The last what? The last prisoner? And then it hit Hans like a bucket
of water in the face. The Spandau papers were signed Prisoner Number
Seven ... and Prisoner Number Seven was Rudolf Hess himself.
He felt the hand holding the cigarette start to shake. He tried to
swallow, but his throat refused to cooperate. Had he actually found the
journal of a Nazi war criminal? With Heini Weber's cynical comments
echoing in his head, he tried to recall what he could about Hess. All
he really knew was that Hess was Hitler's right-hand man, and that he'd
flown secretly to Britain sometime early in the war, and had been
captured. For the past few weeks the Berlin papers had been full of
sensational stories about Hess's death, but Hans had read none of them.
He did remember the Occasional feature from earlier years, though.
They invariably portrayed an infantile old man, a once-powerful soldier
'reduced to watching episodes of the American soap opera Dynasty on
television. Why was the pathetic old Nazi so important?
Hans wondered. Why should even a hint of information about his mission
drive the price of forged diaries into the millions?
Catching his reflection in a shop window, Hans realized that in his work
clothes he looked like a bum, even by the Ku'damrn's indulgent
standards. He stubbed out his cigarette and turned down a side street
at the first opportunity. He soon found himself standing before a small
art cinema. He gazed up at the colorful posters hawking films imported
from a dozen nations. On a whim he stepped up to the ticket window and
inquired about the matinee. The ticket girl answered in a sleepy
monotone.
'American western film today. John Wayne. Der Searchers.', 'In
German?'
'Nein. English.'
'Excellent. One ticket, please.'
'Twelve DM,' demanded the robot voice.
'Twelve! That's robbery.'
'You want the ticket?'
Reluctantly, Hans surrendered his money and entered the theater.
He didn't stop for refreshments; at the posted prices he couldn't afford
to. No wonder Ilse and I never go to movies, he thought. Just before
he entered the screening room, he spied a pay phone near the restrooms.
He slowed his stride, thinking of calling in to the station, but then he
walked on. There isn't any rush, is there? he thought. No one knows
about the papers yet. As he seated himself in the darkness near the
screen, he decided that he might well have found the most anonymous
place in the city to decide what to do with the Spandau papers.
Six rows behind Hans, a tall, thin shadow slipped noiselessly into a
frayed theater seat. The shadow reached into a worn leather bag on its
lap and withdrew an orange. While Hans watched the tides roll, the
shadow peeled the orange and watched him.
Thirty blocks away in the Liitzenstrasse, Ilse Apfel set her market
basket down in the uncarpeted hallway and let herself into apartment 40.
The operation took three keys-one for the knob and two for the heavy
deadbolts Hans insisted upon. She went straight to the kitchen and put
away her grocenes, singing tunefully all the while.
The song was an old one, Walking on the Moon by the Police. Ilse always
sang when she was happy, and today she was ecstatic. The news about the
baby meant far more than fulfillment of her desire to have a family. It
meant that Hans might finally agree to settle permanently in Berlin. For
the past five months he had talked of little else but his desire to try
out for Germany's elite counterteffor force, the Grenzschutzgruppe-9
(GSG-9), oddly enough, the unit whose marksmen his estranged father
coached. Hans claimed he was tired of routine police work, that he
wanted something more exciting and meaningful.
Ilse didn't like this idea at all. For on@ thing, it would seriously
disrupt her career. Policemen in Berlin made little money; most police
wives worked as hairdressers, secretaries, or even
housekeepers-low-paying jobs, but jobs that could be done anywhere.
Ilse was different. Her parents had died when she was very young, and
she had been raised by her grandfather, an eminent history professor and
author.
She'd practically grown up in the Free University and hadtaken degrees
in both Modern Languages and Finance. She'd
T
even spent a semester in the United States, studying French and teaching
German. Her job as interpreter for a prominent brokerage house gave
Hans and her a more comfortable life than most police families. They
were not rich, but their life was good.
If Hans qualified for GSG-9, however, they would have to move to one of
the four towns that housed the active GSG-9
units: Kassel, Munich, Hannover, or Kiel. Not exactly financial meccas.
Ilse knew she could adapt to a new city if she had to, but not to the
heightened danger. Assignment to a GSG-9 unit virtually guaranteed that
Hans would be put into life-threatening situations.
GSG-9 teams were Germany's forward weapon in the battle against
hijackers, assassins, and God only knew what other madmen. Ilse didn't
want that kind of life for the father of her child, and she didn't
understand how Hans could either. She despised amateur psychology, but
she suspected that Hans's reckless impulse was driven by one of two
things: a desire to prove something to his father, or his failure to
become a father himself.
No more conversations about stun grenades and storming airplanes, she
told herself. Because she was finally pregnant, and because today was
just that kind of day. Returning to work from the doctor's office,
she'd it)und that her boss had realized a small fortune for his clients
that morning by following a suggestion she had made before leaving. Of
course by market close the cretin had convinced himself that the clever
bit of arbitrage was entirely his own idea. And who really cares? she
thought. When I open my brokerage house, he'll be carrying coffee to my
assistants!
Ilse stepped into the bedroom to change out of her business clothes. The
first thing she saw was the half-eaten plate of Weisswurst on the unmade
bed. Melted ice and dirt from Hans's uniform had left the sheets a
muddy mess. Then she saw the uniform itself, draped over the boots in
