The Spandau Phoenix

satisfy them before the Allied commandants get too involved. He wants

to ask everyone from the Spandau detail some questions."

Ilse felt a tremor in her chest. "What do you think?"

He swallowed hard. "I think I don't feel so good about that call." He

slipped into the bedroorii to change into a fresh uniform.

"Are you going to take the papers with you?"

"Not with the Russians still there," he called. "I'll pull somebody

aside when I get a chance and explain what happened. Maybe even the

prefect."

"Hans, don't be angry with me," she said. "But I really think you

should talk to your father first. He'd cover for you on this, I know he

would."

"Just let me handle it, okay?" Hans realized he had spoken much louder

than he'd meant to. He buttoned up the jacket of a freshly pressed

uniform and went back into the living room. He was reaching for his

gloves when the telephone rang again.

Ilse practically pounced on it. "Who is this, please?

What? Just a moment." She covered the mouthpiece with her palm.

"It's someone named Heini Weber. He says he's a reporter for Der

Spiegel."

Hans moved toward the phone, then stopped. "I'm not here," he

whispered.

Ilse listened for a few moments, then hung up. Her eyes showed

puzzlement and fear. "He said to tell you he made a mistake before,"

she said slowly. "He wants to meet you as soon as possible. He ... he

said money's no object." Little crimson moons appeared high on Ilse's

cheeks. "Hans?"

she said uncertainly. "He knows, doesn't he?"

She stepped forward hesitantly, her face flushed with fear and anger.

She tried to summon harsh words, but her anger faltered.

"Hans, take the papers with you," she said. "The sooner we're rid of

them, the better."

He shook his head. "If I let the Russians get those papers, I really

could lose my job."

"You could slip them under somebody's door. Nobody would ever have to

know they came from you."

He considered this. "That's not a bad idea," he admitted.

"But not while the Russians are there. Besides, our forensic lab might

still be able to link me to the papers. It's scary what those guys can

do Ilse reached out, hesitated. The tendons in her neck stood out.

"Hans, don't go!" she begged. "There's something we need to talk

about."

He kissed the top of her head. Ilse's hair smelled of flowers, a scent

he would remember for a long time. "I don't have any choice," he said

tenderly. "Everything will be fine, I promise. We're just jumpy

because of the papers. Don't worry. I'll be back in an hour." Before

Ilse could say anything else, he slipped through the door and was gone.

Ilse sagged against the wood, holding back tears. Hans, I'm pregnant.

The words had been right on her tongue, yet she'd been unable to force

them out. The lie had done it.

First Hans's crazy idea about selling the papers-then the lie.

She wanted badly to call her grandfather, yet she hesitated . He would

probably take an "I told you so" attitude when Ilse admitted that Hans's

behavior had shaken even her. He had been against her marrying Hans to

begin with.

Ilse's doubts made her think back to when she had first met Hans.

Three years ago, at a traffic accident. An old Opel had broadsided a

gleaming Jaguar right before her eyes on the Leibnizstrasse, smashing

the Jaguar's door and trapping its driver.

There'd been a police patrol car behind the Opel.

Two officers had jumped out to help, but as they tried to free the

trapped driver, the Jaguar had burst into flame. All they could do was

hold back the crowd and wait for the fire police to arrive. Suddenly a

young foot patrolman had hulled his way through the crowd-right past

Ilse-and dashed to the Jaguar. Shouting at the driver to get down in

the seat, he drew his Walther, fired several shots through the stuck

window and kicked out what was left of the glass. He dragged the

stunned driver to safety only moments before the gas tank exploded.

The handsome young officer with singed eyebrows had taken Ilse's

slightly awestruck statement, then accepted her invitation to go for

coffee afterward. Their romance, like the newspaper accounts of Hans's

heroism, had been brief and fiery. He was promoted to sergeant, and

they were married as his splash of celebrity faded from the picture

magazines.

Ilse had always believed she made a good choice, no matter what her

snobby friends or her grandfather said. But this madness from Spandau

was no traffic accident. Hans couldn't summon a burst of physical

courage to stop the danger she felt tightening around them now. The

papers lying on her kitchen table were like a magnet drawing death

toward them-she knew it. She did not believe in premonitions, but as

she thought of Hans driving anxiously toward a situation he knew nothing

about, her heart began to race.

A wave of nausea rolled inside her. The pregnancy ... ?

Afraid she might throw up, she hurried into the kitchen and leaned over

the sink. She managed to choke down the nausea, but not her terror.

With tears blurring her eyes, Ilse lifted the phone and dialed her

grandfather's apartment.

CHAPTER FIVE

7.30 Pm. Polizei Abschniff 53

A stubborn group of reporters huddled on the sidewalk in the freezing

wind, hoping for a break in the Spandau Prison story or the weather. As

Hans idled his Volkswagen past the front steps of the police station, he

saw klieg lights and cameras leaning against a remote-broadcast truck,

evidence of how seriously the Berlin media were taking the incident. He

felt a nervous thrill when he realized that even now the press was

driving up the asking price of the Spandau papers for him. He

accelerated past the journalists before they could get a decent look at

him or the car and swung into the rear lot of the station.

The unexpected summons had taken him by surprise, but upon reflection he

wasn't really worried. It made sense for the police brass to try to

defuse the crisis before the Allied commandants got too involved-if they

weren't already. Nobody liked the Four Powers poking about in German

affairs, even if Berlin still technically belonged to them.

As he unlocked the rear door of the station, he spied Erhard Weiss's red

coupe parked against the wall. A good sign, Hans thought.

At least he hadn't been singled out for questioning. He flicked his

cigarette onto the snow and walked inside. The back hallway was usually

empty, but tonight a pinch-faced young man he didn't know waited behind

a rickety wooden table. The unlikely sentry leapt to attention when he

saw Hans.

"Identify yourself!" he ordered.

"What?"

"Your identification!"

"I'm Hans Apfel. I work here. Who are you?"

The little policeman shot Hans an exasperated look and reached for a

piece of paper on his desk. It was apparently a list of some sort; he

ran his finger down it like a pnm schoolmaster.

"Sergeant Hans Apfel?"

"That's right."

"Report immediately to room six for interrogation."

Under normal circumstances Hans would have challenged the man's

authority on general principles alone. Officers from other

districts@specially snotty bureaucrats like this one-were treated coolly

at Abschnitt 53 until they had proved their competence.

Tonight, however, Hans didn't feel quite confident enough to push.

He walked on toward the stairs without comment.

The oppressive block of interrogation rooms lay on the second floor, out

of the main traffic of the station. At least they chose number six, he

thought. Slightly larger than the other questioning rooms, "six" held a

long table on a dais, some straight-backed chairs and, mercifully, an

electric heater. Emerging from the stairwell on the second floor, Hans

saw another unfamiliar policeman standing guard between rooms six and

seven. A silent alarm sounded in his head, but it was too late to turn

back.

Suddenly a door further down the hall burst open. Two uniformed men

with heavy beards bustled Erhard Weiss out of the room and down the hall

away from Hans. Weiss's feet seemed to be dragging behind him.

He turned and gave Hans a dazed look; then he was gone. Hans slowed

down. Something odd was happening here.

"Interrogation?" the guard queried, noticing him.

Hans nodded warily.

"Wait in room seven."

Hans looked for a name tag on the man's chest but saw none. "You from

Wansee?" he asked. When the man didn't answer, he tried again.

"What's going on in there, friend?"

"Room seven," the man repeated.

"Seven," Hans echoed softly. "All right, then."

Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door. There was only one

man inside the smoky room-Kurt Steger, one of the four recruits from the

Spandau assignment. Kurt jumped to his feet like a nervous puppy when

he saw Hans.

"Thank God!" he cried. "What's going on, Hans?"

Hans shook his head. "I've no idea. It looks' like the whole place has

been taken over by strangers. What have you seen?"

"Nichts, almost nothing. We started in here together-all of us from

Spandau except you. One by one they call us into room six.

Nobody comes back."

Hans frowned. "They were practically dragging Weiss down the hall when

I walked up. It didn't look right at all."

He hated to ask the next question, but he needed the information.

"Have you seen Captain Hauer, Kurt?"

"No. I think the prefect's handling this."

Hans considered this in silence.

"I haven't been on the force very long," said Kurt, "but I get the

feeling Captain Hauer and the prefect aren't too fond of each other."

Hans nodded thoughtfully. "To say the least. They've been at each

other's throats since Funk took over eight years ago."

"What's the problem?"

"The problem is that Funk is an ass-kissing bureaucrat with no real

police experience, and Hauer reminds him of it every chance he gets."

"Can't the prefect fire whoever he wants?"

"Firing Hauer isn't worth the controversy it would start."

Hans felt himself coloring as he went to the defense of the father he

had accused of terrible things in the silence of his own mind.

"He's a decorated hero, one of the best cops in the city. He also works

with GSG-9, the counterterror unit.

'Connections like that don't hurt. Plus he's only got one month before

retirement. Funk's been waiting for that day a long time. Now he's

almost rid of him."

"What a bastard." Kurt snapped his fingers anxiously.

"You got any cigarettes? We smoked all we had.."

Hans handed over his pack and matches. "Have they said who's handling

the questions?"

Kurt's hands shook slightly as he lit up. "They haven't said anything.

We've tried to listen through the wall, but it's useless.

They could beat a man to death in there and you'd never hear him

scream."

"Thanks a lot. I'll remember that while I'm in there. What about the

Russians?"

Kurt cut his eyes toward the door. "Weiss said he saw the very same

bastard who tried to take the prisoners from us-" The door banged open,

silencing the young recruit. A bearded man wearing captain's bars

stared back and forth between Hans and Kurt, then pointed to Hans.

"You," he growled.

"But I've been here for two hours," Kurt protested.

The captain ignored him and motioned for Hans to follow.

In the hall Hans saw another young officer being led around the corner

toward the elevators, his arms pinned to his sides by two large

policemen. Fighting a growing sense of unreality, Hans stepped into

room six.

The scene unnerved him. The sparsely furnished interrogation room had

been transformed into a courtroom. A single wooden chair faced a long,

raised table from which five men stared solemnly as Hans entered.

At the center of the table sat Wilhelm Funk, prefect of West Berlin

police. He eyed Hans with the cold detachment of a hanging judge. A

young blond man wearing lieutenant's bars hovered at Funk's left

shoulder. Hans guessed he was Lieutenant Luhr, the aide who had

summoned him by telephone. To the prefect's right sat three men wearing

Soviet Army uniforms.

Hans recognized one as the "sergeant" who had bullied Weiss at Spandau,

but the others-both colonels-he had never seen before. And to Funk's

left, a little apart from Lieutenant Luhr, sat Captain Dieter Hauer.

Dark sacs hung under his gray eyes, and he regarded Hans with a

Buddhalike inscrutability.

"Setzen she sich, " Funk ordered, then looked down at a buff file open

before him.

As Hans turned to sit, he saw more men behind him. Six Berlin policemen

stood in a line to the left of the door. He knew them all slightly; all

were from other districts. On the right side of the door stood the

Russian soldiers from the Spandau detail. Their bloodshot eyes gave the

lie to their freshly shaven faces, and the mud of the prison yard still

caked their boots. Hans looked slowly'from face to face.

When his eyes met those of the Russian who had caught him in the rubble

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?"

were asked simply to give a person's vital signs time to return to

nominal between the relevant questions.

Hans knew if he could produce a strong enough emotional response to a

control question, then an actual lie would appear no different to the

polygraph than his faked control responses. Schmidt would be forced to

declare him "innocent." The best method to do this was to hide a

thumbtack in your shoe, but Hans knew that an exaggerated response could

also be triggered by holding your breath or biting your tongue. He

decided to worzy about method later.

If he couldn't pick out the control questions, method wouldn't matter.

Schmidt's voice jolted him back to reality.

"Sergeant Apfel, prior to discharging your Spandau assignment, did you

conununicate with any person other thaln the duty sergeant regarding

that assignment?"

"No," Hans replied. That was true. He hadn't had tim I e to discuss it

with anyone.

"Is Captain Hauer a married man?"

Irrelevant question, Hans thought bitterly. To anyone except me.

"No," he answered.

Schmidt looked down at the notepad from which he chose his questions.

"Have you ever stopped a friend or public official for a traffic

violation and let them go without issuing a citation?"

Control question, Hans thought. Almost any cop who denied this would be

lying. Keeping a straight face, he bit down on the tip of his tongue

hard enough to draw blood.

He felt a brief flush of perspiration pass through his skin.

"No," he said.

When Schmidt glanced up from the polygraph, Hans knew he had produced an

exaggerated response. "Am I holding up two fingers?"

Schmidt asked.

Irrelevant, thought Hans. "Yes," he answered truthfully.

Schmidt came a step closer. "Sergeant Apfel, you've made several

arrests for drug possession in the past year.

Have you ever failed to turn the entire quantity of confiscated drugs

over to the evidence officer?"

Control ques-Hans started to bite his tongue again; then he hesitated.

If this was a control question, Schmidt had upped the stakes of the

game. Giving an exaggerated response here would not be without serious

consequences. Police corruption involving drugs was an epidemic

problem, with accordingly severe punishment for those caught.

The men at the table gave no indication that they saw this question as

anything but routine, but Hans thought he detected a feral gleam in

Schmidt's eyes. The dirty little man knew his business.

"Sergeant?" Schmidt prodded.

Hans fidgeted. He did not want to appear guilty of a drug crime, but

the Spandau questions still awaited. If he intended to keep the papers

secret, he would have to give at least a partially exaggerated response

to this question. In silent desperation he held his breath, counted to

four, then answered, "No," and exhaled slowly.

"Is your wife's maiden name Natterrnan, Sergeant?"

Irrelevant. "Yes," Hans replied.

Schmidt wiped his upper lip. "Were you the last man to arrive at the

scene of the argument over custody of the trespassers at Spandau

PrisonT' Relevant question. Hans glanced up at the panel. All eyes

were on him now. Stay calm ... "I don't remember," he said. "Things

were so confused then. I really didn't notice."

"Yes or no, Sergeant!"

"I suppose I could have been."

Exasperated, Schmidt looked to Funk for guidance. The prefect fixed

Hans with his imperious stare. "Sergeant," he said curtly, "one of your

fellow officers told us you were the last man there. Would you care to

answer the question again?"

"I'm sorry," Hans said sheepishly, "I just don't remem-her." He looked

at the floor. The Russian soldier who had caught him in the rubble pile

could call him a liar right now, he knew, but for some reason the man

hadn't spoken up.

Funk appeared satisfied with Hans's answer, and told Schmidt to move

along. There can't be many more questions, Hans thought. Just a little

longer"Sergeant Apfel?" Schmidt's voice cut like slivers of glass. "Did

you remove any documents from a hollow brick in the area of the

cellblocks last occupied by the Nuremberg war criminals?"

Holy Mother of God! Hans choked down a scream. Every eye in the room

burned upon his face. For the first time Hauer's steely mask cracked.

His probing eyes fixed Hans motionless in his chair, stripping away the

pathetic layers of deception. But it was too late to come clean.

"No," Hans said lamely.

"Specifically, " Schmidt bored in, "did you discover, remove, see, or

even hear of documents pertaining to or written by Prisoner Number

Seven-Rudolf Hess?"

Hans felt cold sweat running down his spine.. His heart became an enemy

within his chest, thumping out the tattoo of his guilt. And there stood

Schmidt, lie-hungry, watching each centimeter of paper unspool from his

precious machine.

Looking at him now, Hans fancied he saw a mad doctor reading an

electrocardiograph, a diabolical quack watching each fateful squiggle in

the hope of witnessing a fatal heart attack. Hans felt his willpower

ebbing away. The truth welled up in his throat, beyond his control.

Just tell the truth, urged a voice in his head, tell it all and take

whatever consequences come. Then this insanity willfocus elsewhere.

Yet as Hans started to do just that, Schmidt said"Sergeant, have you

ever omitted an important piece of information from a job application?"

Hans felt like a spacewalker cut loose from his tether.

Schmidt had asked another control question! Hadn't he? But why hadn't

he triumphantly proclaimed Hans's guilt to the tribunal? Hans had

expected the little demon to dance a jig and scream: Him! Him!

There is the liar!

"No-no, I haven't," Hans stammered.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

While Hans sat stunned, Schmidt turned to Funk and shook his head.

The prefect closed the. file before him, then turned to the Soviet

colonels and shrugged. "Any questions?" he asked.

The Russians looked like sleeping bears. When one finally shook his

head to indicate the negative, the gesture seemed the result of a

massive effort. Hans even sensed the soldiers in the back of the room

relaxing. Only Captain Hauer and Lieutenant Luhr remained tense. For

some reason it struck Hans just then that Jiirgen Luhr was the kind of

German who made Jews nervous. He was a racial type-the proto Germanic

man, tall and broad-shouldered, thin-lipped and square-headed-a mythical

Aryan fiend passed down in whispered tales from mother to daughter and

father to son.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Sergeant," Funk said wearily.

"We'll contact you if we need any further details."

Then over Hans's shoulder, "Bring in the last officer."

Hans floundered. They had drawn him into the trap, yet failed-to pounce

for the kill. "Am I free to go?" he asked uncertainly.

"Unless you wish to stay with us all night," Funk snapped.

"Excuse me, Prefect," Lieutenant Luhr cut in. All eyes turned to him.

"I'd like to ask the sergeant a question."

Funk nodded.

"Tell me, Sergeant, did you notice Officer Weiss acting in a suspicious

manner at any time during the Spandau assignment?"

Hans shook his head, remembering Weiss being dragged down the hall. "No,

sir. No, I didn't."

Luhr smiled with understanding, but he had the watchful eyes of a police

dog. "Officer Weiss is a Jew, isn't he, Sergeant?"

One of the Russian colonels staffed, but his comrade laid a restraining

hand on his shoulder.

"I believe that's right," Hans said tentatively. "Yes, he's Jewish."

Luhr gave a curt nod of the head, as if this new fact somehow explained

everything.

"You may go, Sergeant," Funk said.

Hans stood. They were telling him to go, yet he sensed that some

unspoken understanding had passed between the men in the room. It was

as if several decisions had been taken at once in some language unknown

to him. He turned toward the soldiers and police at the back of the

room and shuffled toward the door. No one moved to stop him. Why

hadn't Schmidt called him a liar? Why hadn't the Russian who'd caught

him searching called him a liar? And why did he feel compelled to keep

lying, anyway?

Because of the Russians, he realized. If the prefect@r even Hauer-had

only questioned him alone, he could have told them. Just as Ilse wanted

him to. He would have told them ...

A burly policeman held open the door. Hans walked through, hearing

Funk's tired voice resume behind him. He quickened his pace.

He wanted to get out of the building as soon as possible. He entered

the stairwell at a near trot, but slowed when he saw two beefy patrolmen

ascending from the first floor. Nodding a perfunctory greeting, he

slipped between the two menThen they took him.

Hans had no chance at all. The men used no weapons because they needed

none. His arms were immobilized as if by steel bands; then the men

reversed direction and began dragging him down the stairs.

"What is this!" Hans shouted. "I'm a police officer! Let me go!"

One of the men chuckled quietly. They reached the bottom of the stairs

and turned down a disused hallway, a repository of ancient files and

broken furniture. When the initial shock and disorientation wore off,

Hans realized that he had to fight back somehow. But how? In the

darkest part of the corridor he suddenly let his body go limp, appearing

to lose his will to resist.

"Scheisse!" one man cursed. "Dead weight."

"He soon will be," commented his partner.

Dead weight? With speed born of desperation Hans fired his elbow into a

rib cage. He heard bone crack.

"Arrghh!" The man let go.

With his free hand Hans pummeled the other attacker's head, aiming for

his temple. The policeman held him fast.

"You bastard . . . " from the darkness.

Hans kept pounding the man's skull. The grip on his arm was looseningAn

explosion that seemed to detonate behind his right eye paralyzed him.

Darkness.

Less than sixty feet away from Hans, Colonels Ivan Kosov and Grigori

Zotin stood outside an idling East German transit bus in the central

parking lot of the police station. Inside the bus, the Soviet soldiers

from the Spandau patrol waited for their long-delayed return to -East

Berlin.

Most were already fast asleep.

Zotin, a GRU colonel, did'not particularly like Kosov, and- he was

deeply offended at the KGB colonel's effrontery in.

donning the uniform of the Red Army. But what could he do? One

couldn't keep the KGB out of something this big, especially when higher

powers wanted Kosov involved.

Rubbing his hands together against the cold, Zotin tested the KGB man's

perception.

"Can you believe it, Ivan? They gave them all clean reports."

"Of course," Kosov growled. "What did you expect?"

"But one of them was certainly lying!"

"Certainly."

"But how did they fake the polygraph readouts?"

Kosov looked bored. "We were six meters from the machine. They could

have shown us anything."

Grigori Zotin knew exactly which policeman had lied, but he wanted to

keep the information from Kosov long enough to initiate inquiries of his

own. He was aware of the Kremlin's interest in the Hess case, and he

knew his career could take a giant leap forward if he cracked it.

He made a mental note to decorate the young GRU officer who had caught

the German policeman searching and showed enough sense to tell only his

immediate superior. "You're right, of course," Zotin agreed.

Kosov grunted.

"What, exactly, do you think was discovered? A journal perhaps?

Do you think they found some proof of@' "They found a hollow brick,"

Kosov snapped. "Our forensic technicians say their tests indicate the

brick held some type of paper for an unknown period of time. It could

have been some kind of journal. It could also have been pages from a

pornographic magazine. It could have been toilet paper! Never trust

experts too much, Zotin."

The GRU colonel sucked his teeth nervously. "Don't you think we should

have at least mentioned Zinoviev during the interrogation? We could

have-2' "Idiot!" Kosov bellowed. "That name, isn't to be mentioned

outside KGB! How do you even know it?"

Zotin stepped back defensively. "One hears things in Moscow."

"Things that could get you a bullet in the neck," Kosov warned.

Zotin tried to look unworried. "I suppose we should tell the general to

turn up the pressure at the commandants' meeting tomorrow."

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Kosov. "Too little, too late."

"What about the trespassers, then? Why are you letting the Germans keep

them?"

"Because they don't know anything."

"What do you suggest we do, then?" Zotin ventured warily.

Kosov snorted. "Are you serious? It was the second to last man-Apfel.

He was lying through his Bosche teeth. Those idiots did exactly what we

wanted. If they'd admitted Apfel was lying, he'd be in a jail cell now,

beyond our reach. As it is, he's at our mercy. The fool is bound to

return home, and when he does"-Kosov smiled coldly-"I'll have a team

waiting for him."

Zotin was aghast. "But how-?" He stifled his imprudent outburst with a

cough. "How can you get a team over soon enough?" he covered.

"I have two teams here now," Kosov snapped. "Get me to a damned

telephone!"

Startled, the GRU colonel clambered aboard the bus and found a seat.

"And Zotin?" Kosov said, leaning over his rival.

"Yes?"

"Keep nothing from me again. It could be very dangerous for you."

Zotin blanched.

"I want everything there is on this man Apfel. Everything.

I suggest you ride your staff very hard on this. Powerful eyes are

watching us."

"How will you approach this policeman?"

"Approach him?" Kosov cracked a wolfish smile. "Break him, you mean.

By morning I'll know how many times that poor bastard peeked up his

mother's skirts."

Hans awoke in a cell. There was no window. He'd been thrown onto a

stack of damp cardboard boxes. One pale ray of light filtered down from

somewhere high above. When he had focused his eyes, he sat up and

gripped one of the steel bars. His face felt sticky. He put his

fingers to his temple.

Blood The familiar slickness brought back the earlier events in a

throbbing rush of confusion. The interrogation ... his father's stony

silence ... the struggle in the hallway. Where was he?

He tried to rise, but he collapsed into a narrow space tween two boxes.

Rotting cardboard covered almost the entire concrete floor. A cell full

of boxes? Puzzled, Hans reached into one and pulled out a damp folder.

He held it in the shaft of light. Traffic accident report, he thought.

Typed on the standard police fonn- He found the date-1973. Flipping

through the yellow sheaf of papers, he saw they were all the same, all

traffic accident reports from 1973. He checked the station listed on

several forms: Abschnitt 53 every case. Suddenly he realized where he

was.

In the early 1970s, Abschnitt 53 had been partially renovated during a

city wide wave of reform that lasted about eighteen months.

There had been enough money to refurbish the reception area and overhaul

the main cellblock, but the third floor, the basement, and the rear of

the building went largely untouched. Hans was sure he'd been locked in

the basement.

But why? No one had accused him of anything. Not openly, at least. Who

were the policemen who had attacked him? Funk's men? Were they even

police officers at all?

They had said he would soon be dead weight. It was crazy.

Maybe they were protecting him from the Russians. Maybe this was the

only way the prefect could keep him safe from them. That's it! he

thought with relief. It has to be.

A door slammed somewhere in the darkness above. Someone was

coming-several people by the sound-and making no effort to hide it.

Hans heard clattering and cursing on the stairs; then he saw who was

making the noise. Outlined in the fluorescent light streaming down from

the basement door, two husky uniformed men were wrestling a gurney off

the stairs. Slowly they cleared a path to the cell through the heaps of

junk covering the basement floor. Hans closed his eyes and lay

motionless on the holes where he'd been thrown.

"Looks like he's still out," said one mdn.

"I hope I killed the son of a bitch," growled the other.

"That wouldn't go over too well upstairs, ROIL"

"Who gives a shit?

The bastard broke my ribs."

Hans heard a low chuckle. "Be more careful the next time. Come on,

we've got to clear a space in there for this thing.

"Fuck it. Just throw this filthy Jew in on top of that one.

Not much left of him, anyway."

"Apfel isn't a Jew."

"Jew-lover, then."

"The doctor said leave this one on the gurney."

"Make him clear a space," said Rolf, pointing in at Hans.

"Sure. If you can wake him up."

Rolf picked up a rusted joint of pipe from the floor and rankled the

bars with it. "Wake up, asshole!"

Hans ignored him.

"Get up or we'll kill you."

Hans heard the metallic click of a pistol slide being jerked back.

Christ ... Slowly he rose to his feet.

"See," said Rolf, "he's not dead. Clear out a space in there, you. And

be quick about it."

Hans tried to see who lay on the gurney, but Rolf smashed the pipe

against the bars near his face. It took him forty seconds to clear a

space wide enough to accept the gurney.

"Get back against the wall," Rolf ordered. "Go on!"

Hans watched the strange policemen roll the man on the gurney feet-first

into the cleared space, then slam the door behind him.

"You stay away from this Jew-boy, Sergeant," @olf warned.

"Anything happens to him, it's on your head.

The pair hurried up the stairs, taking the shaft of light with them.

Hans couldn't make out the face of his new cellmate. He felt in his

pocket for a match, then remembered he'd given them to Kurt in the

waitin room upstairs. He put his hands on the unconscious man's

shoulders and stared downward, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the

blackness, but they didn't. Moving his hand tentatively, he felt

something familiar. Shoulder patches. Surprised and a little afraid,

Hans felt his way across the man's chest like a blind man. Brass

buttons ... patch ... collar pins ... Hans felt his left hand brush an

empty leather holster. A police officer!

Shutting his eyes tight, he put his right hand on the man's face and

waited. When he opened his eyes again, he could just make out the lines

of the face.

My God, he thought, feeling a lump in his throat. Weiss!

Erhard Weiss! For the second time tonight Hans felt cut loose from

reality. Gripping his friend's body like a life raft, he began trying

to revive him. He spoke into Weiss's ear, but heard no answer.

He slapped the slack face hard several times. No response.

Groping around in desperation, Hans crashed into the back wall of the

cell.

His palms touched something moist and cold. Foundation stones.

Condensation.

Rubbing his hands a@ross the stones until they were sufficiently wet, he

returned to Weiss and laved the cool liquid over his forehead.

Still Weiss lay silent.

Alarmed, Hans pressed both forefingers against Weiss's carotid arteries.

He felt pulse beats, but very faint and unbelievably far apart. Weiss

was alive, but just. The jailers had mentioned a doctor, Hans

remembered. What kind of doctor would send a man to a cell in this

condition? The obscenity of the situation drove him into a rage as he

stood by the cadaverous body of his friend. Someone would answer for

this outrage! Lurching to the front of the cell, Hans began screaming

at the top of his lungs. He screamed until he had no voice left, but no

one came. Slipping to the floor in exhaustion, he realized that the

stacks of boxes in the basement must be deadening the sound of his

voice. He doubted anyone upstairs had heard even a whimper.

Suddenly Hans bolted to his feet in terror. Someone had screamed!

It took him a moment to realize that the scream had come from inside the

cell. He shivered as it came again, an animal shriek of agony and

terror. Erhard Weiss-who had lain like a corpse through all

Hans's.attempts to revive him-now fought the straps that held him as if

the gurney were on fire. As Hans tried to restrain the convulsing body,

the screwning suddenly ceased. It was as if a great stone had been set

upon Weiss's chest. The young policeman's right arm shot up and gripped

Hans's shoulder like a claw, quivered desperately, then, after a long

moment, relaxed.

Hans checked for a pulse. Nothing. He hadn't expected one.

Erhard Weiss was dead. Hans had seen this death before-a heart attack,

almost certainly. He had seen several similar cases during the last few

years-young, apparently healthy men whose hearts had suddenly stopped,

exploded, or fibrillated wildly and fatally out of control.

In each case there had been a common factor-drugs. Cocaine usually, but

other narcotics too. This case appeared no different.

Except that Weiss never used drugs. He was a fitness enthusiast, a

swimmer. On several occasions he and his fiancee had dined with Hans

and Ilse at a restaurant, Hans remembered, and once in their apartment.

In their home. And now Weiss was dead. Dead. The young man who had

argued so tenaciously to keep two fellow Berliners-strangers, at

that-out of the clutches of the Russians.

In one anguished second Hans's exhaustion left him. He sprang to the

front of the cell and stuck his arm through the bars, frantically

searching the floor with his right hand.

There-the iron pipe Rolf had brandished! Steadily Hans began pounding

the pipe against the steel bars. The siimr, ui the blows rattled his

entire body, but he ignored the pain. He would hammer the bars until

they came for Weiss-until they came for his friend or he &opped dead.

At that moment he did not care.

CHAPTER SIX

8.12 pm. #30 Ldtzenstrasse, British Sector.- West Berlin Seated at the

kitchen table in apartment 40, Professor Emeritus of History Georg

Natterrnan hunched over the Spandau papers like a gnome over a treasure

map. His thick reading glasses shone like silver pools in the lamplight

as he ran his hand through his thinning hair and silver beard.

"What is it, Opa?" Ilse asked. "Is it dangerous?"

"Patience, child," the professor mumbled without looking up.

Knowing that further questions were useless until her grandfather was

ready to speak, she opened a cupboard and began preparing tea.

Perhaps Hans would get back in time to have some, she hoped; he'd been

gone too long already. Ilse had told her grandfather as little as

possible on the telephone, and by doing so she had failed to communicate

the depth of her anxiety. Professor Natterman lived only twelve blocks

away, but it had taken him over an hour to arrive. He understood the

gravity of the situation now. He hadn't spoken a word since first

seeing the Spandau papers and brusquely questioning Ilse as to how they

came into her possession. As she poured the tea, he stood stiddenly,

pulled off his reading glasses, and locked the nine pages into his

ancient briefcase.

"My dear," he said, "this is simply unbelievable. That this ...

this document should have come into my hands after all these years.

It's a miracle." He wiped his spectacles with a handkerchief.

"You were quite right to call me. 'Dangerous' does not even begin to

describe this find:' "But what is it, Opa? What is it really?"

Natterman shook his head. "In terms of World War Two history, it's the

Rosetta stone."

Ilse's eyes widened. "What? Are you saying that the papers are real?"

"Given what I've seen so far, I would have to say yes."

Ilse looked incredulous. "What did you mean, the papers are like the

Rosetta stone?"

"I mean," Natterman sniffed, "that they are likely to change profoundly

the way we view the world." He squinted his eyes, and a road map of

lines crinkled his forehead.

"How much do you know about Rudolf Hess, Ilse?"

She shrugged. "I've read the recent newspaper stories. I looked him up

in your book, but you hardly even mentioned his flight."

The professor glanced over to the countertop, where a copy of his

acclaimed Germany: From Bismarck to the Bunker lay open. "I didn't feel

the facts were complete," he explained, "so I omitted that part of the

story altogether."

"Was I right about the papers? Do they claim that Prisoner Number Seven

was not really Hess?"

"Oh, yes, yes indeed. Very little doubt about that now. It looks as

though the newspapers have got it right for once.

The wrong man in prison for nearly fifty years ... very embarrassing for

a lot of people."

Ilse watched her grandfather for any hint of a smile, but she saw none.

"You're joking with me, aren't you? How could that even be possible?"

"Oh, it's quite possible. The use of lookalikes was standard procedure

during the war, on both sides. Patton had one.

Erwin Rommel also. Field Marshal Montgomery used an actor who could

even imitate his voice to perfection. That's the easiest part of this

story to accept."

Ilse looked skeptical. "Maybe during* the war," she conceded.

"From a distance. But what about the years in Spandau? What about

Hess's family?"

Natterman smiled impishly. "What about them? Prisoner Number Seven

refused to see Hess's wife and son for the first twenty-eight years of

his captivity." He savored Ilse's perplexed expression. "The factual

discrepancies o on and 9

on. Hess was a fastidious vegetarian, Prisoner Number Seven devoured

meat like a tiger. Number Seven failed to recognize Hess's secretaries

at Nuremberg. He twice gave the British wrong birth dates for Hess, and

he missed by two years. And on and on ad nauseam."

Ilse sat quietly, trying to take it all in. Beneath her thoughts, her

anxiety for Hans buzzed like a low-grade fever.

"Why don't I let Number Seven speak for himself?"

Natterman suggested. "Would you like to hear my translation?"

Ilse forced herself not to look at the kitchen clock. He's I "Yes, all

right, she told herself. Just wait a ittle longer please," she said.

Putting his reading glasses back on, the professor opened his briefcase,

cleared his throat, and began to read in the resonant tones of the born

teacher: I, Prisoner Number Seven, write this testament in the language

of the Caesars for one reason: I know with certainty that Rudolf Hess

could not do so. I learned Latin and Greek at university in Munich from

1920 to 1923, but I learned that Hess did not know Latin at the most

exclusive "school" in the world-Reinhard Heydrich's Institute for

Practical Deception-in 1936. At this "institute"@n isolated barracks

compound outside Dessau-I also learned every other known fact about

Hess: his childhood; military service; Party record; relationship with

the Fuhrer; and, most importantly, his personal idiosyncrasies.

Ironically, one of the first facts I learned was that Hess had attended

university in Munich at the same time I had, though I do not remember

meeting him.

I did not serve as a pilot in the First world War, but I joined one of

Hermann Gdring's "flying clubs" between the wars. It was during an

aerial demonstration in 1935 that the Reichsmarschall _first noticed my

remarkable resemblance to Deputy-Fuhrer Hess. At the time I did not

make much of the encounter-comrades had often remarked on this

resemblance-but seven months later I was visited at the factory where I

worked by two officers of Heydrich's SD. They requested me to accompany

them on a mission of special importance to the Reich- From Munich I was

flown to the "Practical School" building outside Dessau.

I never saw my wife and daughter again.

During the first week at the school I was completely isOlated from my

fellow students. I received my "orientation" from Standartenfiihrer

Ritter Graf headmaster of the Institute.

He informed me that I had been selected to fulfill a mission of the

highest importance to the Fuhrer My period of training-which would be

lengthy and arduous, he saidwas to be carried out in total secrecy.

I soon learned that this meant total separation from my family. To

alleviate the stress of this separation, Graf showed me proof that my

salary from the factory had been doubled, and that the money was being

forwarded to my wife.

After one week I met the other students. I cannot express the shock I

felt. In one room in one night I saw the faces of not only famous Party

Gauleiters and Wehrmacht generals, but also the most celebrated

personalities of the Reich. At last I knew what my mission was. Hermann

Gdring had not forgotten my resemblance to Rudolf Hess; it was Goring

who had given my name to Reinhard Heydrich, the SD commender responsible

for the program.

There were many students at the Institute. Some completed the program,

others did not. The unlucky ones paid for their failure in blood. We

were constantly reminded of this "incentive. " One of the most common

causes for "dismissal" from the school was the use of one's real name.

Two slip-ups were forgiven. The third guaranteed erschlessen

(execution). We were known by our "role " names, or, in situations

where these were not practical, by our farmer ranks-in my case

Hauptmann.

I trained in an elite group. There were eight of us: "Hitler" (3

"students" studied him); "Gdring"; "Himmler"; " Goebbels "; "Stretcher

"; and myself- "Hess. " The training for our group lasted one year

During that year I had four personal interviews with Deputy-Fuhrer Hess.

The rest of my training was accomplished through study of newsreels and

written records. During our training, several of the "doubles "for the

Party Gauleiters left the school to begin their duties. Apparently

their roles did not riquire so much preparation as ours.

At the end of the training period my group was broken up and sent to

various locations to await duty. I was sent first to Grvnau, where I

was kept in isolation, then later to a remote airfield at Aalborg,

Denmark. I repeatedly requested to be allowed to see my wife and

daughter, but by this time Germany was at war and my requests were

summarily rejected I spent my time in solitude, reviewing my Hess mate

rials and occasionally being visited by an SD officer I did have access

to newspapers, and from them I deduced that Hess's position in the Nazi

hierarchy seemed to have declined somewhat in favor of the generals

since the outbreak of war I took this to be the reason I had not yet

been assigned a mission.

I must admit that, in spite of the hardship of the duty, I was very

proud of the degree to which I could impersonate the Deputy Fuhrer

During my final interview with H at the school, he was so shocked by my

proficiency that his reaction verged on disorientation.

Actually, a few of the other "students" had honed their skills to a

finer edge than my own, but what happened to them I have no idea ...

Natterman removed his spectacles, put the papers back into his

briefcase, then closed and locked it. "A rather detailed story to be

made up out of thin air, wouldn't you say?

And that's only the first two pages."

Ilse was smiling with satisfaction. "Very detailed," she agreed.

"So detailed that it destroys your earlier argument. If this 'double'

was so meticulously trained to imitate Hess, he certainly wouldn't make

factual mistakes as obvious as missing Hess's birthday, or eating meat

when Hess was a vegetarian. Would he?"

Natterman met his granddaughter's triumphant smile with one of his own.

"Actually, I've been thinking about that since I first translated the

papers. You're quite right: a trained double wouldn't make factual

mistakes like that-not unless he did so on purpose."

Ilse's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Just this. Since the double remained silent for all these years, he

could only have done so for one of two reasons: either he was a

fanatical Nazi right up until the end, which I don't accept, or-and this

is supported by the papers-the fear of some terrible retribution kept

him from speaking out.

If we accept that scenario, Number Seven's mistakes' appear to me to be

a cry for help-a quiet but desperate attempt to provoke skeptics to

investigate his case and thus uncover the truth. And believe me, that

cry was heard. Hundreds of scholars and authors have investigated the

case.

Dozens of books have been written, more every year."

Natterman held up an admonishing finger. "The more relevant question is

this: Why would the real Hess make such mistakes?"

"Because he was crazy!" Ilse retorted. "Everyone's known that for

years."

"Everyone has said that for years," Natterman corrected.

"Hitler and Churchill started that rumor, yet there's not one scrap of

evidence suggesting that Hess was unbalanced right up until the day he

flew to Britain. He trained months for that mission. Can you seriously

believe Hitler didn't know that? Hess was eccentric, yes. But mad? It

was the men he left behind who were mad!"

"Hess could have written those papers himself," she argued. "If Hess

didn't know Latin when he went into Spandau, he certainly could have

learned it during his years of imprisonment."

"True," Natten-nan admitted. "But unlikely. Did you note the quote

from Ovid? High-flying language for a self-taught student. But that's

verifiable, in any case."

Ilse tasted her tea. It had gone cold. "Opa, you can't really believe

that the Allies kept the wrong man in prison all these years."

"Why not? Ilse, you should understand something. These papers do not

exist in a vacuum. They merely confirm a body of evidence which has

been accumulating for decades.

Circumstantial evidence, testimonial evidence, medical evidence-" "What

medical evidence?"

The professor smiled; he loved nothing more than a willing student.

"Evidence unearthed by a British army surgeon who examined Number Seven

while he was in Spandau.

He's the man who really cracked this case open. My God, he'll be

ecstatic when he finds out about these papers.

"What evidence did he discover?"

"A war wound. Or a lack of one, I should say. This surgeon was one of

Hess's doctors in Spandau, and in the course of his duties he came

across Hess's First World War record. Hess was wounded three times in

that war-the worst wound being a rifle bullet through the lung. Yet

when the surgeon examined Number Seven, he found no scars on the chest

or back where that wound should have been. And after looking into the

matter further examining the prisoner's X rays-he found no radiographic

evidence of such a wound. There should have been scarring of the lung,

caused by the force of the bullet and other organic particles tearin

through it. But the surgeon found none. He had quite a b of experience

with gunshot wounds, too. He'd done a tour of duty in Northern

Ireland."

Natterman chuckled at Ilse's bewildered expression.

"You're surprised by my knowledge? You shouldn't be. Any German or

British historian could tell you as much." He laughed. "I could give

you twice as much speculation on who started the Reichstag fire!"

"But the details," she said suspiciously. "Dates, medical evidence ...

It's almost as if you were studying the case when I called you."

The professor's face grew grave. "My dear, you have obviously failed to

grasp the monumental importance of this find. These papers could shake

the world. The time period they describe-the forty-four days beginning

with Rudolf Hess's flight to Britain and ending with Hitler's invasion

of Russia-represents the turning point of the entire Second World War,

of the entire twentieth century. In the spring of 1941, Adolf Hitler

held the future of the world in his hands.

Of all Europe, only England still held out against him. The Americans

were still a year from entering the war. German U-boats ruled the seas.

If Hitler had pressed home the attack against England with all his

forces, the British wouldn't have stood a chance. The Americans would

have been denied their staging post for a European invasion, and Hitler

could have turned his full might against Russia with his flanks

protected." Natterman held up a long, crooked finger.

"But he didn't invade England. And no one knows why."

The professor began pacing the kitchen, punctuating his questions by

stabbing the air with his right forefinger. "In 1940 Hitler let the

British Army escape at Dunkirk- Why?

All through the fall of 1940 and the spring of '41 he delayed invading

Britain. Why? Operation Sea-Lion-the planned invasion of Britain-was a

joke. Hitler's best generals have admitted this.

Churchill publicly taunted Hitler, yet still he delayed. Why?

And then the core of the whole mad puzzle: On May tenth, Rudolf Hess

flew to Britain on a secret mission. Scarcely a month later"-Natterman

clapped his hands together with a crack-"Hitler threw his armies into

the icy depths of Russia to be slaughtered. Ilse, that single decision

doomed Nazi Germany- It gave Churchill the time he needed to re . arm

England and to draw Roosevelt into the war. It was military suicide,

and Hitler knew it! For twenty years he had sworn he would never fight

a two-front war. He had publicly proclaimed such a war unwinnable. So

why did he do it?"

Ilse blinked. "Do you know?"

Natterman nodded sagely. "I think I do. There are dozens of complex

theories, but I think the answer is painfully simple: Hitler had no

choice. I don't believe he ever intended to invade England.

Russia was his target all along; his own writings confirm this.

Hitler hated Churchill, but he had tremendous respect for the English as

a people-fellow Nordics and all that. I think Hitler put off invading

Britain because he believed-right up until it was too late-that England

could be neutralized withoutfiring a shot. I think certain elements of

the British government were prepared to sign a peace treaty with Hitler,

so that he would be free to destroy Communist Russia. And I believe

Rudolf Hess was Hitler's secret envoy to those Englishmen. The moment

Hess's presence in England was made public, Joseph Stalin accused the

British of conspiring with Hitler. I think Stalin was right."

The professor's eyes blazed with fanatical conviction.

"But neither Stalin, nor all his spies, nor a thousand scholars, nor I

have ever been able to prove that! For nearly fifty years the truth has

lain buried in the secret vaults of the British government.

By law the relevant Hess files are to remain sealed until the year 2016.

Some will never be opened. What are the British hiding? Whom are they

protecting? A secret cabal of highly placed British Nazis?

Were there powerful Englishmen-even members of the royal family-who were

so afraid of communism that they were ready to climb into Hitler's bed

for protection, no matter how many Jews he slaughtered?"

Natterman punched a fist into his palm.."By God, if these Spandau papers

end up proving that, the walls of Parliament will be hard put to

withstand the firestorm that follows!"

Ilse stared at her grandfather with astonishment. His passion had

infected her, but it could not blot out the worry she felt for Hans.

Yet somehow she couldn't bring herself to confess her fears to the old

man. At least debating the fine points of conspiracy theories helped to

pass the time quickly.

"But if the prisoner was a double," she.said, "how could he fool his

Allied captors? Even an actor couldn't hold out under interrogation."

Natterman snorted scornfully. "The British claim they never

professionally interrogated him. And why should they? They knew Hess

was a double from the beginning.

They held him incommunicado in England for the first four years of his

captivity, and they've been playing this ridiculous game ever since to

cover up the real Hess's mission.

The American government supports Britain's policy right down the line.

And the French have never made a fuss about it. They have their own

skeletons to hide."

"But the Russians," Ilse reminded him. "You said Stalin suspected a

plot from the beginning."

"Perhaps the double didn't fool them," Natterman suggested.

"Then why wouldn't they expose him!"

Natterman frowned. "I don't know. That's the conundrum, isn't it? It's

the key to this whole mystery. There are reasons that the Russians

wouldn't have talked in the early years.

One is that certain alleged Anglo-Nazi intrigues-between Hess and the

Duke of Windsor, for example-took place on Spanish and Portuguese soil.

If such meetings did actually occur, Moscow would have known all about

them"Natterman grinned with glee-"because the mI-6 officer responsible

for the Spanish desk at that time was none other than Kim Philby. What

irony! The Russians couldn't reveal the Windsor-Hess connection without

exposing the PhilbyKGB connection! Of course that only explains the

Russian silence up until 1963, the year Philby fled England. The real

mystery is what kept the Russians quiet during the remaining years."

Ilse was shaking her head. "You make it sound so plausible, but it's

like a huge house of cards.... It's just too complex."

"I'll give you something simple, then. Why did the British never use

'Hess' for propaganda during the war? They locked him away from the

world and refused even to allow him to be photographed. Think about

that. England and Germany were locked in a death struggle. Even if

'Hess' had refused to cooperate, the British could easily have released

statements criticizing Hitler that were supposedly made by Hess. Think

of the boost that would have given English morale. And the negative

effect on the German people! Yet the British never tried it. The only

possible reason I can see for that is that the British knew they didn't

have the real Hess.

They knew if they tried to use 'Hess' against the Nazis, Joseph Goebbels

could jump up and say, 'Fools! You've got a bloody corporal in your

jail!' or something similar."

"If that's true, why wouldn't the Nazis have said that from the

beginning?"

Natterman smiled enigmatically. "Hitler's reasons I cannot divine. But

as for the other top Nazis-Goring, Himmler-they were only too glad to be

rid of Hess. He was their chief rival for Hitler's favors. If the

Fuhrer, for his own reasons, was content to let the world believe that

his lifelong friend and confidant had gone insane, and was a prisoner of

the British, Hess's chief rivals would have been only too glad to go

along." Natterman rubbed his hands together.

"Yes, it all ties up rather neatly."

"So says the great professor," Ilse said dryly. "But you've missed one

thing. Even if the Allies had reasons to keep quiet, why in God's name

would the double@yen if he had agreed to such a mission-keep silent for

nearly fifty years?

What could anyone threaten him with? Solitary confinement in Spandau

Prison must have been a living death.

Natterman shook his head. "You're a clever girl, Ilse, but in some ways

frighteningly naive. Soldiers aren't asked to agree to missions;

they're ordered. In Hitler's Reich refusal meant instant death. You

saw the word Sippenhaft in the papers?"

She nodded. "What does it mean? 'Clan punishment"?"

"That's close enough. Sippenhaft was a barbaric custom that Himmler

borrowed from the ancient Teutonic tribes. It mandated that punishment

be visited not only upon a traitor, but upon his 'clan.' After Graf von

Stauffenberg's abortive attempt on Hitler's life, not only the count but

his entire family was executed. Six of the victims were over seventy

years old! That is Sippenhaft, Ilse, and a more effective tool for

ensuring the silence of living men has yet to be devised."

"But after five decades ... who would be left to carry out such a

sentencet' Natterman rolled his eyes. "How about one of those bald

neo-Nazi psychopaths who roam our streets at night with brickbats? No?

Then how about these 'soldiers of Phoenix' that Number Seven mentions?

He certainly seems terrified of them. And don't forget this: at the end

of the war, close@ to forty divisions of Warren SS remained under arms

throughout the world. That's more than a quarter of a million men! I

don't know how many Death's-Head SS survived, but what if it were only a

few hundred? Just one of those fanatics could wipe out a man's family,

even today. I fought in the war, and I could easily shoot someone down

in the street tonight." Natterman glanced at his watch. "And that is

my final word on the subject," he announced. "I must go."

"Go?" Ilse said uneasily. "Where are you going?"

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.

Rolf again, Hans thought. The profanity was a dead giveaway. The same

bearded man trailed behind him, but this time the pair stayed well back

from the cell and aimed the flashlight in.

"Well?" said Rolf from behind the glare. "What the hell do you want?

The facilities not up to your high standards?'@ Hans flexed his fists in

rage. If he could only lure one of them into the cell . . .

"This man's dead," he said, pointing to the gurney.

Neither guard responded.

"Come in here and check his pulse, if you don't believe me.

"If he's dead, what can we do?" said Rolf, chuckling his logic.

"Get him out of here!" Hans cried.

"Sorry," said the other guard, with a trace of sympathy.

"We can't come in. Orders."

In desperation Hans shoved the gurney to the front of the cell and

thrust his friend's lifeless arm through the bars.

"Feel it, damn you!"

"Take it easy," said the second man. "I'll do it." He pinched Weiss's

wrist expertly between his thumb and middle finger and counted to

thirty. "The man's dead, all right."

Rolf checked Weiss's pulse himself. "So he is. Well, you just stay

right here with him, Sergeant. We'll send somebody down for him.

Eventually."

Hans turned to the wall in despair. Obviously these two thugs weren't

going to be lured into the cell. When he finally turned back around,

they had gone. He picked his way to the rear of the cell and sat down

on a box of files. I can wait, he told himself. Someone's got to come

in here eventually, and when they do ...

Fifteen minutes later the basement door crashed open again. This time

Hans heard no cursing <)r stumbling from the stairs. The tread of boots

was loud and regular. Whoever was coming knew his way around down here.

"This way, idiot," muttered a disembodied voice.

Nothing could have prepared Hans for the next few seconds. When the

boots stopped in front of his cell, the flashlight beam arced in and

blinded him completely. He squinted in pain. Then, out of the

blackness behind the dazzling light came a voice that froze his heart.

"Hans? Are you okay.

Oh God ... Slowly his contracting pupils filtered out the glare.

He saw the hand gripping the flashlight through the bars. Then, just

above it, Captain Dieter Hauer's mustached face coalesced in the

darkness. The leering grin of Rolf floated above and behind him.

Hans felt a caustic wave of bile rising into his throat.

Whatever was going on, Hauer was part of it! His mind reeled, fighting

the realization that his own father had helped murder his friend. He

felt a knifelike pain in his chest, as if his very heart had cracked.

Come in here, you bastard! he thought savagely Just come right in ...

Apparently, Hauer intended to do just that. He turned to Rolf.

"Give me the key," he said.

"But we're not supposed to go in," Rolf objected. "Lieutenant Luhr

said-" Hauer snatched the key from Rolf's hand and opened the cell door.

"Hans, listen," he said softly, "I need to ask-"

"Aaaaaarrgh!"

With every ounce of strength in his body, Hans drove himself off the

back wall and into Hauer's midsection. The flying tackle crushed Hauer

against the steel bars, driving the breath from his lungs. He collapsed

in a heap on the floor, sucking for air. Hans grabbed his neck and

began throttling him in blind hatred. Here was the man to pay for

Weiss's life, and so much more ...

It was a simple matter for Rolf to pick up the lead pipe and knock Hans

unconscious. Having done so, he viciously kicked the limp body off of

Hauer and revived the captain by taking hold of his belt and lifting him

repeatedly off the floor. Slowly Hauer sat up and looked at Hans lying

motionless on the cell floor.

"'Thanks," he coughed.

"You owe me for that@" said Rolf. "That prick meant to kill you!"

"I don't blame him," Hauer muttered.

"What?" Rolf's eyes narrowed. "What were you trying to say to him,

anyway?"

Hans moaned and rolled over. His head banged against the bars.

"Shit," Rolf grumbled, "why don't we just kill this Klugscheisser?"

"We need him. Help me get him up on one of these boxes."

Focusing his eyes slowly, Hans sat up. He'd vomited a little on his

shirt front. "Fa he moaned. "Father? You can't be part of this-"

"What did he say?" Rolf asked.

"He's delirious."

"Weiss is dead!" Hans screamed suddenly.

"So are you," Rolf spat. "You pathetic fuck."

The next four seconds were a blur of motion. Hauer's lips flattened to

a thin line. Quicker than thought he whirled on Rolf and shattered his

jaw with a killing blow from his right fist. Almost simultaneously he

snatched the pipe away with his left hand and brought it down on Rolf's

skull, fracturing his cranium with a sickening crunch. Rolf died before

he hit the floor.

Hans had been stunned by the blow to his head, but even more by this

sudden reversal. But there was no time to think. Hauer knelt over him.

"Don't ask me anything!" he snarled. "Don't say anything!

I don't know how you got involved in this, but you're in way over your

empty head. I don't know if Weiss was in it, but he paid the price

tonight.

You're hiding something-I saw that at Funk's little hearing, and so did

anyone else who was paying attention. You can't lie for shit, Hans,

you're too honest for it."

"Wait-I don't understand," Hans stammered. "Why?"

"Quiet! We're about to take the most dangerous walk of our lives.

If someone finds this shitbag before we get out of the station, we're

dead. Can you move?"

Hans tried to rise, but his legs buckled.

"Get up!"

"I can't. It's my head ... my balance."

"Christ!" With a sudden violence Hauer shoved Weiss's corpse off the

gurney and onto the floor.

"Captain!"

Listen, Hans, he's gone! We're alive, You just be ready when I get

back."

with startling speed Hauer battled the gurney through the dark basement,

then collapsed its legs and dragged it up the stairs. In two minutes he

was back in the cell, leaning over Hans.

"i'm going to carry you up to that gurney and wheel you out the back

door. Can you hang on?"

Hans nodded dully.

"I want you to see something before we go."

Hauer picked up the flashlight and held it to the right side of Rolf's

smashed skull. He dug in the blond hair until he found what he wanted,

then lifted the head slightly and leaned back to make room for Hans.

"First this," he said.

"Look."

Hans looked. At first he saw nothing. Only the bloody roots of Rolf's

flaxen hair. Then Hauer's thick fingers scratched against the dead

man's scalp, scraping some of the blood away. Hans saw it now, behind

the right ear. It was a tattoo. Bloodred ink had @en injected into

Rolf's scalp by a very talented needle. The design itself was less than

two centimeters long, but very detailed. It was an eye. A single,

gracefully curved red eye. With a lid but no lashes. Hans felt his

stomach turn a slow somersault. The eye was identical to the one

sketched on the opening page of the Spandau papers!

You mustfollow the Eye ... The Eye is the key to it all!

"See it?" Hauer grunted.

Hans nodded dumbly.

Rolf's head thudded against the cement floor. Hauer stepped across the

cell and dragged Weiss's corpse over to where Hans sat against the wall.

"You won't forget this for a while," he said. He put his hands into

Weiss'shirt and ripped it open down the front.

Then he pulled up the undershirt.

"What are you doing?" Hans asked, offended by this further indignity

visited upon the dead.

Hauer picked up the flashlight and shone it onto Weiss's almost hairless

chest. Hans leaned over, straining his eyes, then he froze.

Weiss's chest was awash in blood.

"Take a deep breath," Hauer advised. He wiped away most of the blood

with Weiss's undershirt. "Now," he said.

"See it?"

Hans felt dizzy with horror. Gouged deep into Erhard Weiss's flesh by

some unspeakable instrument was a large, six-pointed star.

The Star of David. The edges of the linear wounds looked so ragged that

whoever had inflicted them must have done it with a screwdriver, or a

long nail. Hans felt vomit coming up like a geyser.

He gagged and turned away.

"No!" Hauer snapped, grabbing his shoulder. "Get up!"

Choking down bile, Hans tried to stand. With a stifled groan, Hauer

caught hold of him, slung him over his shoulder like a sack, and plodded

out of the cell. Tlwice Hauer stumbled as they crossed the cluttered

basement floor, but both times he regained his balance. The stairs took

longer.

Each successive step required increasing amounts of time and energy from

Hauer's sleep-deprived body.

"Stop!" Hans begged, fearing they would both fall. "Put me down.

I can make it."

Just as he felt Hauer's broad back sag under the strain, he saw a crack

of light in the darkness. The basement door.

They had made it. Grunting, Hauer kicked open the door and heaved Hans

onto the gurney. "Don't even breathe," he said, wheezing like a draft

horse. "If anyone stops us, I take him out. You stay on this cart! As

far as anyone knows, you killed Rolf, then I killed you. Period."

Hauer shoved the gurney into motion and veered right, rolling his human

contraband toward the rear entrance Hans had used when he arrived. Hans

opened one eye to orient himself, but Hauer promptly struck him on the

head. Rounding the last corner, Hauer saw the pinch-faced young

policeman who had questioned Hans earlier. The guard rose from his desk

before Hauer reached him.

"Where are you taking this man?" he challenged. "No one leaves the

building without written orders from the prefect."

"This man's dead," Hauer said, slowing to a stop. "He was alive when he

walked in here. The prefect doesn't write orders that tie him to

embarrassing corpses. Now, let me pass."

For a moment the officer looked uncertain. Then he cocked his chin up

and resumed his arrogant tone. "There's no one back here but us. It

won't hurt to ring Lieutenant Luhr upstairs."

He lifted the phone from its cradle, then leaned over Hans's face and

stared. Hans lay completely still, but it would not have saved them.

Hauer could see what was comw ing. The policeman's left hand ' as

moving up to Hans's wrist, searching for a pulse ...

Hauer brought his right fist down like a hammer on the man's temple.

Hans's eyes shot open when the body landed on him, but he stayed on the

gurney. Hauer quickly wrapped the telephone cord several times around

the stunned guard's wrists, then, spying a cloth napkin on the desk,

stuffed it into his mouth and let him fall to the floor.

"Hang on!" he bellowed. He slammed the gurney through the heavy door

that led to the rear parking lot.

The cold hit them like a wall of ice.

"Get up!" Hauer said. "We've got to steal a car. Mine's parked in

front of the station."

"Mine's back here," Hans groaned, trying to rise.

"You've still got your keys?"

"No one took them."

"Idiots! Give them to me!"

Hans fished the keys out of his pocket and handed them over.

Hauer helped him off the gurney and into the car, then climbed into the

driver's seat and fired the engine. Incredibly, the Volkswagen kicked

over without grumbling.

"This is our lucky day," Hans croaked, still a bit silly from the blow

to his head.

Hauer drove slowly out of the lot, turning south on the Friedrichstrasse

to avoid the reporters, then shot down the first side street he came to.

He had to make some decisions very fast, but he could think of nowhere

safe to make them.

Just drive, he thought. Headfor the seedy section of the city and let

my mind clear Instinct would guide him. It always had. Maybe Hans

could give him a direction. He reached over and jerked Hans's chin up.

"Wake up! It's time to talk."

"My God," Hans mumbled. "Weiss ... what did they do to him?"

Hauer cruised past the Anhalter Banhof, then wrenched the VW into

another side street. "That was play time," he growled, "compared to

what they'll do if they find us. You'd better have some answers, Hans.

I just threw away my badge, my reputation, my pension, and probably my

life. If you mention our stupid agreement now, I'll brain you myself.

Now make yourself useful. Start watching for patrol cars."

Praying that he would awaken from this nightmare, Hans slid up in his

seat, put a hand to his throbbing head, and peered out into the icebound

Berlin darkness.

CHAPTER SEVEN

9.55 Pm. British Sector.- West Berlin As Captain Hauer wheeled Hans's

Volkswagen out of Polizei Abschnitt 53, Professor Natterman stepped out

of a taxi thirty blocks away, paid his cabbie, and hurried into the

milling throngs of Zoo Station. He tried to walk slowly, but found it

difficult. Missing his train would mean standing around the station for

hours with nothing to do but worry about the nine sheets of onionskin

taped into the small of his back. Sighting a ticket window with a short

queue, he got into line and set down his heavy suitcase.

Ten minutes later Professor Natterman was safely berthed in a

first-class car, poring over a short volume by Dr. J. R.

Rees, the British Army psychiatrist who had supervised the first

extensive examinations of "Rudolf Hess" after his famous flight. It

made for tedious reading, and Natterman had trouble concentrating. His

mind kept returning to the Spandau papers. He had no doubt that

Prisoner Number Seven had told the truth-if only because, to date, the

man had provided the only possible version of events that fit all the

known facts.

The Rudolf Hess case, Natterman believed, shared one major similarity

with the assassination of the American president John F.

Kennedy. There was simply too much information. A surfeit of facts,

inconsistencies, myth, and conjecture. Everyone had his pet conspiracy

theory. If one accepted the medical evidence that "Number Seven" was

not Hess, then two general theories held popular sway.

Natterman dismissed them both out of hand, but like most farfetched

theories, each was based upon a tantalizing grain of truth.

The primary theory-put forward by the British surgeon who first

uncovered the medical evidence-held that one of the top Nazis (either

Heinrich Himmler or Hermann Goring) had wanted to supplant Hitler and

had decided to use Hess's wartime double to do it. To accomplish this,

either Goring or Himmler (or both) would have to have ordered the real

Hess shot down over the North Sea, then sent his double rushing on to

England. There the double would supposedly have asked the British

government if it might accept peace with Germany, if someone other than

Hitler reigned in Berlin.

Natterman considered this pure fantasy. Both Nazi chieftains had

possessed the power to give such orders, of course. And there was quite

a body of evidence suggesting that both men had prior knowledge of

Hess's plan to fly to Britain. But the question Natterman could not

ignore was why Himmler or Goring should have elected to murder Hess,

then use his double for such a sensitive mission in the first place.

It was a harebrained scheme that would have carried tremendous risk of

discovery by Hitler, and thus was totally out of character for both the

prudent SS chief and the flamboyant but wily Luftwaffe commander. Only

a week before Hess's flight, Himmler had sent a secret envoy to

Switzerland to discuss the possibility of an Anglo-German peace, with

himself as chancellor of the Reich. That might not be so exciting as

murder in the skies, but it was Himmler's true style.

The other popular theory held that the real Hess had reached England

alive, but that the British government-for reasons of its own-had wanted

him silenced. They supposedly killed Hess, then searched among German

prisoners of war for a likely double, whom they brainwashed, bribed, or

blackmailed into impersonating the Deputy Fuhrer.

Natterman considered this tripe of the lowest order. His researches

indicated that a "brainwashed" man was little more than a

zombie-certainly not capable of impersonating Hess for more than a few

hours, much less for forty-six years.

And as far as British bribes or blackmail, Natterman didn't believe any

German impersonator would sacrifice fifty years of his life for British

money or even British threats.

Yet this theory, too, was partially based on fact. No informed

historian doubted that the British government wanted the Hess affair

buried. They had proved it time and again throughout the years, and

Professor Natterman did not discount the possibility that the British

had murdered Hess's double just four weeks ago. It was also true that

only a native German could have successfully impersonated Hess for so

long. Not just any German, however, it would have to have been a German

trained specifically by Nazis to impersonate Hess, and whose service was

either voluntary, or motivated by the threat of some terrible penalty. A

penalty like Sippenhaft.

Natterman felt a shiver of excitement. The author of the Spandau papers

had satisfied- all those requirements, and more. For the first time,

someone had offered a credible-probably the only)-answer to when and how

the double had been substituted for the real Hess. If the papers were

correct, he never had been. Hess and his double had flown to Britain in

the same plane. It had been the double in British hands from the very

first moment! Natterman recalled that a prominent British journalist

had written a novel suggesting that, since the Messerschmitt 110 could

carry two men, Hess might not have flown to Britain alone. But no one

had ever suggested that Hess's double could have been that passenger!

Natterman drummed his fingers compulsively as his brain shifted up to a

higher plane of analysis. Facts were the province of history

professors; motives were the province of historians. The ultimate

question was not how the double had arrived in England, but why. Why

was it necessary for both the double and the real Hess to fly to

Britain, as the Spandau papers claimed they had? Whom did they fly

there to meet?

Why was it necessary for the double to remain in Spandau?

Had he been murdered for the same reason? If so, who murdered him?

Circumstantial evidence pointed to the British.

Yet if the British killed the double, why had they done it now, after

all these years? Publicly they had joined France and the United States

in calling for Number Seven's early release (though they knew full well

they could rely on the Russians to veto it, as they had done every year

before)My God, Natterman thought suddenly. Was that it?

Had Mikhail Gorbachev, in the spirit of glasnost, proposed to release

Hess at last? As Natterman scrawled this question in the margin of Dr.

Rees's book, the huge, bright yellow diesel engine disengaged its brakes

with a hiss and lurched out of the great glass hall of Zoo Station,

accelerating steadily toward the benighted fields of the DDR.

In a few minutes the train would enter the narrow, fragile corridor

linking the is land of West Berlin to the Federal Republic of Germany.

Natterman pulled the plastic shade down over his small window.

There were ghosts outside-ghosts he had no wish to see. Memories he

thought long laid to rest had been violently exhumed by the papers he

now smuggled through communist Germany. God, he wondered, does it ever

end?

The deceit, the casualties? He touched the thin bundle beneath his

sweater. The casualties ... More were coming, he could feel it.

Yet he couldn't give up the Spandau papers-not yet.

Those nine thin sheets of paper were his last chance at academic

resurrection. He had been one of the lions once, an academic demigod.

A colleague once told Natterman that he had heard Willy Brandt quote

from Natterman's opus on Germany no less than three times during one

speech in the Bundestag. Three times! But Natterman had written that

book over thirty years ago. During the intervening years, he had

managed to stay in print with "distinguished contributor" articles, but

no publisher showed real interest in any further Natterman books. The

great professor had said all fie had to say in From Bismarck to the

Bunker-or so they thought. But now, he thought excitedly, now the

cretins will be hammering down my door! When he offered his explosive

translation of The Secret Diary of Spandau Prisoner Number

Seven-boasting the solution to the greatest mystery of the Second World

War-they would beg for the privilege of publishing him!

Startled by a sharp knock at the compartment door, Natterman stuffed Dr.

Rees's book under his seat cushion and stood.

Probablyjust Customs, he reassured himself This was the very reason he

had chosen this escape route from the city. Trains traveling between

West Berlin and the Federal Republic did not stop inside East Germany,

so passport control and the issue of visas took place during the

journey.

Still more important, there were no baggage controls.

"Yes?" he called. "Who is it?"

Someone fumbled at the latch; then the door shot open. A tall, wiry man

with a dark complexion and bright eyes stared at the professor in

surprise. A worn leather bag dangled from his left hand. "Oh, dear!"

he said. "Dreadfully sorry."

An upper-class British accent. Natterman looked the man up and down. At

least my own age, he thought. Stronglooking fellow. Thin, tanned,

beaked nose. Looks more Jew ish than British, come to think of it.

Which is ridiculous because Judaism isn't a nationality and Britishness

isn't a religion-although the adherents of both sometimes treat them as

such"I say there," the intruder said, quickly scanning the room,

"Stern's my name. I'm terribly sorry. Can't seem to find my berth."

"What's the number?" Natterman asked warily.

Sixteen, just like it says on the door here." Stern held out a k.

-e y.

Natterman examined it. "Right number," he said. "Wrong car, though.

You want second class, next car back."

Stern took the key back quickly. "Why, you're right.

Thanks, old boy. I'll find it."

"No trouble." Natterman scrutinized the visitor as he backed out of the

cabin. "You know, I thought I'd locked that door," he said.

"Don't think it was, really," Stern replied. "Just gave it a shove and

it opened right up."

"Your key fit?"

"It went in. Who knows? They always use the oldest trains on the

Berlin run. One key probably opens half the doors on the train." Stern

laughed. "Sorry again."

For an instant the tanned stranger's face came alive with urgent

purpose, so that it matched his eyes, which were bright and intense.

It was as if a party mask had accidentally slipped before midnight.

Stern seemed on the verge of saying something; then his lips broadened

into a sheepish grin and he backed out of the compartment and shut the

door.

Puzzled, and more than a little uncomfortable, Natterman sat down again.

An accident? That fellow didn't seem like the type to mix up his

sleeping arrangements. Not one bit.

And something about him looked familiar. Not his face ...

but his carriage. The loose, ready stance. He'd been unseasonably

tanned for Berlin. Impossibly tanned, in fact.

Retrieving Dr. Rees's book from beneath the seat cushion, the professor

tapped it nervously against his leg. A soldier, he thought suddenly.

Natterman would have bet a year's salary that the man who had stumbled

into his compartment was an ex-soldier. And an Englishman, he thought,

feeling his heart race. Or at least a man who had lived among the

English long enough to imitate their accent to per c n. Na

.fe tio tterman

didn't like the arithmetic of that "accident" at all if he was right.

Not at all.

10.04 Pm. mI-5 Headquarters: Charles Street, London, England Deputy

Director Wilson knocked softly at Sir Neville Shaw's door, then opened

it and padded onto the deep carpet of the director general's office.

Shaw sat at his desk beneath the green glow of a banker's lamp. He took

no notice of the intrusion; he continued to pore over a thick, dog-eared

file on the desk before him.

"Sir Neville?" Wilson said.

Shaw did not look up. "What is it? Your hard boys arrived?" "

"No, sir. It's something else. A bit rum, actually.

Sir Neville looked up at last. "Well?"

"It's Israeli Intelligence, sir. The head of the Mossad, as a matter of

fact. He's sent us a letter."

Shaw blinked. "So?"

"Well, it's rather extraordinary, sir."

"Damn it, Wilson, how so?"

"The letter is countersigned by the Israeli prime minister.

It was hand-delivered by courier."

"What?" Sir Neville sat up. "What in God's name is it about?"

His ruddy face slowly tightened in dread. "Not Hess?"

Wilson quickly shook his head. "No, sir. It's about an old

intelligence hand of theirs. Chap named Stern. Seems he's been holed

up in the Negev for the past dozen years, but a couple of days ago he

quietly slipped his leash."

Shaw looked exasperated. "I don't see what the devil that's got to do

with us."

"The Israelis-their prime minister, lather-seem to think we might still

hold a grudge against this fellow. That there might be a standing order

of some type on him. A liquidation order."

"That's preposterous!" Shaw bellowed. "After all this time?"

The deputy director smiled with forbearance. "It's not so preposterous,

Sir Neville. Our own Special Forces Clubwhich the Queen still visits

occasionally, I'm proud to say still refuses to accept Israeli members.

They welcome elite troops from almost every democratic nation in the

world, even the bloody Germans. Everyone but the Israelis, and they're

probably the best of the lot. And all because the older agents still

hold a grudge for the murder of an SAS man by Zionists during the

mandate." "Just a minute," Shaw interrupted.

"Stern, you said?"

"Yes, sir. Jonas Stern. I pulled his file."

"Jonas Stern," Shaw murmured. "By God, the Israelis ought to be

concerned. One of our people has been after that old guerilla for

better than thirty years."

Wilson looked surprised. "One of our agents, sir?"

"Retired," Shaw explained. "A woman, actually. Code name Swallow. A

real harpy. You'd better pull her file, in fact. Just in case she's

still got her eye on this fellow." Shaw nodded thoughtfully. "I

remember Stern. He was a terrorist during the Mandate, not even twenty

at the time, I'll bet. He swallowed his vinegar and fought for us

during the war. It was the only way he could get at Hitler, I suppose.

Did a spot of sticky business for us in Germany, as I recall."

Wilson looked at Shaw in wonder. "That's exactly what it says in the

file!"

"Yes," Shaw remembered, "he worked for LAKAM during the 'sixties and

'seventies, didn't he? Safeguarding Israel's nuclear development

program." Shaw smiled at his deputy's astonishment. "No strings or

mirrors, Wilson. Stern was a talented agent, but the reason I remember

him so clearly is because of this Swallow business. I think she

actually tried to assassinate him a couple of times. That's why the

Mossad sent that letter."

"Do you really think this woman might pose a danger to him?"

Shaw shook his head. "I doubt Stern's in England. Or even in Europe,

for that matter. He's probably sunning himself on Mykonos, or something

similar. 'Which reminds me-did you find that freighter for me?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Lloyd's puts her off Durban; she rounded the cape three

days ago."

Shaw rummaged through the stack of papers on his desk until he found a

map of southern Africa. "Durban," he murmured, running his finger

across the paper. "Twenty knots, twenty-five ... two days ...

yes. Well."

Shaw brushed the map aside and thumped the stack of papers before him.

"This is the Hess file, Wilson. iNo one's cleared to read it but me-did

you know that? I tell you, there's enough rotted meat between these

covers to make you ashamed of being an Englishman."

Wilson waited for an explanation, but Shaw provided none. "About the

Israeli letter, sir?" he prompted. "It's basically a.polite request to

leave this Stern alone. How should I reply?"

"What? Oh. The Israeli prime minister is an old terrorist himself, you

know." Sir Neville chuckled. "And still looking after his own, after

all these years." His smile turned icy.

"No reply. Let him sweat for a while, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"And him-y those hard boys along, would you? I thought I had it tough

with the P.M. climbing my back. An hour ago I got a call from the

bloody Queen-Mother herself She makes the Iron Lady sound like a French

nanny!"

As Wilson slipped out, Sir Neville butted and went back to the Hess

file. On top lay a very old eight-by-ten glossy photograph.

Scarred and faded, it showed a man in his late forties with dark hair, a

strong jaw, and a black oval patch tied rakishly across his left eye.

Shaw jabbed his heavy forefinger down on the eye patch.

"You started it all, you sneaking bastard," he muttered. He slammed the

file closed and leaned back in his chair. "Sometimes I wonder if the

damned knighthood's worth the strain," he said.

"Protecting skeletons in the royal bloody chest."

10.-07 Pm. #30 Lfitzenstrasse

Outside the apartment another car rattled down the street without

slowing. Number twelve. Ilse was counting. Wait until midnight, her

grandfather had told her. If Hans isn't home by then, get out. Sound

advice, perhaps, but Ilse couldn't imagine running for safety while Hans

remained in danger. She fumed at her own obstinacy. How could she have

let a stupid argument keep her from telling Hans about the baby? She

had to find him. Find him and bring him to his senses.

But where to start? The police station? The nightclub district?

Hans might meet a reporter anywhere. Rising from her telephone vigil,

she went to the bedroom to put on some outdoor clothes. Outside, a long

low groan built slowly to a rattling roar as a train passed on the

elevated S-Bahn tracks up the street. During the day trains passed

every ten minutes or so; at night, thank God, the intervals were longer.

As Ilse tied a scarf around her hair, yet another automobile clattered

down the Liitzenstrasse, coughing dnd wheezing in the cold.

Unlike the others, however, this one sputtered to a stop near the front

entrance of the building. Please, she prayed, rushing to the window,

please let it be Hans.

It wasn't. Looking down, she saw a shiny black BMW sedan, not Hans's

Volkswagen. She let her forehead fall against the freezing pane. The

cold eased the throb of the headache that had begun an hour earlier. She

half-watched as the four doors of the BMW opened simultaneously and four

men in dark business suits emerged. They grouped together near the

front of the car. One man pointed toward the apartment building and

waved in a circle. Another detached himself from the group and

disappeared around the corner.

Curious, Ilse watched the first man turn his face toward the upper

floors and begin counting windows. His bobbing arm moved slowly closer

to her window. How 'odd, she thought.

Who would be out counting apartment windows at midnight in-?

She jumped back from the window. The men below were looking for her. Or

for Hans-for what he'd found. She groped for the light switch to turn

it off, then thought better of it. Instead she ran into the living

room, opened the door, and peered cautiously down the hall.

Empty. She dashed down the corridor and around the corner to a window

that overlooked the building's rear entrance. Three men huddled there,

speaking animatedly. Ilse wondered if they might be plain-clothes

police. Suddenly two of them entered the building, while the third took

up station in the shadow of some garbage bins near the exit.

The metallic groan of the ancient elevator jolted Ilse from the window.

Too late to run. They would reach her floor in seconds. With her back

to the corridor wall, she inched toward the corner that led back to her

apartment. She felt a tingling numbness in her hands as she peeked

around it. A tall young man in a dark suit stood outside her door.

Remembering the fire stairs, she started in the other direction, but the

echo of ascending steps made her thought redundant.

Hopelessly trapped, she decided to try to bluff her way out.

Feeling adrenaline suffuse her body, she stepped around the corner as if

she owned the building and marched toward the man outside her apartment.

She cocked her chin arrogantly upward, intending to walk right past him

and into the lift that would take her to the lobby.

After all, she had appeared from another part of the floor-she might be

anybody. If she could only reach the lobby ...

The man looked up. He began to stare. First at Ilse's legs, then at

her breasts, then her face.

I can't do it! she thought. I'll never make it past himIn a

millisecond she saw her chance. Stay calm, she told herself. Steady

... Fifteen feet away from her apartment she stopped and withdrew her

apartment key from her purse. She smiled coolly at the guard, then

turned her back to him and bent over the door handle of apartment 43.

Be here, Eva! she screamed silently. For God's sake, be here!

Ilse scratched her key against the knob to imitate the sound of an

unlocking door, then she said one last prayer and turned the knob.

It opened! Like a reprieved prisoner, she backed into her friend's

apartment, smiling once at the guard before she shut and locked the

door. After shooting home the bolt, she sagged against the door, her

entire body quivering in terror.

For an unsteady moment she thought she might actually collapse, but she

forced down her fear and padded up the narrow hall to her friend's

bedroom door. A crack of light shone faintly beneath it.

Ilse knocked, but heard no answer.

"Eva?" she called softly. "Eva, it's Ilse."

Too anxious to wait, she opened the door and stepped into the room. From

behind the door a hand shot out and caught her hair, then jerked her to

the floor. She started to struggle, but froze when she felt a cold

blade press into the soft flesh of her throat. "Eva!" she rasped.

"Eva', it's me-Ilse!"

The hand jerked harder on her hair, drawing her head back. The blade

did not relent. Then, suddenly, she was free.

"Ilse!" Eva hissed. "What the hell are you doing here? I might have

killed you. I would have. I thought you were a rapist. Or worse."

The remark threw Ilse off balance. "What's worse than a rapist?"

"A faggot, dearie," Eva answered, bursting into laughter.

She folded the straight razor back into its handle.

Ilse's panic finally overcame her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and

she sobbed as her middle-aged friend hugged her wet face to a

considerable bosom and stroked her hair like a mother comforting her

child.

"Ilse, darling," Eva murmured. "What's happened? You're beside

yourself."

"Eva, I'm sorry I came here, but it was the only place I could go!

I don't know what's happening-"

"Shh, be quiet now. Catch your breath and tell Eva all about it. Did

Hans do sometfiing naughty? He didn't hit you?"

"No ... nothing like that. This is madness. Crazy. You wouldn't

believe me if I told you!"

Eva chuckled. "I've seen things in this city that would drive a

psychiatrist mad, if you could find one who isn't already. Just tell me

what's wrong, child. And if you can't tell me that, tell me what you

need. I can at least help you out of trouble."

Ilse wiped her face on her blouse and tried to calm down.

Despite the presence of the men outside, she felt better already.

Eva Beers had a way of making any problem seem insignificant. A barmaid

and tavern singer for most of her fifty-odd years, she had worked the

rough-and-tumble circuit in most of the capitals of western Europe. She

had returned home to Berlin three years ago, to "live out my days in

luxury," as she jokingly put it. Hans sometimes commented that Eva was

only semiretired, for the frequent pilgrimage of well-dressed and

ever-changing old gentlemen to her door seemed to indicate that

something slightly more profitable than conversation went on inside

number 43. But that was Eva's business; Hans never asked any questions.

She was a cheerful and discreet neighbor who often did favors for the

young couple, and Ilse had grown very close to her.

"Eva, we're in trouble," Ilse said. "Hans and I."

"What kind of trouble? Hans is Polizei. What can't he fix?"

Ilse fought the urge to blurt out everything. She didn:t want to

involve Eva any more than she already had. "I don t know, Eva, I don't

know. Hans found something. Something dangerous!"

"It's drugs, isn't it?" Eva wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Hashish or something, right?"

"I told you, I don't know. But it's bad. There's a man in the hall

right now and he's waiting for Hans to get home.

There are three more men outside by the doors!"

"What? Outside here? Who do you mean, child? Police?"

Ilse threw up her hands. "I don't know! All I know is that Hans's

station said he left hours ago. I've got to get out of here, Eva. I've

got to warn Hans."

"How can you warn him if you don't know where he is?"

Ilse wiped a wet streak of mascara from her cheek. .1

don't know," she said, trying to stop her tears. "But first I've got to

get past those men outside."

As the old barmaid watched Ilse's mascara run, a hot wave of anger

flushed her cheeks. "You dry those tears," she said. "There hasn't

been a man born to woman that Mama Eva can't handle."

10. 10 P. m. Europe Center, Breitscheid Platz. West Berlin

Major Harry Richardson stared curiously at the receding back of Eduard

Lenhardt, his contact in Abschnitt 53. In seconds the policeman

disappeared into the crush of bodies crowding the bar of the imitation

Irish pub in the basement of the Europe Center, West Berlin's answer to

the American megamall. This twenty-two-story tower housed dozens of

glitzy shops, bars, restaurants, banks, travel agencies, and even a

hotel-all of whose goods and services seemed to be priced for the

Japanese tourist. Harry had chosen it for its crowds.

He swallowed the last of an excellent Bushmill's and then began to

gather his thoughts. Eduard Lenhardt was only the third in a chain of

personal contacts Harry had spoken with tonight.

Contrary to Colonel Rose's orders, Harry had kept his racquetball date.

And by so doing, he had learned that Sir Neville Shaw, director of

Britain's mI-5, hid ordered British embassy personnel to burn the

midnight oil in West Berlin.

Shortly after that, Harry had called a State Department contact in Bonn,

an. old college buddy, who had let it slip that the Russian complaint

filed against the U.S. Army specified papers taken from Spandau Prison

as the primary object of Soviet concern. The British and the French had

received the same complaint. Harry could well imagine the British

consternation at such an allegation. After the phone call, Harry had

finally gained an audience with his reluctant contac from Abschnitt

53-Lieutenant Eduard Lenhardt.

Lenhardt had revealed information to Harry in three ways: by what he'd

said, by what he hadn't said, and simply by how he'd looked. In Harry's

professional opinion, the policeman had looked scared shitless.

What he had not said was anything about papers found in Spandau Prison.

What he had said was this: That the prefect of police, Wilhelm Funk, had

moved out of the Police Presidium and set up a command post in Abschnitt

53, after which the station had taken on the demeanor of an SS barracks

after Graf Stauffenberg's briefcase exploded in Hitler's bunker. That

two Berlin policemen had been detained in a basement cell, then had

either escaped or been killed. And that while the Russians had pulled

out of Abschnitt 53 at eight, they had acted as if they might return at

any time with T-72 tanks. All this in breathless gasps from a veteran

policeman whom Harry had never seen get excited about anything other

than the piano quartets of BrahmsHarry dropped ten marks on the table

and hurried out of the pub. Sixty seconds later he was on the Ku'damm,

where he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver an address near the

Tiergarten. The man who occupied the house there was one of Harry's

"private assets," a rather high-strung German trade liaison named Klaus

Seeckt. During Harry's first year in Berlin, he had spotted Klaus at

the Philharinonie, in the company of an arrogant and well-known KGB

agent named Yuri Borodin. It hadn't taken Harry long to establish that

Klaus was using his semi-official cover to funnel restricted technology

to Moscow. That had not interested Harry much; what had interested

him-after a thorough investigation of Seeckt-was that while Klaus dealt

directly with the KGB, he had no ties, voluntary or otherwise, to the

East German secret police, the Stasi. And that was a very rare

combination in Berlin.

Rather than arrest Klaus for the high-tech ripoff, Harry had opted to

use his leverage whenever he needed a direct line into KGB operations.

He never even filed a report on Klaus. Colonel Rose might have insisted

that Hariy push the German too hard, which would only have spooked him

into fleeing the city. Men like Klaus had to be treated delicately.

Harry cultivated the man's ego, pretending to share with him the

fraternal enjoyment of superior intellect, and applied pressure only

when necessaryTonight was different. Eduard Lenhardt's apprehensions

were worming their way into Harry's gut, and the checks he non-nally

kept on his imagination began to erode as his mind raced through the

possible implications of the events at Abschnitt 53. When the taxi

reached the Tiergarten house, Harry tipped its driver enough to satisfy,

but not enough to draw attention. And as he reached Klaus's door, he

decided that his sensitive East German would have to pay the remainder

of his debt tonight.

10.10 Pm. The Bismarekstrasse

"Captain!" Hans warned.-"Motorcycle patrol, three cars back!

"I see him." Hauer swung the Volkswagen smoothly around a corner just

as the traffic signal changed, stranding the police cycle in the line of

vehicles stopped at the light.

"We've got to get off the street."

"Where do we go? My apartment? Your house?"

"Think, Hans. They'll be covering both places."

"You're right. Maybe-" He grabbed Hauer's sleeve. "Jesus, Ilse's at

the apartment alone!"

"Easy, Hans, we'll get her. But we can't walk in there like lambs to

the slaughter."

"But Funk could have men there already!"

"Hold your water. Where are we, Bergstrasse? There should be a hotel

four blocks south of us. The Steglitz. Just what we need."

"A hotel?"

"Get in the backseat," Hauer ordered, and stepped on the accelerator.

"What are you going to do?"

"Do it!"

As Hans climbed into the backseat, Hauer ripped the police insignia from

his collar and spurred the VW into the Steglitz garage.

The violent turn threw Hans against the side door. They squealed down

the curving ramp to the parking sublevels below and into a tiny space

between two large sedans.

"All right, Hans," Hauer said. "Out with it. Everything.

What really happened at Spandau this morning?"

Hans climbed awkwardly through the narrow gap between the seats.

"I'll tell you on the way to my apartment."

Hauer shook his head. "We don't move one meter until you talk."

Hans bridled, but he could see that Hauer would not be swayed.

"Look, I would have reported it if it hadn't been for those damned

Russians."

"Reported what?"

"The papers. The papers I found at Spandau."

"Christ, you mean the Russians were right?"

Hans nodded.

"Where did you find these papers? What did they say?"

Hauer looked strangely hungry. Hans looked out the window. "I found

them in a pile of rubble. In a hollow brick, just like Schmidt asked

me. What does it matter? I started reading them, but one of the

Russians stumbled on me. I hid them without even thinking." He turned

to Hauer. "That's it!

That's all I did! So why has everyone gone crazy?"

"What did the papers say, Hans?"

"I don't know. Gibberish, mostly. Ilse said it was Latin."

"You showed them to your wife?" ' "I didn't intend to, but she found

them. She understood more of it than I did, anyway. She said the

papers had something to do with the Nazis. That they were dangerous."

He looked down at his lap. "God, was she right."

"Tell me everything you remember, Hans."

"Look, I hardly remember any of it. The German part sounded bitter,

like a revenge letter, but ... there was fear in it, too. The writer

said he had written because he could never speak about what he knew.

That others would pay the price for his words."

Hauer hung on every syllable. "What else?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

"It was Latin, I told you! I couldn't read it!"

"Latin," Hauer mused, leaning back into his seat. "Who wrote the

papers? Were they signed?"

Hans shrugged uncomfortably. "There wasn't any name.

Just a number."

"A number?" Hauer's eyes grew wide. "What number, Hans?"

"Seven, goddamnit! The lucky number. What a fucking joke. Now can we

get out of here?"

Hauer shook his head slowly. "Hess," he murmured. "It's impossible.

The restriction&, the endless searches. It can't Hans ground his teeth

angrily. "Captain, I know what you're talking about, but right now I

don't care! I just want to know my wife is safe!"

Hauer laid a hand on his shoulder. "Where are these papers now?"

"At the apartment."

"No! You made copies?"

"No, damn it! I don't care about the papers anymore!

We're going to get Ilse now!"

Hauer pinned him against the seat with an arm of iron.

"You saw Weiss, didn't you? If you go charging into your apartment, the

same thing could happen to you. And to Ilse."

The memory of Weiss's mutilated corpse brought a strange stillness over

Hans. "What did happen to Weiss?"

Hauer sighed. "Someone got too impatient, pushed the doctor too far.

Probably Luhr, Funk's personal stormtrooper." He shook his head.

"Later tonight they'll shoot his body full of cocaine and dump him in

the Havel."

"My God," Hans breathed. "You saw it. You were there."

He balled his hands into fists.

"Hans! Get hold of yourself! I did not see Weiss tortured."

"You knew about his chest!"

Hauer grimaced. "I overheard someone talking about it.

It's ... it's sort of a specialty of theirs. With certain Jews.

Why did that boy join the- department at all? You'd think a Jew would

know better."

Hans's mouth fell open. "You're saying it was Weiss's fault someone

mutilated him?"

"I'm saying if you're a lamb you don't run with the wolf pack!"

The memory of Weiss brought back the mark on Rolf's head, the haunting

eye from the Spandau papers. "What about the tattoo?" Hans asked

quietly. "What does that mean?"

Hauer shook his head. "It's complicated, Hans. The eye is a mark some

people use-some very dangerous people. I'm not one of them. I just

wanted you to remember the design."

He leaned his head across the seat. "Look behind my right ear.

In the hair. If I had the tattoo, it would be there."

Hans studied Hauer's close-cropped scalp, but he saw no tattoo.

"I'm not one of them," said Hauer, straightening up. "But until five

minutes ago, they thought I was. We've Fot to find somewhere safe to

hide, Hans, somewhere with a phone. Before we can get your wife, we've

got to know what Funk and Luhr are up to. I've got a man inside the

station I can call- "

"So let's go upstairst There are probably a dozen phones up in the

lobby. I can call Ilse, warn her to get out!"

Hans reached for.the door handle, but Hauer stopped him again.

"We can't, Hans. We're in uniform. Everyone will be staring at the two

beat-up cops using the pay phones. Funk's men would find us in no

time."

Hans jerked his arm free. "Where, then? A friend's house?"

"No. No friends, no family. It's got to be untraceable. An empty

house or ... something."

Slowly, almost mechanically, Hans removed his wallet from his pants

pocket and took out a tattered white business card. He stared at it a

moment, then handed it to Hauer.

"What's this?" Hauer read aloud: " 'Benjamin Ochs, The Best Tailor in

Berlin.' You want to go to your tailor shop?"

"He's not my tailor," Hans said tersely.

"Eleven-fifty Goethestrasse. No one can trace you to this place?"

"Trust me."

Hauer looked skeptical.

Hans turned away. The stress of being treated like an animal, caged and

hunted, was congealing into something cold and hard in the pit of his

stomach. With a guttural groan he slammed his open hand against the

dashboard. "Get this fucking car moving!"

Hauer looked hard into Hans's eyes, gauging the mettle there.

"Right," he said finally. He fired the engine and roared out of the

hotel garage with tires squealing, making for the Goethestrasse.

CHAPTER EIGHT

lL725 pm. Liitzenstrasse: West Berlin The men waiting within and

without Ilse's apartment building were not police. They were KGB agents

sent to the Liitzenstrasse by Colonel Ivan Kosov. Kosov himself waited

impatiently in a second BMW parked at the end of the block.

Kosov hated stakeouts. Long ago he had foolishly thought that once he

attained sufficient rank he would be spared the monotony of these

endless vigils. And perhaps one day he would. But tonight was one more

in an endless series of proofs to the contrary. Exasperated, he reached

for the radio microphone mounted on the auto's dash.

"Report, One," he said.

"The lobby's clear," crackled a metallic voice.

"Two?"

"Nothing in the hall. The door's locked, no sound from inside."

"Four?"

"Three's with me. No sign of Apfel or the wife."

"Stay awake," Kosov said gruffly. "Out."

Shit, he thought, how long will it take? Sitting in this ballfreezing

cold, chattering over the short-,range radios as if simply alternating

frequencies could mask the russian-accented commands ricocheting through

the Berlin audio net like lines from a bad movie.

He wished there were another way. But he knew there wasn't.

Three floors above Kosov, the door to apartment 43

opened and two garishly made-up redheads stepped into the hallway.

One locked the door while her young companion stared invitingly at the

man standing at attention outside apartment 40. The young woman nudged

her middle-aged com anion, who chuckled and led the wa over to the

silent manNa , mein Siisser, " Eva flirted in a husky voice. "All alone

up here tonight?"

Taken aback by her directness, the Russian stared back in silence.

She's at least fifty, he thought, much too old for my taste. But you're

something else altogether he thought, hungrily eyeing the younger

woman's cleavage. With a flash of surprise, he realized that she was

the demure blonde he had seen enter apartment 43 twenty minutes earlier.

He barely recognized her beneath the heavy makeup and wig, She can't be

more than twenty-five, he guessed, and breasts like a Georgian goddess .

..

"Guten Abend, Frdulein," he said to the younger woman.

I think you looked much better before."

Ilse felt her throat tighten.

"I think he's set on you, Helga," Eva said, laughing. She patted the

Russian on his rear. "Too bad, dearie,'Iittle Helga's booked for

tonight. But you're in luck. I know a dozen tricks this child's never

even heard of. What do you say?" .

Abashed by the old tart's boldness, the Russian went temporarily blank.

"Oh, forget it," Eva said, pulling Ilse down the hall. "If you don't

know what you want, we don't have time to wait."

Kosov's young agent watched the middle-aged redhead follow her shapely

companion into the elevator cage. Eva yanked the lever that started the

slow descent and then, still holding eye contact with the guard, pumped

her fist lewdly up and down the iron rod. When the Russian colored in

embarrassment, she hiked her bright skirt over a well-preserved thigh

and burst into laughter.

As soon as the cage sank below the line of the floor, Eva cut her voice

to a whisper. "Here comes the hard part. We were lucky that time. The

odds just went-'down."

Ilse clutched her friend's arm. "You shouldn't have come with me!"

"You'd never have made it by yourself, darling.' "But you're in danger

too!"

Eva plucked a gob of mascara out of her eye. "I'm glad to do it.

If I hadn't had you to talk to for the last three years, I'd have gone

mad in that tiny apartment."

"But all your men friends-" 146 n le in isgust. "Don't even mention

those bums. Don't act like you don't know what I do.

You and Hans have always known, and you've never treated me any

different than family. So shut up and take some help. We're not out of

this yet."

The elevator screeched to an uncertain stop. Eva yanked open the screen

and stormed through the lobby, cursing the elevator and every other

mechanical device ever invented.

With Ilse struggling along behind on a pair of Eva's four-inch heels, the

old barmaid clacked past the two Russians at the building's entrance as

if they did not exist.

"Halt!" yelled one of Kosov's men as Ilse hurried past.

Ilse's heart thudded in her chest.

The Russian caught hold of her elbow. "Hey, Frdulein," he said, leaning

close to her. "Why the hurry?"

Eva paused impatiently at the curb. She looked up and down the street,

then walked back to the door. "Next time, sweetie," she snapped,

stepping protectively in front of Ilse.

"We've got a party to go to."

"It can wait," said the young man, leering at his companion.

"Stay here and keep us warm for a while. It's cold out."

"Colder by the minute, Arschloch," Eva spat. "If we don't get out of

this wind in thirty seconds our tits will snap off."

The Russian shed his smile like a snakeskin. His eyes glazed with a

reptilian sheen. He took a step toward Eva.

"Forget it, Misha," urged his companion. "They're just whores."

"Fucking filth," the Russian muttered.

"Misha, " said his partner anxiously. "Remember Colonel Kosov."

Misha took a long look at Eva as if to mark her for future

retribution, then snorted and walked into the lobby. When he next

looked outside, the two women were already across the street and halfway

down the block, moving toward Colonel Kosov's BMW.

Kosov had just lifted the microphone from the dash when he spied two

prostitutes walking quickly up the Liitzenstrasse.

"Report, One," he said, half-watching them.

"Lobby still clear."

"Two?"

"No movement inside the apartment."

"Damn. Three and Four?"

r

"All clear here. No sign of him."

The prostitutes reached the hood of the BMW, passed it.

"All positions," said Kosov, "I have two women passing me from your

direction. Anyone see where they entered the street?"

The radio squawked as three signals competed for reproduction.

"Four here, sir. They came from the apartment building. Looked like

two whores to us."

Kosov felt a tic in his cheek. He turned away as the headlights of a

passing car shone through the BMW. When he looked again he saw one of

the women raise an arm and flag the car to a stop. That's odd, he

thought, a taxi here at this hour And picking up a couple of

streetwalkers ...

"Two here," crackled the radio. "Those prostitutes came from number

forty-three, this floor. Opposite my position.

One of them even propositioned me."

Kosov struck the dash with his fist. "One of them is the wife!

Misha, to the car! Two, enter number forty and proceed!" Kosov looked

frantically for an alley in which to turn the BMW around. With cars

parked both sides of the street he had no room to make a U.

Inside the taxi, Eva spoke rapidly. "Perfect timing, Ernst darling. Now

zoom around the corner and stop as fast as you can." She looked back

over her shoulder. "Ilse, when he stops, you jump right out and get

into the alley there. If they keep after me, you've made it. If they

don't@' "Who were those men, Eva? Police?"

"Stinking Russians, sweetie. Didn't you catch the name Misha?"

The taxi jounced onto the curb. "Eva, how can I thank@' "Go!"

Eva cried, squeezing Ilse's hand. "Jump! Go!"

The screech of tires drowned Ilse's reply as the taxi sped down the

Gervinusstrasse. Ilse ducked into the alley just as Kosov's BMW

careened around the corner and surged after Eva and her cabbie friend.

She collapsed,against the cold concrete wall of an office building, her

heart beating wildly.

Ten seconds later a second BMW raced after the first.

Turning her back to the icy wind, Ilse doffed the sluttish clothes Eva

had given her and tossed the wig into an overflowing garbage bin.

Now she wore the conservative casuals she'd had on when she first

spotted the BMW. Habit made her hang on to one costume accessory Eva

had thrust into her hand-a large plastic purse. As she debated whether

to keep Eva's flashy coat, Ilse heard the rumble of a heavy automobile

engine. Seconds later a pair of headlights nosed into the far end of

the alley.

Ilse snatched up the discarded clothes and climbed into the only hiding

place she could see-the garbage bin. The smell was terrible, cloyingly

sweet. She held her nose with one hand and covered her eyes with the

other. The powerful purr of the BMW edged closer, a tiger trying to

spook its prey. Ilse knotted herself into a tight ball and prayed. It

took little imagination to guess how @thless the men in the black autos

must be. The young man who had propositioned her at the front door-the

one called Misha-his eyes had glazed almost to sightlessness when Eva

insulted him. Like fish eyes, Ilse thought.

She shuddered.

The BMW picked up speed as it approached the garbage bin, weaving

occasionally to probe every inch of the alley with its halogen eyes.

The walls of the trash bin vibrated from the noise. Ilse shivered from

terror and bitter cold. She h.ad no doubt that if the car engine were

shut off, the Russians would find her by the chattering of her teeth.

Suddenly, with a scream of protesting rubber, the big black sedan roared

out of the alley. Ilse scrambled up out of the garbage and dug into

Eva's purse for her shoes. Her hand closed over something soft and

familiar. She peered into the bag. Folded into a thick wad at its

bottom were three hundred Deutschemarks in small bills. Scrawled across

the top banknote in red lipstick were the words: ILSE, USE rr!

Stuffing the bills back into the purse, Ilse climbed out of the bin and

edged a little way down the alley. Damn all of this, she thought

angrily. If Eva can get me this far, I can do the rest. In less than

fifteen seconds she had analyzed her options and made a decision. She

kicked off the stiletto heels Eva had loaned her, pulled on her own

flats, and started running toward the hazy glow at the opposite end of

the alley.

1030 Pm. Tiorgartan District.- West Berlin

The moment Harry Richardson raised his hand to knock on Klaus Seeckt's

door, the door jerked open to the length of the chain latch.

"Go away, Major!" said a voice from the dark crack.

The door slammed shut. Harry moved to the side of the door, out of the

light. "Open the door, Klaus."

"Please go away, Harry!"

More puzzled than angry, Harry flattened himself against the wall.

Normally he telephoned Klaus before coming over, but tonight he hadn't

wanted to give the East German a chance to postpone the meeting.

Feeling exposed on the lighted stoop, he pounded his fist against the

heavy oak.

"I'm not in uniform, for God's sake! Open up! Now!"

The bolt shot back with a bang. Klaus pulled the door open but remained

out of sight in the dark foyer.

"Take it easy," Harry said. "We'll play it as an official visit.

However you want."

Klaus's voice dropped in volume but doubled in urgency.

"Harry, get out of here! They're watching us!"

As Harry's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognized the stubby barrel

of a Makarov pistol in Klaus's hand. The East German wore only his

bathrobe, but his ashen face and the quivering pistol gave him a

frighteningly lethal aspect.

Harry glanced back at the street to try to spot watchers. He saw none,

but he knew that didn't mean anything.

"I tried to keep you out," Klaus said resignedly. "Remember that."

Writing off Klaus's pistol to paranoia, Harry slipped past the East

German and started toward the living room. With a hopeless sigh Klaus

shut the door and locked it behind them.

When Harry reached the living room, he saw that Klaus was indeed being

watched-but from inside the house, not out. Five men wearing dark

business suits sat leisurely on sofas and chairs arranged around a

glass-topped coffee table.

Harry looked back over his shoulder at Klaus. The German hovered

ghostlike in the shadows of the foyer, the Makarov slack against his

leg. Harry considered bolting, but Klaus hadn't tried it, so perhaps

things weren't so bad. Orperhaps, Harry thought uneasily, Klaus didn't

run because he knows the front door is covered from the outside.

Harry turned back to the living room. None of the men around the table

looked older than thirty, and no one had said anything yet. Was that

good or bad? Suddenly the oldest-looking of the group stood.

"Good evening, Major," he said in heavily accented English. "What can

we do for you?"

The young man's accent was unmistakably Russian. There would be no

attempt to pass these men off as other than what they were, Harry

realized. A very bad sign. He cleared his throat. "And by what rank

do I address you, Comrade?"

he asked in flawless Russian.

The Russian smiled, seeming to relish the idea of a catand-mouse game.

"You speak excellent Russian, Major. And I am but a lowly captain, to

answer your question. Captain Dmitri Rykov."

"What are you doing so far from home, Captain?"

"Am I so far from home?" Rykov asked gamely. "A debatable point.

But I'm protecting the interests of my country, of course."

The young man's candor was an unveiled threat. "I see," Harry said

warily. "I also note that we have a mutual friend," he observed, trying

to shift the focus away from himself. I In the foyer Klaus turned

deathly pale.

"Yes," Rykov agreed, giving Klaus a predatory I glance.

"This is proving to be an enlightening evening. Take his gun, Andrei.

No foolish heroics please, Klaus. It's not your style."

The East German slumped against the foyer wall, his pistol hanging

slack. He looked broken, already resigned to the grisly fate that

undoubtedly awaited him in Moscow. Corporal Andrei Ivanov moved to

disarm him.

"As you can see, Major," Rykov continued, "you've stumbled upon us at a

most inopportune time. I'll certainly speak to my superiors about it,

but I suspect that your unfortunate timing may cost you your life-"

Before Andrei could reach the unfortunate Klaus, the East German raised

the Makarov to his own temple and fired.

The sheer madness of the act stunned everyone, causing a moment of

confusion. In desperation Harry bolted for the door. He had his

fingers on the brass door handle when someone peppered the wall beside

him with a burst from a silenced machine pistol.

"Don't move, Major!" Captain Rykov ordered, his voice strained but

even.

Harry let his fingers fall from the handle. He turned around slowly. In

the time it had taken him to reach the door, the Russians behind him had

been transformed from a quiet group of social acquaintances into a squad

of paramilitary soldiers moving in concert to control the unexpected

emergency. Two men knelt over Klaus's body, checking for signs of life;

two others covered the front and rear windows of the house.

Rykov issued orders.

"Yuri, get the car. Major, move back into the room. Now!"

Rykov tapped the shoulder of a young man leaning over Klaus's corpse.

"Leave him, Andrei. Touch nothing. Klaus was a traitor; he deserved a

coward's death. Leave the gun in his hand. We couldn't have set this

up better ourselves."

"Shouldn't we take him along?" Andrei asked. "The Kriminalpolizei

aren't stupid."

Rykov's eyes gleamed. "Ideally, I suppose. But we won't have room for

him."

"What about the weapons compartment?"

"The major will be in there." Rykov turned to Harry.

You don't want to spend the next hour hugging a corpse, do you, Major?"

Harry's mind raced. If this Russian intended to kidnap an American army

officer from the heart of tightly controlled West Berlin, something very

big indeed was going on. And to Harry's mind, that something could only

be the events at Spandau Prison.

"Kosov won't like this," he said, remembering seeing the Russian colonel

at Abschnitt 53 this morning. "You better take some time to think,

Captain."

Rykov smiled. "You're very clever, Major."

The sound of an engine rumbled through the front door.

"That's Yuri," said Rykov. "All right, Major, let's go."

Harry didn't move.

"Conscious or unconscious, I don't care. But I must tell you, it's

never quite as clean as the movies when you bash someone in the back of

the head with a pistol."

Harry moved. He couldn't warn Colonel Rose if he was dead.

It was only a few steps from the front door to the car, a black Mercedes

190. The Russians crowded close around him all the way.

There's got to be a way out, thought Harry.

Got to be. I've got to warnDmitri Rykov slammed the butt of his

Skorpion machine pistol into the base of Harry's skull. He heard a dull

thud but no crunch. "Americans are so gullible," he said, laughing.

"Lucky for this one he has a wooden head."

Corporal Ivanov looked distressed. "Are you sure we shouldn't just kill

him here?" he said anxiously. "Make it look like some illegal

business, perhaps a homosexual tryst?"

"I'm in command here," Rykov snapped, losing a bit of his earlier

control. "I'll do the thinking."

"Yes, sir. I was only thinking of Colonel Kosov. If he doesn't

approve-"

"I know what Kosov wants, Corporal. Did he not choose me for command?

We may need this American later as a bargaining chip."

Rykov's voice softened. "Andrei, the other team is running down

Sergeant Apfel's wife as we speak.

Kosov is with them. Do you want us to return to East Berlin

empty-handed?"

Ivanov did not look entirely convinced, but he said no more.

Lying half-conscious at their feet, Harry slipped a hand into his inside

coat pocket, fished out a white business card, and let it fall.

There was no name on it-only a telephone number. As the Russians lifted

him into the Mercedes, he glanced down. He saw his own blood, but the

white card had already vanished against the snow.

10.31 Pm. LieLzensee Park, British Sector

"Once again," Ivan Kosov said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"Where did the girl get out?"

Pressed into the corner of the taxi's rear seat, Eva Beers scowled and

said nothing. Her hands were tied behind her head with her own

stockings. The young Russian called Misha had twice smashed her right

cheek with his gloved fist, but so far Eva had refused to speak.

"Misha," Kosov growled.

The interior of the taxi echoed with the force of the third blow.

A large purplish bruise was already visible beneath the thick patina of

makeup Eva wore. In 'the front seat beside Kosov, Ernst the cabbie

slumped unconscious over the wheel of his old Mercedes.

"I have no time for your stupid loyalty, woman," Kosov said. "If you

don't answer this time, this zealous young man will have to slit the

throat of your sleepy old hero. You don't want that, do you?"

Misha drew a long-bladed stiletto from an ankle sheath and brandished it

under Eva's chin.

"I think he's quite eager to use that," observed Kosov.

"Aren't you, Misha?"

Eva saw feral eyes glinting in the dark.

"Now, where did Frau Apfel get out?"

Eva struggled to think through the pain of the blows and her growing

apprehension that she would not survive the night. How long had Ernst

evaded the black sedan? Two minutes? Three? With his taxi finally

trapped in the deadend lane beside the Lietzensee lake, the old cabbie

had done his best to fend the Russians off, but the young KGB agents had

simply been too agile for him. How far could Ilse have gotten in that

time?

Without warning Misha savagely thrust his knee into Eva's left breast,

crushing it"All right!" she gasped.

The pressure eased a little. "You have regained your memory?"

Kosov asked.

Perhaps they'll spare Ernst, Eva thought. Swine. "We stopped two or

three blocks back," she whispered. "When we rounded a corner. Ilse

jumped out there."

"Sko'lka?" asked Kosov. "Two blocks or three? Which is it?"

Again Misha jabbed his knee forward. "Stop!" Eva begged.

"Please!" She could fight no more, but she could fire a last covering

shot. "Three blocks," she lied, laboring for breath. "The Seehof Hotel

... by the lake. She ran inside."

Kosov nodded. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Eva gulped air like a landed fish.

Kosov sighed angrily, debating with himself. How in hell was he

supposed to find the Spandau papers? Three times Moscow had signaled

him, each time telling him just a little more about the Hess case,

doling out information like scraps of meat to a dog. Names without

physical descriptions, dates of events Kosov had never heard of. And 4t

the center of it all, apparently, a one-eyed man who had no name.

Kosov could make no sense of it. And of course that was how Moscow

wanted it.

"Now that you're talking," he said amiably, "I have one more question.

Did Frau Apfel mention any names in connection with what her husband

found?"

"No," Eva groaned. "She told me someone was after her, that's all. I

didn't ask-" Unbelievably, Misha's knee buried itself still deeper into

Eva's chest. The pain was excruciating. She felt as if she were going

to vomit. "Please!" she choked.

The pressure relented just enough for her to take a shallow breath.

Kosov heaved a bearlike shoulder over the front seat and bellowed,

"Names, woman! Names are what I want!

Did Frau Apfel mention the name Zinoviev to you? Do you hear me?

Z-1-N-0-V-1-E-V. It's a Russian name. Did ghe mention it?"

Eva shook her head violently. She had passed the point of being able to

lie, and something in her eyes must have shown it. After several

moments Kosov nodded, and Misha removed his knee from her chest. The

old colonel's face softened.

"Unlike my young friend," he murmured, "I do not believe in needless

killing. However, if you are lying-that is, if we do not find Frau

Apfel, or if you feel the sudden urge to speak to the authorities-well,

quite obviously we know where to find you. And we will find you. I

would send Misha personally. Do you understand?"

Eva lay as still as she could. The animals were going to let her live.

"Ja, " she breathed.

"Good." Kosov climbed out of the old taxi. "Misha, a reminder."

With an expert flick of his stiletto, the young KGB agent opened a

two-inch gash along Eva's left cheek. Eva shrieked in pain. Misha

grinned, watching her struggle in vain to reach the wound and stop the

bleeding. As the young Russian backed out of the taxi, Kosov's hard

face appeared in the front window.

"Free her hands," he ordered.

Cursing quietly, Misha slashed the stockings over Eva's head. But

instead of getting out of the car, he thrust his hand viciously beneath

Eva's skirt and clenched her pubic mound in a clawlike fist. With

flashing eyes he leaned close so that Kosov couldn't hear. "When I find

your little friend," he snarled, "the pretty one-she's going to bleed,

old woman.

Everywhere." He wrenched his hand away, tearing hair and skin as he

backed out of the taxi.

Shaking like an epileptic, Eva turned away and tried to stanch the flow

of blood from her lacerated face. She heard Kosov's BMW skid around and

speed down the Lietzenseelifer in the direction of the Seehof Hotel.

"Screw you," she spat. "Swine. You'll never find her." Slowly she

leaned forward and put her bloody hand to the old cabbie's forehead.

"Ernst, are you all right? Poor darling, you fought well for an old

soldier. Wake up for Eva."

The old man didn't move.

If only some of my old friends were here, Eva lamented.

That young pig's balls would be meat for the dogs.

Ernst groaned and jerked forward in his seat. "Wo sind she!" he cried,

flailing his arms"They're gone," Eva said, soothing his forehead with a

knowing hand. "All gone. You can take me home now, my brave knight.

We'll mend our scratches together."

10.33 Pm. South African Airspace: 100 kin Northeast of Pretoria The

JetRanger helicopter stormed northward beneath a moonless African sky,

startling flocks of black heron, spooking herds of impala and zebra

gathered around the waterholes on the veld below. Inside the chopper's

luxurious cabin, Alfred Horn sat gripping the arms of his wheelchair,

which was bolted to the carpeted deck by specially designed fittings.

Pieter Smuts, Horn's Afrikaner security chief, leaned closer to his

master and spoke above the low beating drone of the rotor blades.

"I wanted to wait until we were airborne to tell you, sir."

The old man nodded slowly. "What is so important that you don't even

trust your own security?"

"We've received the new figures from Britain, sir. The American

figures. They were delivered by courier just an hour ago."

"The Bikini figures?"

"More than that. Sixty-five percent of American test data from Eniwetok

Atoll in 'fifty-two up to the test ban in 'sixty-three." The Afrikaner

shook his head. "Sir, you can't imagine what a one megaton surface

blast will actually do."

"Yes, I can, Pieter."

"It leaves a crater one mile across and sixteen stories deep.

Christ, we've got the design, the plants ... If we had six months, we

could probably divert-"

"I'll be dead in six months!" Horn snapped.

"What do these figures tell you about our current resources?"

"The blast effects will be greater than we predicted. Using round

figures, a forty-kiloton air burst should vaporize everything within

three kilometers of ground zero. Intense heat will incinerate anything

for a five-kilometer radius beyond that. And the resulting winds and

fires will wreak havoc for a considerable distance beyond those already

mentioned."

"And the fallout?" Horn asked.

"Twenty percent higher than we predicted."

Horn digested this without emotion. "And these figures ... you believe

they are more reliable than our own?"

"Sir, except for the secret Indian Ocean test, all South African figures

are purely theoretical. By definition they are predictions.

The American figures represent verified data."

Horn nodded thoughtfully. "Apply them to our scenario."

"Everything depends on the target, sir. Obviously, groundzero at the

center of Tel Aviv or Jerusalem would obliterate either city. But if

the weapon were used at the right time, its effects could be greatly

enhanced, possibly even doubled, by a collateral factor: the weather."

"How?"

"By the wind, sir. At this time of year the prevailing winds in Israel

blow southeast. If the weapon were detonated in Jerusalem, the fallout

would probably dissipate over Jordan. But if it were detonated inTel

Aviv, not only would it obliterate the city, but it might well spread a

lethal blanket of strontium-90 over Jerusalem within one or two hours."

Horn closed his eyes and sighed with satisfaction. "And if we get the

cobalt-seeded bomb case in time?"

The Afrikaner turned his palms upward. "We won't, sir.

Not sooner than twenty days. The technical problems are formidable."

"But if we did get it?"

Smuts pursed his lips. "With a cobalt-seeded bomb case and the revised

yield figures, I'd say ... sixty percent of the Israeli population would

be dead within fourteen days, and Palestine would be rendered

uninhabitable for at least a decade."

Horn let out a long sigh. "Increase the bounty, Pieter. Five million

rand in gold to the team that delivers a cobalt bomb case within seven

days."

"Yes, sir."

"Do we have any further information on the Israeli doctrinal response?"

Smuts shook his head. "Our London source dried up after we requested

the American satellite photos. Frankly, I don't even trust his initial

reports on that subject."

"Why?"

"Do you really think Israel would target Russian cities?"

Horn smiled. "Of course. It's the only way the Jews could win a war

against a united Arab force. They must be able to prevent Soviet

resupply of the Arabs, and the only way they can do that is to blackmail

the Soviets. What do they have to lose by doing so?"

"But the deployment plan for Israel's nuclear arsenal is the most

closely guarded secret in the world. How could our London source,know

what he claims to know?"

Horn smiled. "Not the most closely guarded secret, Pieter.

No one has yet proved that South Africa's nuclear arsenal even exists."

"Thanks in no small part to us," Smuts observed. The Afrikaner began

cracking his knuckles. "The Russian matter aside, I think we can safely

assume that if Tel Aviv or Jerusalem were destroyed, Israel would go

beyond a measured response. If they knew the source of the attack, they

would respond with a significant portion of their 'black' bomber and

missile forces."

"They will know the source of the attack," Horn rasped.

"There is one unpredictable factor," Smuts said carefully.

"If our clients were to detonate the weapon at Dimona, Israel's

weapons-production plant, there is a slight chance that the rest of the

world might believe the explosion to be a genuine Israeli accident.

The Americans might coerce the Jews into waiting until an outside

investigation was completed.

By that time cooler heads might prevail."

Horn made a dismissive gesture with his skeletal arm.

"Don't worry. I'm relying on Arab impatience, not stupidity.

Hussein, Assad, these men might have the self-control to wait and try to

develop a cohesive plan. N-of our friend. He will strike swiftly.

Consider how quickly he agreed to our meeting. He won't purposefully

hit Jerusalem-there are too many sacred Muslim sites there. And the

security around Dimona is airtight. We needn't worry on that score.

The target will beTel Aviv."

Horn's one living eye focused on the Afrikaner. "What of the Spandau

matter, Pieter? Have they captured the traitor?

Have they found the papers?"

"Not yet, sir. Berlin-One assures me it is only a matter of time.

However, I received a call from his immediate subordinate, Berlin-Two.

He's a lieutenant, I believe. Jiirgen Luhr."

"And?"

"Lieutenant Luhr doesn't feel the prefect is up to the job.

He's moved some of our German assets into play without the prefect's

knowledge. He checked the files on the two missing officers and

dispatched men to all locations they might possibly run to. I approved

his action. Who knows what those Bruderschaft clowns are really doing.

A little competition might speed up the capture."

"I'm surprised that these policemen were able to escape at all," Horn

remarked.

Smuts shifted uncomfortably. "I did a little checking on my own, sir.

The man who betrayed us-Hauer-he's quite an officer, it seems.

An ex-soldier. Even the young man with him was decorated for bravery."

Horn raised a long, crooked finger in Smuts's tanned face.

"Never underestimate the German soldier, Pieter. He is the toughest in

the world. Let this be a lesson to you."

Smuts colored. "Yes, sir."

"Keep me posted hourly. I'm anxious to see how this exsoldier does."

"You almost sound as if you want them to escape."

"Nonsense, Pieter. By getting hold of the Spandau papers, we might well

buy ourselves extra time. At least we can keep the Russians and the

Jews out of our business, if not the British. But that's it, you see.

At this moment mI-5, the KGB, and the Mossad must be scouring Berlin for

our two German policemen, yet so far they have failed to capture them.

If these men live up to their racial heritage, I suspect they will

manage to evade their pursuers. In the end we will have to find them

ourselves."

The Afrikaner nodded. "I'll find them."

Horn smiled coldly. "I know you will, Pieter. If this Hauer but knew

you as I do, he would already have given himself up."

CHAPTER NINE

10.35 Pm. Goethestrasse: West Berlin "There, " Hauer grunted. He had

wedged Hans's Volkswagen so tightly between two parked cars that the one

behind would have to be moved to reveal the license plate.

"All right, where's the house?"

"I'm not sure," Hans replied, peering through his window.

"I've never been here before."

"Are you joking?"

Hauer stared in disbelief "So why are we here?"' "Because it's just what

you asked for-a place we can't be traced to."

Hans climbed out of the VW and started up the deserted street, skirting

the pools of light from the street lamps.

"That's it," he said, glancing back over his shoulder. Hauer followed a

few paces behind. "See it? Eleven-fifty."

"Quiet!" said Hauer. "You'll wake the whole block."

Hans was already halfway up the walk. He rapped loudly on the front

door, waited half a minute, then knocked again.

Finally, a muffled voice came from behind the wood.

"I'm coming already!"

Someone fumbled with the latch, theri, the door opened wide.

Standing in a pair of blue silk pajamas, a tiny man with silver hair and

a tuft of beard squinted through the darkness. He reached for a light

switch.

"Please leave the light off, Herr Ochs," Hans said.

"What? Who are you?" Finally the uniform registered in the old man's

brain. "Polizei," he murmured. "Is there some problem?"

Hans stepped closer. He took the tattered business card from his pocket

and handed it to the old man. "I don't know if you remember me, Herr

Ochs, but you said that if I ever needed a favor-"

"Gott im Himmel!" Ochs cried, his eyes wide. "Sergeant Apfel!"

Hans nodded. "That's right. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, but

there's an emergency. My captain and I need to make some telephone

calls. We can't use the station just now-I, "Say no more, Sergeant.

Come inside. Did I not tell you?

Ben Ochs knows how to return a favor. And what a vor!

Bernice!"

An even tinier gray-haired woman appeared behind Ochs.

She stared at the uniforms with trepidation. "What is it, Benjamin?"

"It's young Hans Apfel! He needs our help. Get your slippers, Bernice.

We'll need some tea and. . ." Ochs trailed off, noticing the large

bruise at the base of Hans's skull, a souvenir of Rolf's lead pipe.

"Something stronger, I think ' "

"Please," said Hans, following the old man inside, "all we need is a

telephone." "Nonsense, you look terrible. You need food, and

something to calm your nerves.

Bernice?"

Frau Ochs bustled into the kitchen, talking all the way.

"There's chicken in the refrigerator, boys, and cabbage too.

It's no feast, but this is very short notice."

The old tailor pulled two chairs from beneath the kitchen table; Hans

immediately collapsed into one. The Ochses' kindness seemed

otherworldly after the events of the past four hours. Hans felt as if

he'd been running for days.

Hauer had been too amazed by the warm rece tion to say anything.

Summoning a smile, he extended his hand to Ochs. "Guten Abend, Herr

Ochs. I'm Captain Dieter Hauer." Ochs nodded respectfully.

"I'm afraid Hans is right. A rather'special situation has arisen.

I myself believe it's just another of the endless exercises they put us

through, but of course we never know for sure. If we could just use

your telephone for a few minutes, we would be gone before you know it."

Ochs nodded again, slower this time. "You are a poor liar, Captain. But

I count that in your favor. Most honest men make poor liars. If you're

anything like your young friend, you are always welcome in my house.

This boy"-Ochs grinned and patted Hans on the shoulder-"this boy saved

my life.

Three years ago I was trapped in a burning car, and Hans was the only

man who had the nerve to get me out."

The light of realization dawned on Hauer's face. Only now did he notice

the old man's left hand; it was withered and covered with scar tissue

from a deep burn.

Ochs shook his head in wonder. "I thought he was trying to kill me! He

blasted out the window right over my head!"

The old man laughed and stepped over to the counter. "Here is the

chicken," he said. Then he held up a dark bottle his wife had pulled

from a high cabinet. "And here is some brvm @ .fn randy-for the nerves.

We'll leave you to your business now. Come along, Bernice."

Taking his wife under his silk-covered arm, Benjamin Ochs left the

kitchen without looking back.

"Unbelievable," said Hauer, shaking his head.

Hans snatched up the telephone and dialed the apartment.

He heard three rings ... four ... then someone picked up.

He waited for Ilse's voice, but heard only silence. "Ilse?" he said

finally. "Liebchen? Are you there?"

A brittle male voice chilled him to the bone. "Guten Abend, Sergeant.

I'm afraid your wife is unable to get to the phone just now."

"Who is this?" Hans shouted. "Let me speak to my wife!"

Hauer signaled him to keep his voice down, but Hans ignored the warning.

"Put my wife on the phone!"

"As I said," the voice continued, "the lovely Frau is occupied just now.

Indisposed, let us say. If you wish to speak to her, it would be much

quicker for you to come here."

"I'm on my way, you bastard! If she's harmed in any way, I'll-" Hans

looked at Hauer in a daze. The line had gone dead. He slammed down the

phone. "They have her! We've got to get to the apartment!"

He was halfway to the foyer when Hauer barked, "Wait!"

Hans whirled. "Wait? Have you lost your mind?"

Hauer's voice went flat. "You won't get far without keys."

Hans groped in his pockets. "Give them to me," he said quietly.

"I can't, Hans. You're making a mistake."

Hans took a step forward. "Give me my keys."

Hauer shook his head. "You don't know they have Ilse.

You didn't actually speak to her."

"Give me my goddamn keys!" Hans sprang forward, ready to thrash Hauer

until he gave up the keys. But when he raised his hands to Hauer's

neck, he felt something hard pressing into his stomach. When he looked

down, he saw a 9mm Walther PI pistol, standard issue for the West Berlin

police.

"Now," said Hauer, "you're going to sit there quietly while I make a

phone call. Then we'll decide what to do about Ilse."

"Don't you understand?" Hans pleaded. "They have my wife! I have to

go! You ... you . . ."-his voice changed suddenly-"you don't

understand, do you? You never had a wife. You ran out on the one woman

who loved you! My mother!"

"That's a lie," Hauer whispered.

Hans's face burned with emotion. "It isn't! You ran out on her when

she was pregnant! Pregnant with me! Give me those keys, you son of a

bitch!"

Hauer had gone very still. His big fists were clenchedone around the

butt of the Walther. "You think you know something about me," he said.

"You don't know anytning. A file isn't a man, Hans. Yes, I know you

went through my personnel file." He worked his left fist angrily. "I

don't know if you deserve the truth, but the truth is that I didn't know

I had a son until you were twelve years old."

"You're lying!" Hans insisted. But something about that age had

sparked a strange light behind his eyes.

"I'm not," Hauer said softly. "Think back. You were twelve years old."

Hans felt his chest tightening. The pain in his eyes told Hauer that he

had remembered. "I knew you couldn't have forgotten that," Hauer said.

"It was bad. Munich, the day after the Olympic massacre.

Did you ever make that connection?"

Hans looked away.

Hauer spoke quickly, as if the words burned his mouth passing through

it. "It was the lowest point in my life. Those Jewish athletes died

for nothing, Hans. Because of German arrogance and stupidity. Just

like in the war. And I was a part of it. I'd been flown into Munich as

a sharpshooter . . ."

Hauer seemed about to continue the story-then he stopped, realizing that

one more telling wouldn't change anything.

"After the slaughter was over," he murmured, "I went crazy.

Went off on my own. I needed something-a human touch, a lifeline. And

there I was in the city my old lover had run off to, totally by chance.

After a dozen schnapps, though, I started thinking maybe it wasn't by

chance. So I went looking for your mother."

"You found her."

"I found you. You were the last thing in the world I expected.

Your mother called the Munich police on me, of course. My showing up

after all those years was her worst nightmare. But the moment I saw

you, Hans, I knew you were mine. I knew it. She didn't even try to

deny it."

Hauer's eyes focused on the kitchen floor. "But she had me over a

barrel, Hans. Somehow they'd fixed it-her and her rich husband@so that

he'd legally adopted you. I paid a lawyer two months' salary to look

into it, but in the end he told me to forget it. Your mother had

already poisoned you against me, anyway-she let me know that before

anything else." Hauer looked up into Hans's eyes. "What did she tell

you about that day?"

Hans shrugged. "She told me who you were. That you were my real

father. But she said you'd only come back to ask for money. To beg for

a loan."

Hauer looked stunned.

"I don't think I believed her, though," Hans said softly, "even then.

Not deep down. You know what I remember about that day?"

Hauer shook his head.

"Your uniform. A perfect green uniform with medals on the chest.

I never forgot that. And when the police showed up to take you away,

you showed them your badge and they went away instead."

Hauer swallowed hard. "Is that why you became a policeman?"

"Partly, I guess. I really became a cop because it was absolutely the

worst thing I could do in Mother's eyes. She'd spent twenty years

trying to mold me into,a banker, like her first husband. And I guess he

wasn't so bad, really, looking back, But when she married that goddamn

lawyer, I started to hate her. She was so transparent ...

always trying to buy respect. And I hated her more because I knew that

in some twisted way she was doing it all for me. After she married the

lawyer, I wanted to hurt her as much as she'd hurt me.

And the best way to do that was to become everything she had run away

from when she was young. To become a working-class slave, just like

you." Hans laughed. "Then I found out I liked the job. What would

Freud say about that, I wonder?"

Hauer forced a smile.

"I believe what you've told me," Hans said. "But when I showed up in

Berlin wearing this uniform, why didn't you tell me your side of it?"

"That was ten years after Munich," Hauer explained.

"Long before then I'd resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to live

the rest of my life without you, or any family.

When you came marching up to me outside that police station, with a

hundred-pound chip on your shoulder and reciting that stupid agreement

you'd worked out, I didn't know what to think. You'd already come that

far back to me on your own ... I wasn't going to rush anything."

Hans nodded. "I wanted to make it on my own. I didn't want an help

from you. And no matter how much I hated Mother then, I wasn't ready to

find out the truth about you.

Not if the truth was that you really had run out on us."

"She never told me she was pregnant, Hans. It's an old story. I was

good enough to fall in love with, but not to marry. It's sad, really.

She hadn't grown up any better than I had, but she'd set her sights on

marrying rich. Fear of poverty, I guess. She did love me, I still

believe that. But there was no way her kid was going to be raised by a

cop. She wanted it all for you, Hans, gymnasium, university-I, "You

don't have to tell me," Hans cut in. "I know it all by heart."

"But what I can't forgive is her putting it all on me. Making me out to

be ... Christ, I don't know."

"It's okay. It is. How could she tell me it was her fault I didn't

have a father?" Hans's eyes fell on the face of his watch. He looked

up quickly. Hauer was still pointing the Walther at him.

"I know what you're thinking," Hauer said. "Don't try it.

Look, if whoever was in your apartment really had Ilse, they would have

put her on the phone. They'd have made her draw you. It's you they

want@r what you found."

"But you can't know that. What if she's hurt? What if she couldn't

speak? What if she's deaal?"

Hauer lowered the pistol a few centimeters. "I concede those

possibilities. But we're not going to charge into a situation we know

nothing about to die like romantic fools.

First we must know if we are being hunted officially." He picked up the

telephone with his left hand and punched in a number. "I want you to

think of any possible places Ilse might have run to, or even gone

innocently. And Hansthink like a policeman, not a husband. That, if

anything, will save your wife." With a last look at Hans, he stuck the

Walther into his belt.

Hans felt his fists quivering. A wild voice told him to bash Hauer's

skull and take the car keys, that quick action was Ilse's only chance.

But his police experience told him that Hauer-that his father-was right.

"Communications desk," Hauer said curtly.

"Who's calling?"

"Telefon. There's a line problem."

"Hold, bitte."

Hauer put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Pray Steuben's still on duty,"

he whispered.

"This is Sergeant Steuben," said a deep voice. "We have no line

problem."

"Steuben-"

"Dieter? My God! Where are you?"

"Let's just say I'm still under my own.recognizance."

Steuben's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're damned lucky. Funk has

an army out looking for you and that young sergeant. They're watching

all the checkpointseverywhere."

"I knew they'd come after us, but I didn't think they'd make such a fuss

about it. Shine too much light on us, and some inevitably shines on

them."

"No, Dieter, listen. They're saying that you and-"

"Apfel."

"Yes, they're saying that you and Apfel killed Erhard Weiss.

They're playing it like a simple murder. They brought Weiss's body up

from the basement and paraded a few lieutenants and pressmen through.

I'll tell you, Dieter, some of the boys were pretty upset. The story is

that you and Apfel were tied into organized crime and Weiss found out.

Most don't quite believe you did it, but everyone's damned angry.

You'd better walk softly if you come up on any old friends."

"I understand, Josef. What about that other matter?"

"Another call went out from an empty office about 16:30 this

afternoon-same destination."

"Pretoria?"

"Right." Steuben's voice dropped lower. "Dieter," he said hesitantly,

"you didn't really kill young Weiss, did you?"

"My God, Josef, you know better than that!"

Steuben hesitated. "What about Apfel? I don't know him."

"He tried to save the boy! They were comrades. Think, Josef.

Weiss was Jewish-that doesn't lead you anywhere?"

Steuben's reply was almost inaudible. "Phoenix."

"Yes. I've got to go now. I want you to stay on duty as long as you

can, Josef. You're my last link to that place.

Someone's got to watch them. And watch yourself, too. Now that I've

shown my true colors, they'll start looking for others. They know we

were friends. I'll use the same story when I call back-Telefon."

"Don't worry," Steuben whispered. "I'm here for the duration.

But ... I'm worried about my family, Dieter. My wife, my little girls.

Did you cover them?"

"Just as I promised. There are two men with them now, good friends of

mine. GSG-9 veterans. No worries there.

Funk couldn't get into your house with anything less than a full-scale

military assault."

"Thank you, my friend."

"Auf Wiedersehen, Josef."

Before Hauer could set the phone in its cradle, Hans broke the

connection and punched in a new number.

"Who are you calling?" Hauer asked.

"None of your goddamn business," Hans snapped. "You can cover your

friends with GSG-9 men, but you can't take twenty minutes to save Ilse?"

"Hans, you don't understand-"

"Eva?" he said loudly.

"Hans!"

"Yes. Eva, I want you to look outside your door and-' "Listen to me,

Hans! Someone is tearing your apartment to pieces right now! That

tells me they haven't found her yet!"

"What? You've seen Ilse?"

"Seen her? I sneaked her out of the apartment tonight just before the

stinking Russians got her! What the hell have you done?"

"Russians!"

Hans's exclamation brought Hauer out of his chair like a cannon shot.

"Tell me, Eva, hurry!"

Eva related the story of their escape from Kosov's team, ending with

Ilse fleeing into the dark alley. Hans slammed his fist against the

table. "But you don't know where she is now?"

"No, but she told me to give you a message."

"What message?"

"Mittelland."

"That's it? One word?"

"That's it. Mittelland, like the canal. I guess she didn't want me to

know anything."

Hans shook his fist in exultation. "Eva, that's it! I know where she's

gone."

"So get her, you damned fool! And you'd better get some serious help. I

don't think your Polizei friends are up to it."

She paused. "And if you come up on a young fellow called Misha .

.

'.YesT' "Kill the bastard. Send him to hell. He cut my face."

Hans felt his heart thump. "What happened?"

"Just find Ilse, Hans. If anything happens to that girl, you're going

to answer to me. And stay the hell away from her-e. Your apartment

sounds like a Bremen bar fight." Eva hung up.

Hauer grabbed Hans's shoulder. "You said Russians."

"Eva said Russians came to the apartment looking for me.

"How does she know they were Russian?"

Hans shrugged. "She's been around, you know? She's an old barmaid who

turns a few tricks for rent money. She got Ilse out of the building,

but that's all she could tell me."

"It must be Kosov," Hauer muttered. "The quiet colonel from Funk's

polygraph session. He knew that test was rigged from the start.

Did Ilse have the papers with her?"

"I don't know."

"For God's sake, Hans, you've got to start thinking like a policeman."

"I don't give a damn about those papers!"

"Quiet! You'll bring Ochs in here. And you'd better give a damn about

those papers. They may be the only thing that can keep us or Ilse alive

now." He held up a forefinger.

"You said you knew where Ilse had gone. Where?"

Hans's eyes narrowed. "Why should I tell you?" he asked, suddenly

suspicious. "Christ, you might have brought me here just to find out

where she is. Where the papers are!

God, you might-2' Hauer slapped him, hard. "Get hold of yourself, Hans!

You brought me here, remember? You've got to trust somebody, and I'm

all you have."

Hans scowled. "Wolfsburg," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Ilse's grandfather has a small cabin on the Mittelland Canal, near

Wolfsburg. It's an old family retreat. The professor must have been

working there and Ilse found out. God, I hope she's made it."

His face clouded. "But how could she?

I've got the car!"

"Train?" Hauer suggested.

"She didn't have any money at home."

"All women have money at home, Hans, believe me. They hide it for

emergencies we never think about."

"Captain, I've got to get to Wolfsburg!"

"I agree. But before I give you the keys, you're going to listen to me

for ten minutes. Then I'll figure out a way for us to get out of

Berlin. You know you'd never make it without my help."

Hans knew Hauer was right. He could never evade Funk's dragnet on his

own. "Ten minutes," he agreed.

Hauer sat down and leaned forward. "You've got to understand something,

Hans. Early this morning you stumbled into a case that I've been

working on for over a year. That's what I meant about Steuben.

There's more that needs protecting at his house than his wife and

children. There's a fireproof safe full of evidence that he and I have

compiled over the past year. Until a couple of hours ago, I had no idea

that Spandau Prison had anything to do with this case, but now I'm