Spandau Phoenix (33 page)

Natterman gripped the wheel tighter. A clear picture had begun to emerge from the blurred background of speculation. He could see it now: while Hitler's "British sympathizers" may have been feigning sympathy for the Nazis in order to save England, the Duke of Windsor most definitely was not. And if Windsor had committed treason@r even come close-that was the kind of royal "peccadillo" that the British secret service would be forced to conceal, suppressing the entire Hess story, the heroism as well as the treason.

Natterman felt his heart thump. A fourth and stunning possibility had just occurred to him. What if the British "traitors" really were pro-Nazi, but had been allowed to pursue their treachery by an even more devious British Intelligence? That way the Nazis could not possibly have picked up on any deception, because the conspirators themselves would not have been aware that they were part of one!

Natterman's mind reeled at the implications. He tried to focus on that uncertain time-the spring of 1941-but his memories seemed foggy, misted at the edges somehow. His brain contained so many fragments of history that he was no longer sure what he had merely read about and what he had actually lived through. He had lived through so much.

More books, he thought. That's what I need now. Documentation.

I'll have Ilse stop at the university library on her way here.

I'll make a list as soon as I get to the house.

Churchill's memoirs, Speer's book, copies of Reich documents, a sample of Hess's handwriting ... I'll need all that for even a preliminary study of the document. And eventually the ink, the paper itselfNatterman hit the brakes, bringing the Audi to a sliding stop.

He had reached the cabin. He turned slowly onto the narrow, snow-packed lane that wound through the forest to the cabin. When the familiar flicker of a lantern appeared in the darkness ahead, he smiled and watched it wink in and out of sight as he negotiated the last few curves.

As he pulled the car into the small turnaround beside the cabin, he decided to invite Karl Riemeck up for a schnapps tomorrow. The old caretaker had obviously taken the trouble to drive out here and light a lamp for him, and Natterman suspected he would also find a good supply of firewood laid by for his convenience. Deciding to retrieve his suitcase later, he halted his heavy book satchel over his shoulder and climbed out of the Audi-The cold practically pushed him up onto the cabin porch, where he found a week's supply of oak logs stacked on a low iron rack.

"Thank you, Karl," he murmured; "This is no night for old men like us to go without heat." On impulse he tried the knob; the door swung open soundlessly. "You think of everything, old friend," he said, shivering.

"I come to the door with a burden, and must I search for my key? No.

All, is prepared for me."

Switching on the electric lights-which the cabin had done without until 1982-he saw that the main room looked just as it always had. Not too small, but cozy, lived in.

Natterman's father had liked it that way. No false opulence, just rough comfort in the old ways. Built of birch and native oak, the cabin felt more solid today than it had when Natterman was a boy. He tossed his satchel on a worn leather chair and walked back out to the porch.

Adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he stared out through the& forest, up the dark access road, searching for the glimmer of headlights, but he saw none.

He gathered as much wood as he could hold, carried it into the cabin, and stacked it carefully in the rack beside the fireplace. Then he placed two well-split logs on the cast-iron rack, dropped to his knees, and began to build a small pyramid of twigs beneath them, just as his father had taught him to do six decades before. Though his brain still simmered in anticipation of uninterrupted study of the Spandau papers, the familiar ritual calmed him.

When his pyramid stood ready to be lit, he searched the hearth for matches, but found none. Rising with a groan, he padded over to the woodstove that occupied an entire alcove in the rear of the front room.

Along with a walk-in pantry, this antique constituted the cabin's kitchen. Here also the professor had no luck. Muttering quietly, he recrossed room and opened the bedroom door.

When he saw what lay beyond, his chest muscles contracted with a force he thought would burst his heart. On the bed directly before him, bound to the brass bedframe with a thick leather belt, Karl Riemeck stared sightlessly ahead, his face contorted in a mask of rage, incomprehension, and pain.

A huge freshly clotted stain of blood blossomed on the caretaker's chest like an obscene flower.

Natterman became as a child. His bowels boiled; urine dribbled into his trousers. He desperately wanted to run, but he had no idea where safety lay. He whirled back toward the main room. Empty and pristine as a magazine photograph.

Unable to focus on Karl, he stumbled to the front door and locked it.

"My God, my God, my God," he muttered, bending over and putting his hands on his knees. "My God!" His chant was a mantra. An incantation.

A way to begin thinking. A way back to reality.

Forcing down the wave of bile that struggled to erupt from his throat, the old professor stood erect and strode back into the bedroom to see if he could do anything for his friend. He ignored the gore that matted the shirt, and placed his hand directly over Karl's heart.

Still. Natterman had expected nothing. He knew death when he saw it.

Perhaps it was the shock of Karl's death that dulled Natterman's instincts, blinding him to further danger. Perhaps it was fatigue.

But when the cold hand reached from beneath the bed and locked itself around his spindly ankle, he froze. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. Again his brain shut itself off against reality. The iron claw jerked his feet from under him; he crashed to the floor like a sack of kindling, certain that his hip was broken.

Moaning in pain and terror, he tried to crawl toward the doorway, but strong arms caught his shoulders and spun him onto his back. When his eyes focused, a flashing silver blade filled almost his entire field of vision. Beyond it he saw only a mane of blond hair. He tried to breathe, but an anvil seemed to have settled on his chest. When the pressure eased slightly, then moved higher, he realized the anvil was a man's knee.

"You have something I want, old man!"

The words were quick and angry, the voice flint against stone.

The knee pressed down so hard into Natterman's chest that he could not have spoken if he wanted to.

"Answer me!" the man screamed.

That's not a British accent, Natterman thought with relief, his mind on the safety of the Spandau papers. Thank God!

It's only a robber-a rvbber who has killed Karl. The professor's brain raced through its knowledge of languages, trying to place the unfamiliar accent, but to no avail. Dutch maybe?

The blond man flicked the blade back and forth in a lethal dance, then inserted the point deep into Natterman's left nostril.

"Don't be stubborn like your friend, old man. It cost him -what little life he had left. Now, talk."

The pressure eased a little. "Take whatever you want!"

Natterman rasped. "My God, poor Karl-"

"Pool Karl? You idiot!

You know what I want! Speak!

Where is it!"

For another moment Nattennan's mind resisted, then he knew. As impossible as it seemed, this murderer knew his secret. He knew about the Spandau papers, and he had managed to beat Natterman here-to his father's house-to steal them!

"Oh God," Natterman whispered. "Oh no."

"No?" the blond man sneered.

"But I don't know what-"

"Liar!" In a rage the killer jerked his knife up and outward, severing the old man's left nostril in a spray of blood.

Tears filled Natterman's eyes, temporarily blinding him. A warm rush of blood flooded over his lips and chin. He coughed and gurgled, struggling for air.

"Listen, you Jew maggot! You're nothing to me!" The killer put his lips to Natterman's ear and lowered his voice to a deadly whisper.

"If you don't signal your agreement to cooperate in five seconds, I'm going to' sever your carotid artery. Do you understand? That's the pipeline to your addled brain."

To validate his threat the killer jabbed the point of his knife into the soft skin beneath Natterman's left ear. Choking horribly on his own blood, Natterman tried to nod.

"You'll show me where it's hidden?"

Natterman nodded again, spitting up frothy red foam.

The killer hauled him to his feet as easily as he would a dead branch.

He took out a white handkerchief and thrust it toward the professor's streaming wound. "Direct pressure," he muttered.

Natterman nodded, stanching the flow, surprised at even this small gesture of humanity. The man before him looked scarcely thirty. The long mane of blond hair gave him a starving-student look that the professor knew well. A handsome face lit by zealot's eyes.

"Now," the killer said softly, "show it to me."

Natterman turned back to the bed where Karl's body lay.

He began to sob as the enormity of what had happened struck him.

"For God's sake, old man, don't fall apart on me! Your friend stuck himself into this business and wouldn't clear off. He forced me.

Come into the other room."

Like a drone Natterman followed the killer into the front room.

With his face partially masked by the bloody handkerchief, he tried frantically to think of a way out of his predicament. Chess, he thought suddenly. It's just like a game of chess. But played to the death.

"Don't think, you idiot! Show me where it is! Now!"

The blond killer stood two meters from Natterman, but when he thrust the knife forward he halved the distance with fearful effect.

Natterman dropped the blood-soaked handkerchief on the floor and began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

"What are you doing, fool!"

"It's taped to my back," Natterman explained.

For a moment the man looked confused; then his face resumed its tight grimace. "Well, then," he said uncertainly, "be quick about it."

My God, thought Natterman, he doesn't know what he's looking for He was sent ... by someone else. Who? How did they connect me with Hans and the papers? Shaking with terror, the professor stripped the foil-wrapped bundle from his back. He felt as if three layers of skin had come up with the tape. I must survive, he told himself Survive to learn the truth. I must distract him...

"Now," said the killer, "walk forward slowly and hand it to me."

Natterman tossed the taped bundle across the room. It landed on the floor and slid partially under a heavy cabinet that stood in the corner.

"You cracked bastard! Pick it up and bring it here!"

Natterman hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked to the cabinet, bent over, retrieved the bundle. Just like chess, he thought.

I move-he moves.

"Hand it to me."

Natterman extended the packet, watching curiously as several drops of blood fell from his nose onto his twitching biceps. I must be in shock, he realized. I'm watching someone else...

Keeping his eyes on Natterman, the killer stripped the tape from the foil that the professor had used to protect the papers.

"Carefully," Natterman pleaded. "They're very delicate."

"Is this all there is?"

Natterman shrugged. "That's it."

"Is this all, you filthy Yid?" The killer shook the papers in the air.

Afrikaans, blurted a voice in Nattennan's brain. The accent is Afrikaner But ... why does the animal think I'm Jewish? "I swear that's all there is," he said. "Please be careful. That's a very important document." As Natterman spoke, he let his eyes wander toward his book satchel. It lay exactly where he had tossed it when he came in-on the leather chair by the door. He stared for a moment, then looked quickly back at the intruder.

"Again you lie!" the Afrikaner cried. "If I find something else in that bag, old man, you're dead."

Natterman stood by the corner cabinet. Silently he willed the killer toward the satchel. Toward the chair. Holding his knife out in front of him, the Afrikaner backed slowly toward the satchel. Just a little _further, Natterman thought, a little further ...

The killer averted his eyes as he reached for the satchelNow!

Natterman groped in the space between the cabinet and the wall and closed his hand aroufid the big Mannlicher shotgun that had stood there for over sixty years. The shotgun his father had always kept out of the way, yet within easy reach if a deer wandered into the clearing or poachers encroached on his land. The professor cocked both hammers as he brought the weapon up, and fired the moment the barrels cleared the back of the couch.

The killer dived for cover behind the leather chair, but not quickly enough. Twenty-four pellets of double-aught buck shot tore through his right shoulder, leaving his upper arm a mass of pulp and bone that hung from his torso by sinew alone. The bloody knife that had butchered Karl Riemeck clattered to the floor, its owner blown out of sight behind the chair.