fact would make him rich, he was certain of it. He jerked back the
metal grille and trotted to the apartment door.
'Ilse!' he called, letting himself in. 'I'm home!'
In the kitchen doorway he stopped cold. Wearing a white cotton robe,
Ilse sat at the table holding the papers Hans had found at Spandau.
'Where did these come from?' she asked coolly.
Hans searched for words. This was not the way he'd planned to explain
the papers.
'Your night duty was at Spandau Prison, wasn't it?' 'Yes, but Liebchen,
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 Liitzenstrasse,
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 othersHeydrich, for instance-and something
called the SD. They were signed by Prisoner Number Seven.
