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.'
