Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

pile, Hans looked away first. He did not see the Russian nod almost

imperceptibly to the "sergeant" at the table, nor did he see the

"sergeant' soffly touch the sleeve of one of the colonels as Funk began

his interrogation.

"You are Sergeant Hans Apfel?" the prefect asked, still looking at the

file before him. "Born Munich 1960, Bundeswehr service 1978 to 1980,

two-year tour Federal Border Police, attached Munich municipal force

1983, transfelled Berlin 1984, promoted sergeant May of '84?"

"Yes, sir."

"Speak up, Sergeant."

Hans cleared his throat. "I am."

"Better. I want you to listen to me, Sergeant. I have convened this

informal hearing to save everyone-yourself included-a great deal of

unnecessary trouble. Because of the publicity surrounding this

morning's events, the Allied commandants have scheduled a formal

investigation into this matter, to commence at seven o'clock tomorrow

morning. I want this matter cleared up long before then. The problem

is that our Soviet friends"-Funk nodded deferentially to his

right-"Oberst Zotin and Oberst Kosov, claim to have uncovered something

rather disturbing at Spandau today. Their forensic people say they have

evidence that something was removed from the area of the cellblocks last

occupied by the Nuremberg war criminals."

Hans's stomach rolled. For a moment the room seemed to spin wildly. It

righted itself when he focused on the immobile mask of Captain Hauer"Of

course I denied their request to question our officers directly," Funk

went on, "but for the sake of expediency I've agreed to act as the

Soviets' proxy. That way they can be quickly satisfied as to our lack

of complicity in this matter.

Thus, the whole mess is over before it really begins, you see, Sergeant?

It's really better all around."

For the first time Hans noticed another man in the room.

He had been hunched out of sight behind Hauer, but when Funk spoke again

he moved.

"By the way, Sergeant," Funk said casually, "in the interest of veracity

I've agreed to monitor all responses by polygraph.

Hans felt a jolt of confusion. Polygraph test results were inadmissible

as evidence in a German-,court. The Berlin Polizei were not even

permitted to use the polygraph as an investigative tool. Or almost

never, anyway. Buried in the budget of the Experimental Section of the

Forensics Division was a small cadre of technicians devoted to the

subtle art of lie detection. They were used only in crisis situations,

where hives were at stake. The only explanation Hans could come up with

for the use of a polygraph tonight was that the Russians had requested

it.

"We'll be using our own man, of course," Funk said.

"Perhaps you know Heinz Schmidt?"

Hans knew of Schmidt, and what he knew made his heart race. The

ferretlike little polygrapher took perverse pleasure in wringing secrets

out of people-criminals or not-no matter how trivial. He even

moonlighted to sate his fetish, screening employees for industrial inns.

Funk's inquisitor padded around Hauer's corner of the table, pushing his

precious polygraph before him on a wheeled cart like the head of a

heretic. Ilse had been right, Hans realized. He should never have come

here.

"I said is that all right with you, Sergeant?" Funk repeated testily.

Hans could see that both Hauer and Lieutenant Luhr had suddenly taken a

keen interest in him. It took all his concentration to keep his facial

muscles still. He cleared his throat again. "Yes, sir. No problem."

"Good. The procedure is simple: Schmidt asks you a few calibration

questions, then we get to it." Funk sounded bored. "Hurry it up,

Schmidt."

As the polygrapher attached the electrodes to his fingers, Hans felt his

earlier bravado draining away. Then came the blood-pressure cuff,

fastened around his upper arm and pumped until he could feel his

arterial blood throbbing against it like a toumiquel Last came the chest

bandsrubber straps stretched around his torso beneath his shirt-to

monitor his respiration. Three separate sensing systems, cold and

inhuman, now silently awaited the slightest signals of deception.

Hans wondered which vital sign would give him away: a trace of sweat

translated into electrical resistance? His thudding heart? Or just his

eyes? I must be crazy, he thought wildly. Why keep it up anyway?

They'llfind me out in the end. For one mad moment he considered simply

blurting out the truth. He could exonerate himself bdfore Schmidt even

asked the first stupid control question. He could"Are you Sergeant Hans

Apfel?" Schmidt asked in a high, abrasive voice.

@I am."

"Yes or no, please, Sergeant. Is your name Hans Apfel?"

"Yes."

"Do you reside in West Berlin?"

"Yes."

Hans watched Schmidt make some adjustments to his machine. The ferret's

shirt was soiled at the collar and armpits, his fingernails were long

and grimy, and he smelled of ammonia. Suddenly, Schmidt pulled a red

pen from his pocket and held it up for all to see.

"Is this pen red, Sergeant?" he asked.

Schmidt made@r seemed to make-still more adjustments to his machine.

Nervously, Hans wondered how much Schmidt knew he knew about the

polygraph test. Because Hans knew a good deal. The concept of the "lie

detector" had always fascinated him. He had taken the Experimental

Interrogation course at the police school at Hiltrup, and a close look

at his personnel file would reveal that. As Schmidt tinkered with his

machine, Hans marshaled what he remembered from the Hiltrup course. The

first tenet of the polygrapher was that for test results to be accurate,

the subject needed to believe the machine infallible. Polygraphers used

various methods to create this illusion, but Hans knew that Schmidt

favored the card trick." Schmidt would ask his subject to pick a

playing card at random from a deck, then to lay,it facedown on a table.

Schmidt's ability to name the hidden card after a few yes or no"

questions seemed to prove his polygraph infallible. Of course the

subject always chose his card from a deck in which every card was

identical, but he had no way of knowing that. Many skilled criminals had

confessed their crimes immediately after Schmidt's little parlor show,

certain that his machine would eventually find them out.

Hans saw no deck of cards tonight. Maybe Schmidt thinks his reputation

is enough to intimidate me, he thought nervously. And maybe he's right.

Already perspiring, Hans tried to think of a way to beat the little

weasel's machine. Some people had beaten the polygraph by learning to

suppress their physiological stress reactions, but,Hans knew he had no

hope of this. The suppression technique took months to master, and

right now he could barely hold himself in his chair.

He did have one hope, if he could keep a cool head: picking out the

"control" questions. Most people thought questions like "Is this pen

red?" were the controls. But Hans knew better. The real control

questions were ones which would cause almost anyone asked them to lie.

"Have you ever failed to report income on your federal tax return?". was

a corrtmon control. Most people denied this almost universal crime, and

by doing so provided Schmidt with their baseline "lie." Later, when

asked, "Did you cut your wife's throat with a kitchen knife?" a guilty

person's lie would register far stronger than his baseline or "control"

reference. Questions like "Is this pen red?"