Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

Natterman picked up his briefcase. "To do what must be done. To show

the arrogant, self-righteous British for what they were during the

war-no better than we Germans." His eyes sparkled with youthful

excitement. "Ilse, this could be the academic coup of the century!"

"Opa, what are you saying? Those papers are affecting you just like

they did Hans!"

Natterman looked sharply at his granddaughter. "Where is Hans, by the

way?"

"At the police station ... I guess." Ilse tried to summon a brave face,

but her mask cracked. Hans had been gone far too long. "Opa, what.if

they know what Hans did ... what he found? What would they do?"

"I don't know," he answered frankly. "Why don't you call the station?

If Hans's superiors don't know about the papers, it can't hurt. And if

they do, well ... they'll be expecting your call anyway, won't they?"

Ilse moved uncertainly toward the phone in the living room, then

snatched it up.

"Listen very closely," Natterman cautioned. "Background voices,

everything."

"Yes, yes ... Hello? May I speak to Sergeant Hans Apfel, please?

This is his wife. Oh. Do you know where he is now?" She covered the

mouthpiece with her palm. "The desk sergeant says he knows Hans but

hasn't seen him tonight. He's checking." She pulled her hand away.

"I beg your pardon? Is this the same man I spoke to earlier?

Yes, I'll'be home all evening." Natterman shook his head violently.

"I'm sorry," Ilse said quickly, "I have to go." She dropped the phone

into its cradle.

"What did he tell you?" Natterman asked.

"Hans stopped in to answer a few questions, but left soon after.

The sergeant said he wasn't there longer than twenty minutes.

Opa?"

Natterman touched his granddaughter's quivering cheek..

"Ilse, is there some place in particular Hans goes when he is under

stress?"

Ilse held out for a moment more, then the words poured out of her.

"He talked about showing the papers to a journalist! About trying to

sell them!" "My God," said Natterman, his face white. "He wouldn't!"

"He said he wouldn't. But-"

"Ilse, he can't do that! It's crazy!

And far too dangerous!" "I know that ... but he's been gone so long.

Maybe that's where he is, meeting a reporter somewhere."

Natterman shook his head. "God forgive me, I hope that's it.

He'll probably turn up any minute. But I'm afraid I can't wait."

He held up his hand. "Please, Ilse, no more questions.

I'm going to the university to get some things, then I'm leaving the

city."

"Leaving the city! Why?"

Natterman donned his long overcoat, then picked up his I briefcase and

took his umbrella from the stand by the front door. "Because anyone

could find me in Berlin, and eventually they would. People are

searching for these papers now-I can feel it." He laid a hand on Ilse's

shoulder. "We have stumbled into a storm, my child. I'm trying to do

what is best. It's nine o'clock now. You wait here until midnight.

If Hans hasn't returned by then, I want you to leave. I'll be at the

old cabin."

"On the canal? But that's two hundred kilometers from hereF' "I just

hope it's far enough. I'm serious, Ilse, if Hans hasn't arrived by

midnight, leave. The cabin telephone's still connected. I always pay

the bill. You have the number?"

She nodded. "But what about Hans?" she asked, her voice tremble' ngThe

professor set down his briefcase and hugged his granddaughter.

"Hans is a grown man," he said gently. "A policeman. He knows how to

take care of himself. He'll find us when he's ready. Now I must go.

You do exactly as I said." He patted his briefcase. "This little

discovery is going to make a lot of people very nervous."

Too dazed to argue, Ilse kissed him on the cheek. "You be careful," she

said. "You're not a young bull anymore, you know."

"No," said Natterman softly, his eyes glittering. "I'm a wise old

serpent." He grinned. "You haven't forgotten your patronymic, have

you? 'Natter' still means snake. Don't worry about me."

With that the professor kissed Ilse's forehead and slipped outside the

door. He looked disdainfully at the old elevator; then he stepped into

the stairwell and, despite his excitement, started down with an old

man's careful tread. He did not hear the stairwell door open again

behind him, or the whisper of Jonas Stern's stockinged feet descending

the concrete steps.

Stern knew the game now. It was a simple one. Follow the papers.

Strange how the peaceful present could be shattered by a few strokes

from an old pen, he reflected. Cryptic telegrams from an unquiet past.

For in the Israeli's pocket nestled another scrap of paper-the sleed Of

the premonition that had brought him to Germany after so many years.

One hour before he'd driven out of the Negev desert headed for BenGurion

Airport, Stern had dug it out of the little chest he'd saved from

Jerusalem-his unfinished-business chest, an old cherry box containing

the musty collection of loose ends that would not leave a man in peace.

On this scrap of paper was a brief note written in Cyrillic script,

unsigned. A Russian Jew had translated it for Stern on the day it

arrived in his office, June 3, 1967.

People of Zion Beware! The Unholy Fire of Armageddon may soon be

unleashed upon you! I speak not from hatred or from love, butfrom

conscience. Fear of death stays my hand from revealing the secret of

your peril, but the key awaits you in Spandau. God is the final judge

of all peoples!

Stern's colleagues had not been impressed. In Israel, such warnings

were common as dust. Each was -routinely investigated, but rarely did

any prophesy real danger. But Stern had had a feeling about that

particular note. It was vague, yes.

Was the author referring to Spandau Prison in West Berlin?

Or the district of Spandau, which covered over five square miles of the

city? Stern never found out. Two days after the "Spandau note"

arrived, the '67 war erupted. Shells were falling on Jerusalem, and the

note was brushed aside like junk mail. Israel was in peril, but from

Egyptian tanks and planes, not the "Unholy Fire of Armageddon," whatever

that meant.

Later, when the smoke had cleared and the dead were buried, Stern's

superiors decided the note had merely been a warning of Egypt's imminent

war plans. After all, the note was in Russian, and it was the Russians

who had been supplying Egypt with weapons. "A communist with a

religious conscience," they'd said, "a common enough breed." But Stern

had never accepted that. Why would the note have mentioned Spandau, of

all things? And so he'd kept the note.

At the foot of the stairs, he slipped his shoes back on and glided out

into the frigid darkness. Forty meters - up the Liitzenstrasse stood

Professor Natterman, clinging to his briefcase like a diamond courier.

He flagged down a speeding yellow taxi and climbed inside.

Stern smiled and climbed into his rental car.

Four floors above the street, Ilse sat cross-legged on the floor behind

her triple-bolted door, fixed her eyes on the wall clock, and waited

with both hands on the telephone.

9.40 Pm. Polizei AbschniH 53

The clang of the pipe apparently carried much farther than a human

voice. Hans had been smashing it against the bars for less than a

minute when the basement door crashed open and a powerful flashlight

beam sliced down through the darkness.

"Stop that goddamn banging!" shouted a guttural voice.