The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2 Read online

suppose you're right."

  "But you are excellent at what you do, my friend. I am living proof of

  your skill and dedication. I am the only one left who knows the secret.

  The only one. And that is due in no small part to you."

  "You exaggerate, Herr Horn."

  "No. Though I have-great wealth, my power rests not in money but in

  fear. And one instrument of the fear I generate is you. Your loyalty

  is beyond price."

  "And beyond doubt, you know that."

  Horn's single living eye pierced Smuts's soul. "We can know nothing for

  certain, Pieter. Least of all about ourselves. But I have to trust

  someone, don't I?"

  "I shall never fail you," Smuts said softly, almost reverendy.

  "Your goal is greater than any temptation."

  "Yes," the old man answered. "Yes it is."

  Horn backed the wheelchair away from the desk and turned to face the

  window. The skyline of Pretoria, for the most part beneath him,

  stretched away across the suburbs to the soot-covered townships, to the

  great plateau of the northern Transvaal, where three days hence Horn

  would host a meeting calculated to alter the balance of world power

  forever. As Smuts closed the door softly, Horn's mind drifted back to

  the days of his youth ... the days of power. Gingerly, he touched his

  glass eye.

  "Der Tag kommt, he said aloud. "The day approaches."

  CHAPTER THREE

  3.-31 Pm. British Sector West Berlin Hans awoke in a sweat. He still

  cowered inside a dark cave, watching in terror as a Russian soldier came

  for him with a Kalashnikov rifle. The illusion gripped his mind,

  difficult to break. He sat upright in bed and rubbed the sleep from his

  eyes. Still the wrecked compound hovered before him.

  His soiled uniform still chafed, still smelled of the dank prison yard.

  He shook his head violently, but the image would not disappear.

  It was real ...

  On the screen of the small Siemens television two meters in front of

  Hans, a tall reporter clad in the type of topcoat favored by West Berlin

  pimps stood before a wide shot of the wasteland that yesterday had been

  Spandau Prison. Hans clambered over the footboard of the bed and turned

  up the volume on the set.

  "... Deutsche Welled broadcasting live from the Wilhelmstrasse.

  As you can see, the main structure of Spandau Prison was destroyed with

  little fanfare yesterday by the British military authorities. it was

  here early this morning that Soviet troops in conjunction with West

  Berlin police arrested the two West German citizens whom the Russians

  are now attempting to extradite into East Berlin.. There is virtually

  no precedent for this attempt. The Russians are following no recognized

  legal procedure, and the story that began here in the predawn hours is

  rapidly becoming an incident of international proportions. To the best

  of Deutsche Welle's knowledge, the two Berliners are being held inside

  Polizei Abschnitt 53, where our own Peter Muller is following

  developments as they occur. Peter?"

  Before switching to the second live feed, the producer stayed with the

  Spandau shot for a few silent seconds. What Hans saw brought a sour

  lump to his throat. A hundred meters behind the reporter, dozens of

  uniformed men slowly picked their way across the ruined grounds of

  Spandau.

  They moved over the icy rubble like ants in search of food, some not far

  from the very mound where Hans had made his discovery. A few wore white

  lab coats, but others-Hans's throat tightened-others wore the

  distinctive red-patched brown uniforms of the Soviet infantry.

  Hans scoured the screen for clues that might explain the Soviet

  presence, but the scene vaporized. Now a slightly better-dressed

  commentator stood before the great threearched doorway of the police

  station where Hans reported to work every morning. He shifted his

  weight excitedly from one foot to the other as he spoke.

  "Thank you, Karl," he said. "Other than the earlier statement by the

  police press officer that a joint investigation with the USSR is under

  way, no details are forthcoming. We know that an undetermined number of

  Soviet soldiers remain inside Abschnitt 53, but we do not know if they

  are guests here, as is claimed, or if-as has been rumored-they control

  the station by force of arms.

  "While the Spandau incident occurred in the British sector of the city,

  the German prisoners were taken by a needlessly lengthy route to

  Abschnitt 53, here in the American sector, just one block from

  Checkpoint Charlie. Informed sources have speculated that a

  quick-witted police officer may have realized that the Soviets would be

  less likely to resort to violence in the American-controlled part of the

  city. We have received no statements from either the American or the

  British milimq commands. However, if Soviet troops are in fact inside

  this police station without the official sanction of the U.S.

  Army, the Allied occupational boundaries we have all by familiarity come

  to ignore may suddenly assume a critical importance.

  This small incident could well escalate into one of the most volatile

  crises of the post-glasnost era. We will update this story at 18:00

  this evening, so please stay tuned to this channel. This is Peter

  Muller, Deutsche Welle, live . .

  While the reporter solemnly wrapped his segment, he failed to notice the

  huge station door open behind him. Haggard but erect, Captain Dieter

  Hauer strode out into the afternoon light. He looked as though he

  hadn't slept in hours. He surveyed the sidewalk like a drill sergeant

  inspecting a barracks yard; then, apparently satisfied, he gave the

  reporter a black look, turned back toward the station door, and

  dissolved into a BMW commercial.

  Hans fell back against the footboard of the bed, his mind reeling.

  Russian troops still in his home station? Who had leaked the Spandau

  story to the press? And who were the men in the white lab coats? What

  were they searching for?

  Was it the papers he'd found? It almost had to be. No one cared about

  a couple of homosexuals who happened to trespass public property in

  their search for a love nest. The realization of what he had done by

  keeping the papers hit Hans like a wave of fever. But what else could

  he have done? Surely the police brass would not have wanted the

  Russians to get hold of the papers. He could have driven straight to

  Polizei headquarters at Platz der Luftbriicke, of course, but he didn't

  know a soul there. No, when he turned in the papers, he wanted to do it

  at his home station. And he couldn't do that yet because the Russians

  were still inside it!

  He would simply have to wait.

  But he didn't want to wait. He felt like a boy who has stumbled over a

  locked chest in a basement. He wanted to know what the devil he'd

  found! Anxiou@ly, he snapped his fingers. Ilse, he thought suddenly.

  She had a gift for languages, just like her arrogant grandfather. Maybe

  she could decipher the rest of the Spandau papers.

  He lifted the phone and punched in the first four digits of her wo
rk

  number; then he replaced the receiver. The brokerage house where Ilse

  worked did not allow personal calls during trading hours.

  Hans would break a rule quicker than most Germans, but he remembered

  that several employees had been fired for taking this rule lightly.

  A reckless thought struck Hans. He wanted information, and he knew

  where he could get some. After sixty seconds of hard reflection, he

  picked up the telephone directory and looked up the number of Der

  Spiegel. Several department numbers were listed for the magazine. He

  wasn't sure which he needed, so he dialed the main switchboard.

  "Der Spiegel, " answered a female voice.

  "I need to speak to Heini Weber," Hans said. "Could you connect me with

  the proper department, please?" "One moment."

  Thirty seconds passed. "News," said a gruff male voice.

  "Heini Weber, please. He's a friend of mine." A bit of an

  exaggeration, Hans thought, but what the hell?

  "Weber's gone," the man growled, "He was just here, but he left again.

  Field assignment."

  Hans sighed. "If he comes back-"

  "Wait, I see him. Weber!

  Telephone!"

  Hans heard a clatter of chairs, then a younger male voice came on the

  line. "Weber here. Who's this?"

  "Hans Apfel."

  "Who ?"

  "Sergeant Hans Apfel- We met at-"

  "Right, right," Weber remembered, "that kidnapping thing. Gruesome.

  Listen, I'm in a hurry, can you make it fast?"

  "I need to talk to you," Hans said deliberately. "It's important."

  "Hold on-I'm coming already! What's your story, Sergeant?"

  "Not over the phone," Hans said, knowing he probably sounded ridiculous.

  "Jesus," Weber muttered. "I've got to get over to Hannover. A mob of

  Greens is disrupting an American missile transport on the E-30 and I

  need to leave five minutes ago."

  "I could ride with you."

  "Two-seater," Weber objected. "And I've got to take my photographer. I

  guess your big scoop will have to wait until tomorrow."

  "No!" Hans blurted, surprised by his own vehemence. "It can't wait.

  I'll just have to call someone else."

  A long silence. "All right," Weber said finally, "where do you live?"

  "Lijtzenstrasse, number 30."

  "I'll meet you out front. I can give you five minutes."

  "Good enough." Hans hung up and took a deep breath.

  This move carried some risk. In Berlijf, all police contact with the

  press must be officially cleared beforehand. But he intended to get

  information from a reporter, not to give it.

  Without pausing to shower or shave, he stripped off his dirty uniform

  and threw on a pair of cotton pants and the old shirt he wore whenever

  he made repairs on the VW. A light raincoat and navy scarf completed

  his wardrobe.

  The Spandau papers still lay beneath the rumpled mattress. He retrieved

  them, scanning them again on the off chance that he'd missed something

  before. At the bottom of the last page he found it: several hastily

  written passages in German, each apparently a separate entry: The

  threats stoppedfor a time. Foolishly, I let myself hope that the

  madness had ended. But it started again last month.

  Can they read my thoughts? No sooner do I toy with the idea of setting

  down my great burden, than a soldier of Phoenix appears before me. Who

  is with them? Who is not? They show me pictures of an old woman, but

  the eyes belong to a aurtger I am certain my wife is dead My daughter is

  alive! She wears a middle-agedface and bears an unknown name, but her

  eyes are mine. She is a hostage roaming free, with an invisible sword

  hanging above her head But safe she has remained I am strong! The

  Russians have promised to find my angel, to save her, if I will but

  speak her name. But I do not know it! It would be useless if I did.

  Heydrich wiped all trace of me from the face of Germany in 1936. God

  alone knows what that demon told my family!

  My British warders are stern like guard dogs, very stupid ones.

  But there are other Englanders who are not so stupid.

  Have you found me out, swine?

  And a jagged entry: Phoenix wields my precious daughter like a sword of

  fire! If only they knew! Am I even a dim memory to my angel?

  No. Better that she never knows. I have lived a life of madness, but

  in the face of death I found courage. In my darkest hours-I remember

  these lines from Ovid: "It is a smaller thing to suffer punishment than

  to have deserved it. The punishment can be removed, the fault will

  remain forever " My long punishment shall soon cease.

  After all the slaughtered millions, the war finally ends for me.

  May God accept me into His Heaven, for I know that Heydrich and the

  others await me at the gates of HelL Surely I'have paid enough.

  Number 7

  A car horn blared outside. Strangely shaken, Hans folded the pages into

  a square and stuffed them back under the mattress. Then he tugged on a

  pair of old sneakers, locked the front door, and bounded into the

  stairwell. He bumped into a tall janitor on the third floor landing,

  but the old man didn't even look up from his work.

  Hans found Heini Weber beside a battered red Fiat Spyder, bouncing up

  and down on his toes like a hyperactive child. A shaggy-haired youth

  with a Leica slung round his neck peered at Hans from the Fiat's jump

  seat.

  "So what's the big story, Sergeant?" Weber asked.

  "Over here," said Hans, motioning toward the foyer of his building. He

  had seen nothing suspicious in the street, yet he could not shake the

  feeling that he was being watched-if not by hostile, at least by

  interested eyes. It's.just the photographer he told himself.

  Weber followed him into the building and immediately resumed his nervous

  bouncing, this time against the dirty foyer wall.

  "The meter's running," said the reporter.

  "Before I tell you anything," Hans said carefully, "I want some

  information."

  Weber scowled. "Do I look like a fucking librarian to you? Come on,

  out with it."

  Hans nodded solemnly, then played out his bait. "I may have a story for

  you, Heini, but ... to be honest, I'm curious about what it might be

  worth."

  "Well, well," the reporter deadpanned, "the police have joined the club.

  Listen, Sergeant, I don't buy stories, I track them down for pay. That's

  the news game, you know? If you want money, try one of the American TV

  networks."

  When Hans didn't respond, Weber said, "Okay, I'll bite.

  What's your story? The mayor consorting with the American commandant's

  wife? The Wall coming down tomorrow? I've heard them all, Sergeant.

  Everybody's got a story to sell and ninety-nine percent of them are

  shit. What's yours?"

  Hans looked furtively toward the street. "What if," he murmured, "what

  if I told you I'd got hold of something important from the war?

  From the Nazi period?"

  "Something," Weber echoed. "Like?"

  Hans sighed anxiously. "Like papers, say. Like a diary.

  Weber scrutinized him for some moments; then his eyebrows arched

  cynically. "
Like the diary of a Nazi war criminal, maybe?"

  Hans's eyes widened in disbeliel "How did you know?"

  "Scheisse! " Weber cursed. He slapped the wall. "Is that what you got

  me over here for? Christ, where do they find you guys? That's the

  oldest one in the book!"

  Hans stared at the reporter as if he were mad. "What do you mean?"

  Weber returned Hans's gaze with something akin to pity; then he put a

  hand on his shoulder. "Whose diary is it, Sergeant? Mengele's?

  Borinann's?"

  "Neither," Hans snapped. He felt strangely defensive you ing t about

  the Spandau papers. "What the hell are try 0 say?"

  "I'm saying that you probably just bought the German equivalent of the

  Brooklyn Bridge."

  Hans blinked, then looked away, thinking fast. He clearly wasn't going

  to get any information without revealing some first. "This diary's

  genuine," he insisted. "And I can prove it."

  "Sure you can," said Weber, glancing at his watch. "When Gerd Heidemann

  discovered the 'Hitler diaries' back in '83, he even had Hugh

  Trevor-Roper swearing they were authentic. But they were crap,

  Sergeant, complete fakes. I don't know where you got your diary, but I

  hope to God you didn't pay much for it."

  The reporter was laughing. Hans forced himself to smile sheepishly, but

  what he was thinking was that he hadn't paid n all papers. He had found

  them.

  o e Pfennig for the Spand And if Heini Weber knew where he had found

  them, the reporter would be begging him for an exclusive story.

  Hans heard the regular swish of a broom from the first-floor landing.

  "Heini," he said forcefully, "just tell me this. Have you heard of any

  missing Nazi documents or anything like that floating around recently?"

  Weber shook his head in amazement. "Sergeant, what you're talking

  about-Nazi diaries and things-people were selling them ten-a-penny after

  the war. It's a fixed game, a scam." His face softened. "Just cut

  your losses and run, Hans. Don't embarrass yourself."

  Weber turned and grabbed the door handle, but Hans caught him by the

  sleeve. "But if it were authentic?" he said, surprising himself.

  "What kind of money would we be talking about?"

  Weber pulled his arm free, but he paused for a last look at the gullible

  policeman. The swish of the broom had stopped, but neither man noticed.

  "For the real thing?" He chuckled. "No limit, Sergeant.

  Stern magazine paid Heidemann 3.7 million marks for first rights to the