Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles

give me a chance to explain. It was a secret detail. That’s why I couldn’t call you.”

      She studied him silently. “You haven’t told anyone about this, have you?”

      Hans remembered his conversation with Heini Weber, but decided that would be best kept private for now. “No,” he lied, “I didn’t have time to say anything to anyone.”

      “Hans, you’ve got to turn these papers in.”

      “I know.”

      She nodded slowly. “Then why am I so worried about you?”

      He took a deep breath, exhaled. “We have a chance here, Ilse. If you looked at those papers, you know that as well as I do. Finding those papers … it’s like winning the lottery or something. Do you realize what they might be worth?”

      Ilse closed her eyes. “Hans, what is going on? You could lose your job for this.”

      “I’m not going to lose my job. So I found some old papers. What was I supposed to do?”

      “Turn them in to the proper authorities.”

      “The proper authorities?” Hans snorted. “And who are the proper authorities? The Americans? The British? The French? This is Berlin, Ilse. Every person, every company, every nation here is looking after its own interests—nobody else’s. Why shouldn’t I look after ours for once?”

      Ilse rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips.

      “Liebchen,” Hans insisted, “no one even knows these papers exist. If you’d just listen for five minutes—if you heard how I found them—you’d see that they’re a godsend.”

      She sighed hopelessly. “All right, tell me.”

      Four floors below the apartment, in the cold wind of the Lützenstrasse, Jonas Stern accepted a thick stack of files from a young man wearing a West Berlin police uniform.

      “Thank you, Baum,” he said. “This is everyone?”

      “Everyone from the Spandau patrol, yes sir. I couldn’t get the file on the prefect. It’s classified.”

      Stern sighed. “I think we know enough about dear Herr Funk, don’t we?”

      Shivering from the wind, the young policeman nodded and looked up at the suntanned old man with something near to awe in his eyes.

      “You’ve done well, Baum.” Stern flipped through the computer printouts. He stopped at Apfel, Hans but saw little of interest. Hauer, Dieter, however, told a different story. Stern read softly to himself:

      “Attached to Federal Border Police 1959. Promoted sergeant 1964, captain in 1969. Sharpshooter qualification 1963. National Match Champion 1965, ’66 … Decorated for conspicuous bravery in ’64, ’66, ’70 and ’74. All kidnapping cases. Transferred with rank to the West Berlin civil police January 1, 1973. Hmm,” Stern mused. “I’d say that’s a demotion.” He picked up further down. “Sharpshooting coach and hostage recovery adviser to GSG-9 since 1973—”Stern paused again, memorizing silently. Credentials like those made Dieter Hauer a match for any man. Stern read on. “Member of International Fraternal Order of Police since 1960 … Ah,” he said suddenly, “Member of Der Bruderschaft since 1986. Now we learn something.”

      The Israeli looked up, surprised to see his young informant still standing there. “Something else, Baum?”

      “Oh—no, sir.”

      Stern smiled appreciatively. “You’d better get back to your post. Try to monitor what’s going on in Abschnitt 53 if you can.”

      “Yes, sir. Shalom.”

       “Shalom.”

      Stern cradled the files under his arm and stepped back into the apartment building. He reclaimed his broom and dustpan, then started noisily back up to the fourth floor. This role of custodian isn’t half-bad, he thought. He had certainly known much worse.

      Ilse’s eyes flickered like camera lenses; they always did when she was deep in thought. Hans had ended his account of the night at Spandau with Captain Hauer’s facing down the furious Russian commander. Now he sat opposite Ilse at the kitchen table, staring down at the Spandau papers.

      “Your father,” she said softly. “Why did he pick last night to try to talk to you, I wonder?”

      Hans looked impatient. “Coincidence … what does it matter? What matters right now is the papers.”

      “Yes,” she agreed.

      “I read what I could,” he said breathlessly. “But most of it’s written in some strange language. It’s like …”

      “Latin,” she finished. “It’s Latin.”

      “You can read it?”

      “A little.”

      “What does it say?”

      Ilse’s lips tightened. “Hans, have you told anyone about these papers? Anyone at all?”

      “I told you I didn’t,” he insisted, compounding the lie.

      Ilse twisted two strands of hair into a rope. “The papers are about Rudolf Hess,” she said finally.

      “I knew it! What do they say?”

      “Hans, Latin isn’t exactly my specialty, okay? It’s been years since I read any.” She looked down at her notes. “The papers mention Hess’s name frequently, and some others—Heydrich, for instance—and something called the SD. They were signed by Prisoner Number Seven. You saw that?”

      Hans nodded eagerly.

      “The odd thing is that Prisoner Number Seven was Rudolf Hess, yet these papers seem to be talking about Hess as if he were another person.” She pushed her notes away. “I’ve probably got it all wrong. The writer describes a flight to Britain, but mentions a stop somewhere in Denmark. It’s crazy. There seem to be two men in the plane, not one. And I do know one thing for certain—Rudolf Hess flew to Britain alone.”

      Hans blinked. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that the man who died in Spandau Prison might not have been Rudolf Hess?”

      “No, I’m saying that the papers say that. I think. But I don’t believe it for a minute.”

      “Why not?”

      Ilse got up, went to a cupboard, and removed a beer, which she placed on the counter but did not open. “Think about it, Hans. For weeks the newspapers have run wild with speculation about Prisoner Number Seven. Was he murdered? Why did he really fly to Britain? Was he really Hess at all? Now you find some papers that seem to indicate that the prisoner wasn’t Hess, just as some of the newspapers have been speculating?” She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “It’s too convenient. This has to be some kind of press stunt or something.”

      “My God,” he said, coming to his feet. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter if the papers are real or not. The fact that I found them in Spandau is enough. They could be worth millions of marks!”

      Ilse sat down carefully and looked up at Hans. When she spoke her voice was grave. “Hans, listen to me. I understand why you didn’t turn in the papers immediately. But now is the time for clear thinking. If these papers are fakes, they’re worthless and they can only get us into trouble. And if they are genuine …” She trailed off, glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Hans, I think we should call my grandfather,” she said suddenly. “I could only read part of this … diary, I guess you’d call it, but Opa will be able to read it all. He’ll know what we should do.” She pushed her chair away from the table.

      “Wait!” Hans cried. “What business is this