would help me.'
Hauer sighed. 'Men like the one in the,bedroom there?'
Natterman's eyes smoldered. 'Why should you help me?'
he snapped. 'What exactly are you after, Hauer?'
Hauer stiffened. In Germany, the cavalier omission of a man's rank or
title is an open insult. He was moving forward when boots clattered
loudly on the porch. The splintered door banged open.
'I need a knife,' said Hans, his breath steaming as he closed the door.
He stamped his icy boots on the floorboards while he searched the
kitchen alcove.
'How long will it take?' Hauer asked, his eyes still on Natterman.
'Less than a minute if I didn't have to, climb that goddamn pole.
It's covered with ice, and the bastard cut the wire at the top.'
Hans found a sharp paring knife in a drawer and clomped out again.
'I'm waiting,' said Hauer.
Natterman sighed. He would have to say something, he knew, but
misdirecting a police captain shouldn't be too difficult. 'All right,
Captain,' he said. 'What Hans found at Spandau-what your son found-is a
letter of sorts. A diary, if you will. A diary written in Latin by the
man known to the world for almost fifty years as Rudolf Hess.'
'Perfect,' said Hauer. 'A dead language from a dead
man.
The professor sniffed indignantly. 'This diary happens to prove that
that particular dead man was not Rudolf Hess.'
Hauer's eyes narrowed. 'You believe that?'
Natterman looked sanguine. 'It's nothing new. You've heard all the
theories, I'm sure. Himmler tricked Hess into becoming a pawn in his
quest for Hitler's job; Goring had Hess shot down, then-'
'I've heard the theories,' Hauer cut in. 'And that's just what they
are, theories. Bullshit.'
'Your expert opinion notwithstanding,' Natterman said, 'I believe that
the man who died last month in Spandau was never the Deputy Fuhrer of
the Third Reich. And from what I saw on television today, I'd say the
Russians believe that too.
Hauer snorted. 'The Russians would hound a rat right up their backsides
if they thought it endangered their precious Motherland.
What proof is there that the papers are authentic?'
Natterman bridled. 'Why the diary itself, of course.'
'You mean that it exists? That Hans found it where he did?'
The professor tugged at his silver beard. 'No. Those things are
significant, but it's the papers themselves that are the proof.'
'How?'
'The language, Captain. You might think that Prisoner Number Seven
wrote in Latin to conceal his words from the prison guards, or something
similar. But that's not the case at all. Think, man. Here was a man
who knew he was near death, who decided to leave a record of the truth.
Yet all proof that he ever lived had been wiped out long ago by Reinhard
Heydrich. How could he prove who he was? I'll tell you. As Hess's
trained double, Number Seven had studied everything about the Deputy
Fuhrer. Yet no matter how much like Hess he became, he still possessed
certain traits and abilities that Hess did not. And knowing those
abilities better than anyone, he used one to prove his identity. Thus,
he wrote his final record in Latin.' Natterman's eyes flashed with
triumph. 'And so far as I have been able to determine, Rudolf
Hess-though better educated than most of Hitler's inner circle-Aid not
know more than twenty words of Latin, if any. '
'That proves nothing,' Hauer argued. 'In fact, that suggests to me that
some crank wrote this diary.'
'Why do you fight this so hard, Captain? Number Seven was the only
prisoner.'
'At the end. There were others before.'
'Yes,' Natterman admitted. 'A few. But cranks? No. And the searches,
Captain, there were thousands of them. The diary must have been written
near the end.'
'It could have been slipped in by a guard,' Hauer suggested. But the
cold ache in his chest belied his words.
Natterman shrugged. 'It's not my job to convince you, Captain.
But given what's already occurred, I suggest we work on the assumption
that the diary is genuine-at least until I can take further steps to
authenticate it.'
Hauer rummaged through his borrowed suit for a cigar.
'But what's the point of all this? The KGB and half the Berlin police
force haven't gone mad over some scrap of history. What does the diary
mean now?'
'Now?' Natterman smiled. 'I suppose that depends on who you happen to
be. Paradoxically enough, the answer to your question lies in the past.
That is why the diary is so important.' The old man's voice climbed a
semitone with repressed excitement. 'It is a veritable tunnel into the
past ...
into history.'
Hauer walked to the front window of the cabin and stared out into the
frozen darkness. 'Professor,' he said finally, 'if this diary were
real, is there any conceivable way it could be embarrassing enough to
influence NATO? Possibly even the Soviet Union?'
Natterman raised an eyebrow. 'Given the lengths to which certain
countries have gone to suppress the Hess story, I would say yes. Of
course it would depend on what one wanted to influence those nations to
do.'
Hauer nodded. 'Suppose someone wanted to use the diary to make the
superpowers more amenable to the idea of German reunification?'
Natterman's face darkened with suspicion. 'I think I have answered
enough questions, Captain. I think you should@' The splintered cabin
door banged open again. When Hauer turned, he saw Hans hunched over,
dragging something into the cabin.
It took him a moment to realize that it was a human body. Then he saw
the hair-long, blond hair.
'Hans?' he said hoarsely.
Hans grunted and fell backward, breathing hard. The corpse's head
thudded to the floor. Hauer walked slowly across the room and looked
