The man murmuring to him from the shadows was at least twenty years
older than himself. The face and voice had been ravaged by time, but as
Stern stared, he began to discern the telltale marks of authority, the
indelible lines etched into the face of a man who had held great power.
Could it be? asked a voice in Stern's brain.
Of course it could, answered another. Hess's double died only weeks
ago, and he had endured the soul-killing loneliness of Spandau Prison
for almost fifty years ... This man has lived the life of a millionaire,
with access to the best medical care in the world'I've read your book,
Professor,' Horn said smoothly 'Germany: From Bismarck to the Bunker A
penetrating study, though flawed in its conclusions. I would be very
interested to hear your opinion of the Spandau papers.'
Stern swallowed. 'I-I haven't really had that much time to study them.
They deal mainly with the prisoners at Spandau.'
'Prisoners, Professor? Not one prisoner in particular?'
Stern blinked.
'Not Prisoner Number Seven?' Horn smiled cagily.
'Have no fear, Professor, my interest is purely academic.
I'd simply like to know if the papers shed any light on the events of
May tenth, 1941-on the flight of Rudolf Hess.
The solution to that mystery has always eluded me'-he smiled again-'as
it has the rest of the world.'
Stern fought the urge to step backward. What kind of game was this?
'There is mention of the Hess flight,' he whispered.
'And are you familiar with the case, ProfessorT' 'Conversant.'
'Excellent. I happen to have a unique volume related to it here in my
library. The only one of its kind.' Horn tilted his head slightly.
'Pieter?'
Smuts crossed to some tall shelves at the, dark edge of the library and
pulled down a thin black volume. He hesitated a moment, but Horn
inclined his head sharply and Smuts obeyed.
Stern accepted the thin volume without looking at it.
'You hold a piece of living history in your hand, Professor,' Horn said
solemnly. 'A piece no historian has ever seen before. May of 1941 was
a critical juncture in the march of Western civilization. A time of
great opportunities .' He sighed. 'Missed opportunities. I'd like you
to read that while we verify the Spandau papers. Perhaps it will help
you to do what no one else has yet been able to do-solve the Hess
mystery.'
Stern looked down at the book in his hands. It was a notebook, he saw,
bound in black leather with a name stamped in gold on its cover: V V
Zinoviev. The name meant nothing to Stern. What was he holding in his
hands? Had this man Horn threatened to kill Ilse Apfel in order to
suppress one clue to the Hess enigma, only to give the man he thought to
be her grandfather another? Was he a fool? Of course not.
He was a snake allowing the sparrow one last song before it felt the
fangs strike. Any knowledge that 'Professor Natterman' gained from the
Zinoviev notebook in the next few hours would perish with him.
'Come closer, Professor,' Horn said, raising his chin like a connoisseur
examining an antique for authenticity. 'Do you have Jewish blood in
your family?'
The flickering blue eye fixed on Stern and bored in, searching for the
slightest hint of deception. Stern struggled to maintain his calm.
During the helicopter flight he had worried that his rusty German would
give him away, yet no one seemed to have noticed it. Would it be his
Semitic nose that betrayed him? That put the final bullet through his
heart?
'Nein, ' he said, forcing a smile. 'This nose has been the bane of my
life, Herr Horn. There's some Arab blood far back down the line, I
think. It almost cost me my life several times during the thirties.'
'I can imagine,' Horn said thoughtfully. 'So. The Spandau papers. You
have brought them to me?'
Horn's cadaverous face seemed to waver ghostlike in the shadows.
As if by its own volition, Stern's right hand burrowed into his trouser
pocket and brought out the missing pages. Before he even realized what
he meant to do, he had lurched forward and laid the three sheets on
Horn's desk.
'You have it all now,' he blurted. 'Make what you wish of it.
Just give me back my granddaughter.'
He turned and moved zombie-like toward the door. His eyes focused on
the handle as he neared it.
'Herr Professor?'
Stern froze.
Horn's warbling voice floated through the darkness like a phantom,
ancient and unreal. 'I called the Document Centre in Berlin. They
informed me that you were at the Siege of Leningrad.
This shouldn't be too great an ordeal for an old Wehrmacht soldier.
Have a rest, see your granddaughter. All will soon be back to normal,
and you and I will exchange old war stories. And don't forget to read
the Zinoviev book.'
Stern peered through the shadows. The conversation seemed to have tired
the old man. The face which had looked so alive at the beginning of the
meeting now sagged as if drained by chronic pain. Stern groped behind
him for the door. Pieter Smuts turned the knob and slipped into the
hall ahead of him. Stern saw Horn raise a skeletal arm in farewell, and
then Smuts pulled the door shut.
Dazed, Stern followed the tall Afrikaner down the long corridor toward
the reception hall. They crossed it, then walked the length of several
dim passages. Stern felt like Alice being led through the warrens of
the looking-glass world.
Finally, Smuts stopped before a door and opened it.
Stern saw a striking young blond woman dressed in a smart navy skirt and
white blouse. From Natterman's description, he recognized Ilse Apfel
immediately, but he was still so deep in frenzied speculation about the
old man that he failed to notice the shock on her face.'Ilse looked from
Smuts to Stern, then back to Smuts. She started to speak, then held her
tongue, waiting for the Afrikaner to explain the intrusion. Smuts said
nothing. Ilse's eyes moved up and down Stern's lean frame, lingering on
his unfamiliar face, finally settling on Professor Natterman's patched
