soiled sheets. She laughed softly. A randy German woman might happily make love on a forest floor, but on dirty linens? Never! She knelt beside the bed and gathered the bedclothes into a ball. She was about to rise when she saw something white sticking out from under the mattress. Automatically, she pulled it out and found herself holding a damp sheaf of papers.
What in the world?
She certainly didn’t remember putting any papers under the mattress. It must have been Hans. But what would he hide from her? Bewildered, she let the bedclothes fall, stood up, and unfolded the onionskin pages. Heavy, hand-printed letters covered the paper. She read the first paragraph cursorily, her mind more on the circumstances of her discovery than on the actual content of the papers. The second paragraph, however, got her attention. It was written in
Latin
of all things. Shivering in the chilly air, she walked into the kitchen and stood by the warm stove.
She concentrated on the word endings, trying to decipher the carefully blocked letters. It was almost painful, like trying to recall formulas from
gymnasium
physics. Her specialty was modern languages; Latin she could hardly remember. Ilse went to the kitchen table and spread out the thin pages, anchoring each corner with a piece of flatware. There were nine. She took a pen and notepad from the telephone stand, went back to the first paragraph of Latin, and began recording her efforts. After ten minutes she had roughed out the first four sentences. When she read straight through what she had written, the pencil slipped from her shaking hand.
“Mein Gott,”
she breathed. “This cannot be.”
Hans exited the cinema into the gathering dusk. He couldn’t believe the afternoon had passed so quickly. Huddling against the cold, he considered taking the U-Bahn home, then decided against it. It would mean changing trains at Fehrbelliner-Platz, and he would still have some distance to walk. Better to walk the whole way and use the time to decide how to tell Ilse about the Spandau papers. He started west with a loping stride, moving away from the crowded Ku’damm. He knew he was duty-bound to hand the papers over to his superiors, and he felt sure that the mix-up with the Russians had been straightened out by now. Yet as he walked, he was aware that his mind was not completely clear about turning in the papers. For some irritating reason, when he thought of doing that, his father’s face came into his mind. But there was something else in his brain. Something he soon recognized as Heini Weber’s voice saying: “Three point seven
million
Deutschemarks…”
Hans had already done the calculations. At his salary it would take 150 years to earn that much money, and that represented the offer of a single magazine for the “Hitler diaries.” That was a powerful temptation, even for an honest man.
As Hans reached the mouth of the side street, a dark shape disengaged itself from the gloom beneath the cinema awning and fell into step behind him. It neither hurried nor tarried, but moved through the streets as effortlessly as a cloud’s shadow.
CHAPTER FOUR
5:50 P.M. American Sector: West Berlin
Colonel Godfrey A. “God” Rose reached into the bottom drawer of his mammoth Victorian desk, withdrew a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, and gazed fondly at the label. For five exhausting hours the U.S. Army’s West Berlin chief of intelligence had sifted through the weekly reports of his “snitches”—the highly paid but underzealous army of informers that the U.S. government maintains on its shadow payroll to keep abreast of events in Berlin—and discovered nothing but the usual sordid list of venalities committed by the host of elected officials, bureaucrats, and military officers of the city he had come to regard as the Sodom of Western Europe. The colonel had a single vice—whiskey—and he looked forward to the anesthetic burn of the Kentucky bourbon with sublime
What in the world?
She certainly didn’t remember putting any papers under the mattress. It must have been Hans. But what would he hide from her? Bewildered, she let the bedclothes fall, stood up, and unfolded the onionskin pages. Heavy, hand-printed letters covered the paper. She read the first paragraph cursorily, her mind more on the circumstances of her discovery than on the actual content of the papers. The second paragraph, however, got her attention. It was written in
Latin
of all things. Shivering in the chilly air, she walked into the kitchen and stood by the warm stove.
She concentrated on the word endings, trying to decipher the carefully blocked letters. It was almost painful, like trying to recall formulas from
gymnasium
physics. Her specialty was modern languages; Latin she could hardly remember. Ilse went to the kitchen table and spread out the thin pages, anchoring each corner with a piece of flatware. There were nine. She took a pen and notepad from the telephone stand, went back to the first paragraph of Latin, and began recording her efforts. After ten minutes she had roughed out the first four sentences. When she read straight through what she had written, the pencil slipped from her shaking hand.
“Mein Gott,”
she breathed. “This cannot be.”
Hans exited the cinema into the gathering dusk. He couldn’t believe the afternoon had passed so quickly. Huddling against the cold, he considered taking the U-Bahn home, then decided against it. It would mean changing trains at Fehrbelliner-Platz, and he would still have some distance to walk. Better to walk the whole way and use the time to decide how to tell Ilse about the Spandau papers. He started west with a loping stride, moving away from the crowded Ku’damm. He knew he was duty-bound to hand the papers over to his superiors, and he felt sure that the mix-up with the Russians had been straightened out by now. Yet as he walked, he was aware that his mind was not completely clear about turning in the papers. For some irritating reason, when he thought of doing that, his father’s face came into his mind. But there was something else in his brain. Something he soon recognized as Heini Weber’s voice saying: “Three point seven
million
Deutschemarks…”
Hans had already done the calculations. At his salary it would take 150 years to earn that much money, and that represented the offer of a single magazine for the “Hitler diaries.” That was a powerful temptation, even for an honest man.
As Hans reached the mouth of the side street, a dark shape disengaged itself from the gloom beneath the cinema awning and fell into step behind him. It neither hurried nor tarried, but moved through the streets as effortlessly as a cloud’s shadow.
CHAPTER FOUR
5:50 P.M. American Sector: West Berlin
Colonel Godfrey A. “God” Rose reached into the bottom drawer of his mammoth Victorian desk, withdrew a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, and gazed fondly at the label. For five exhausting hours the U.S. Army’s West Berlin chief of intelligence had sifted through the weekly reports of his “snitches”—the highly paid but underzealous army of informers that the U.S. government maintains on its shadow payroll to keep abreast of events in Berlin—and discovered nothing but the usual sordid list of venalities committed by the host of elected officials, bureaucrats, and military officers of the city he had come to regard as the Sodom of Western Europe. The colonel had a single vice—whiskey—and he looked forward to the anesthetic burn of the Kentucky bourbon with sublime
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