Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

looked around.

"Hans?"

Standing rigid at the bedroom door, Hans gasped and staggered backward.

Hauer darted to the door, saw Karl Riemeck's body, then returned to

Natterman's side.

"Who's the man in the bedroom?" he asked, his mouth an inch from the

old man's ear. "A friend of yours?"

Natterman nodded.

"Who killed him? Did you see him killed?"

The professor shook his head, then opened his eyes slowly. "Karl was my

caretaker," he whispered. "The animal killed him."

"Animal? What animal?" Hauer groaned as the old man's eyes closed. He

was out again. "Hans! Get over here and help me!"

Hans didn't move. His eyes seemed to be fixed on some undefined point

in space. Hauer had seen the look before: American army officers called

it the thousand-yard stare. It was the Vietnam variant of shell shock,

but Hauer knew that neither bullets nor blood had caused Hans's torpor.

What had overloaded his mind was the justified fear of losing his wife

forever. Giving Hans hope became Hauer's primary objective, for he knew

that Hans's unearthly calm was merely the silence before the storm, the

moment when all his fear and impotent rage would explode through his

self-control like a hurricane.

"Ilse must still be on her way," Hauer said confidently, preparing to

restrain Hans physically if necessary.

Hans's jaw muscles flexed steadily. "I would have seen her," he

mumbled.

"You wouldn't have seen her. We crossed East Germany in the trunk of a

car, for God's sake. Maybe, she took a late train like the professor.

Maybe she hitched a ride in a truck.

She could still be waiting for a train right now." Keeping his eyes on

Hans, Hauer shook Natterman gently. "Is there a telephone, Professor?"

"Dead ... I think the man who attacked me cut the line."

"Repair it, Hans," Hauer ordered. "Check the unit, then trace the

wire."

Hans finally focused on Hauer's face. "No," he said quietly .

"I'm going back to Berlin." He was trying to rebutton his coat, but his

shaking fingers seemed unable to keep hold of the small buttons.

"You can't get back in," Hauer told him.

"It's Ilse's only chance . . . She could be@' "No! " Professor

Natterman's stentorian voice boomed through the small room like a

thunderclap. Hauer stared as the old man slowly raised himself and

leveled a long finger at Hans. "You will not go back. To return now

would be suicide. Can you help Ilse if you're dead? The telephone must

be our lifeline now."

The professor's rebuke left him winded, but it had a dramatic effect on

Hans. He rubbed his forehead furiously with both hands as he walked

away from the two older men. "If only I hadn't tried to keep those

goddamn papers," he muttered.

"You did the right thing," Hauer said firmly. "If you had turned the

papers in, Funk would have them now, and you'd be as dead as your friend

Weiss."

Hans looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

"Trace the wire," Hauer said softly, looking to Natterman for support.

"It runs out of a hole in back of the cabin," said the professor.

Hans still looked uncertain.

Hauer drew his Walther. "And take this. Whoever attacked the professor

may still be out there."

Hans snatched the pistol and disappeared through the front door.

Natterman turned to Hauer. "Will he try to leave?"

"He can't. I've got the keys."

Natterman studied Hauer's face. "You're Hans's father," he said after

some moments. "Aren't you? I can see the resemblance."

Hauer took a slow, deep breath, then he nodded curtly.

Natterman made a sound that was almost a chuckle. "Ilse told me you had

been at Spandau. So, you've acknowledged your son at last, eh?"

"I acknowledged him the first moment I saw him," Hauer said in a clipped

tone.

Natterman looked skeptical. "Tell me, Captain, you're the expert.

Do you believe I will ever see my granddaughter again?"

Hauer pursed his lips. "Who has the papers Hans found at Spandau?"

Natterman hesitated, thinking of the three pages that had disappeared

with Karl Riemeck's murderer. "I do," he confessed.

"They're safe."

Hauer wondered if the old man had the papers on him.

"Then I'll give you sixty-forty odds that she's still alive.

Frankly, I'd expect a ransom demand any time now. And you know what

they'll be asking for." He walked over to the cabinet that had

concealed the shotgun. He touched it softly, appearing to examine the

grain of the wood. "So," he said.

"Exactly what is in THESE papers Hans discovered?"

Natterman propped himself up on the arm of the sofa. It made him dizzy,

but he felt better able to deal with questions from an upright position.

' "You must realize that you'll need assistance to do anything from this

point on," Hauer said. "You must also realize that I'm the only man

within a great distance who is able to help you."

"On the contrary," Natterman said testily. "There are many nearby who

would help me."

Hauer sighed. "Men like the one in the,bedroom there?"

Natterman's eyes smoldered. "Why should you help me?"

he snapped. "What exactly are you after, Hauer?"

Hauer stiffened. In Germany, the cavalier omission of a man's rank or

title is an open insult. He was moving forward when boots clattered

loudly on the porch. The splintered door banged open.

"I need a knife," said Hans, his breath steaming as he closed the door.

He stamped his icy boots on the floorboards while he searched the

kitchen alcove.

"How long will it take?" Hauer asked, his eyes still on Natterman.

"Less than a minute if I didn't have to, climb that goddamn pole.

It's covered with ice, and the bastard cut the wire at the top."

Hans found a sharp paring knife in a drawer and clomped out again.

"I'm waiting," said Hauer.

Natterman sighed. He would have to say something, he knew, but

misdirecting a police captain shouldn't be too difficult. "All right,

Captain," he said. "What Hans found at Spandau-what your son found-is a

letter of sorts. A diary, if you will. A diary written in Latin by the

man known to the world for almost fifty years as Rudolf Hess."

"Perfect," said Hauer. "A dead language from a dead

man.

The professor sniffed indignantly. "This diary happens to prove that

that particular dead man was not Rudolf Hess."

Hauer's eyes narrowed. "You believe that?"

Natterman looked sanguine. "It's nothing new. You've heard all the

theories, I'm sure. Himmler tricked Hess into becoming a pawn in his

quest for Hitler's job; Goring had Hess shot down, then-"

"I've heard the theories," Hauer cut in. "And that's just what they

are, theories. Bullshit."

"Your expert opinion notwithstanding," Natterman said, "I believe that

the man who died last month in Spandau was never the Deputy Fuhrer of

the Third Reich. And from what I saw on television today, I'd say the

Russians believe that too.

Hauer snorted. "The Russians would hound a rat right up their backsides

if they thought it endangered their precious Motherland.

What proof is there that the papers are authentic?"

Natterman bridled. "Why the diary itself, of course."

"You mean that it exists? That Hans found it where he did?"

The professor tugged at his silver beard. "No. Those things are

significant, but it's the papers themselves that are the proof."

"How?"

"The language, Captain. You might think that Prisoner Number Seven

wrote in Latin to conceal his words from the prison guards, or something