the robot voice.

"Twelve! That's robbery."

"You want the ticket?"

Reluctantly, Hans surrendered his money and entered the theater.

He didn't stop for refreshments; at the posted prices he couldn't afford

to. No wonder Ilse and I never go to movies, he thought. Just before

he entered the screening room, he spied a pay phone near the restrooms.

He slowed his stride, thinking of calling in to the station, but then he

walked on. There isn't any rush, is there? he thought. No one knows

about the papers yet. As he seated himself in the darkness near the

screen, he decided that he might well have found the most anonymous

place in the city to decide what to do with the Spandau papers.

Six rows behind Hans, a tall, thin shadow slipped noiselessly into a

frayed theater seat. The shadow reached into a worn leather bag on its