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’damm’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 titles roll, the shadow peeled the orange and watched him.
Thirty blocks away in the Lützenstrasse, 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 groceries, 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 counterterror 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 one 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
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’damm’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 titles roll, the shadow peeled the orange and watched him.
Thirty blocks away in the Lützenstrasse, 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 groceries, 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 counterterror 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 one 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
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