Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles

good advice, and Opa can give it to us.”

      Hans felt a hot prickle of resentment. The last thing he wanted was Ilse’s arrogant grandfather strutting around and telling him what to do. “We’re not calling the professor,” he said flatly.

      Ilse started to snap back, but she checked herself. “All right,” she said. “If you won’t call Opa, then call your father.”

      Hans drew back as if struck physically. “I can’t believe you said that.”

      “For God’s sake, Hans. Three years without more than a nod to the man. Can’t you admit that he’s in a position to help you? To help us? He obviously wants to—”

      “Three years! He went twenty years without talking to me!”

      There was a long silence. “I’m sorry,” Ilse said finally. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you’re not acting like yourself.”

      “And what’s so wrong with that? Liebchen, people get a chance like this once in their lives, if they’re lucky. I found these papers, I didn’t steal them. The man they belonged to is dead. They’re ours now. Imagine … all the things you’ve ever wanted. All the things I could never afford to buy you. Your friends from work are always flaunting their fine houses, their clothes, the best of everything. You never complain, but I know you miss those things. You grew up with them. And now you can have them again.”

      “But I don’t care about those things,” Ilse countered. “You know that. You know what’s important to me.”

      “That’s what I’m talking about! Children aren’t cheap, you know. When you finally get pregnant, we’ll need all the money we can get.” He snatched up one of the Spandau pages. “And it’s right here in our hands!”

      For the first time since finding the papers, Ilse remembered the baby. She had been so happy this afternoon, so ready to celebrate their blessing. She’d wanted everything to be perfect. But now …

      “Hans,” she said solemnly, “I wasn’t being honest, okay? I probably would prefer driving to work in a Mercedes rather than riding the U-Bahn.” Suddenly Ilse laughed, flirting momentarily with the idea of easy money. “I wouldn’t turn down a new wardrobe or a mansion in Zehlendorf, either. But if these papers are real, Hans, they are not our ticket to getting those things. Finding these papers isn’t like finding a lottery ticket. If they are genuine, they are a legacy of the Nazis. Of war criminals. How many times have we talked about the Hitler madness? Even almost fifty years after the war, it’s like an invisible weight dragging us backward. When I spent that semester in New York, I made some friends, but I also saw the looks some people gave me—Jews maybe, I don’t know—wondering about the blond German girl. ‘Does she think she’s better than we are? Racially superior?’ Hans, our whole generation has paid the price for something we had nothing to do with. Do you want to profit from that?”

      Hans looked down at the papers on the table. Suddenly they looked very different than they had before. In a span of seconds their spell had been broken. Ilse’s laugh had done it, he realized, not her impassioned speech. Her musical, self-mocking laugh. He gathered up the loose sheets and stacked them at the center of the table. “I’ll turn them in tonight,” he promised. “I’ll take them downtown right after supper. Good enough?”

      Ilse smiled. “Good enough.” She stood slowly and pulled Hans to her. He could feel the swell of her breasts through the cotton robe. She laughed softly. “You see? Doing the right thing sometimes has its rewards.” She stood on tiptoe and nuzzled into his neck, at the same time pressing her bare thigh into his groin. Hans laughed into her hair. He wanted her, and his want was obvious, but he sensed something more than desire behind her sudden affection. “What are you up to?” he asked, pulling away a little. Ilse’s eyes glowed with happiness. “I’ve got a secret too,” she said. She reached up and touched her forefinger to his lips—then the telephone rang.

      With a curious glance, Hans tugged playfully at her robe and walked into the living room. “Hans Apfel,” he said into the phone. He looked back toward the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, Ilse opened her robe with a teasing smile. He forced himself to look away. “Yes, Sergeant Apfel. Yes, I was at Spandau last night. Right, I’ve seen the television. What? What kind of questions?” Sensing Ilse behind him, he motioned for her to keep quiet. “I see. Formalities, sure.” His face darkened. “You mean now? What’s the hurry? Is everyone to be there? What do you mean, you can’t say? Who is this?” Hans’s jaw tightened. “Yes, sir. Yes, I do realize that, sir. Don’t worry, I’ll be there. I’m leaving now.” Slightly dazed, he returned the phone to its cradle and turned around.

      Ilse had retied her robe. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes troubled.

      “I’m not sure.” He looked at his watch. “That was the prefect’s aide on the phone, a Lieutenant Luhr. He said the Russians are still in the station. They’re making some kind of trouble, and the prefect wants to 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 bedroom 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.