Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles
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law the relevant Hess files are to remain sealed until the year 2016. Some will never be opened. What are the British hiding? Whom are they protecting? A secret cabal of highly placed British Nazis? Were there powerful Englishmen—even members of the royal family—who were so afraid of communism that they were ready to climb into Hitler’s bed for protection, no matter how many Jews he slaughtered?” Natterman punched a fist into his palm. “By God, if these Spandau papers end up proving that, the walls of Parliament will be hard put to withstand the firestorm that follows!”
Ilse stared at her grandfather with astonishment. His passion had infected her, but it could not blot out the worry she felt for Hans. Yet somehow she couldn’t bring herself to confess her fears to the old man. At least debating the fine points of conspiracy theories helped to pass the time quickly.
“But if the prisoner was a double,” she said, “how could he fool his Allied captors? Even an actor couldn’t hold out under interrogation.”
Natterman snorted scornfully. “The British claim they never professionally interrogated him. And why should they? They knew Hess was a double from the beginning. They held him incommunicado in England for the first four years of his captivity, and they’ve been playing this ridiculous game ever since to cover up the real Hess’s mission. The American government supports Britain’s policy right down the line. And the French have never made a fuss about it. They have their own skeletons to hide.”
“But the Russians,” Ilse reminded him. “You said Stalin suspected a plot from the beginning.”
“Perhaps the double didn’t fool them,” Natterman suggested.
“Then why wouldn’t they expose him!”
Natterman frowned. “I don’t know. That’s the conundrum, isn’t it? It’s the key to this whole mystery. There are reasons that the Russians wouldn’t have talked in the early years. One is that certain alleged Anglo-Nazi intrigues—between Hess and the Duke of Windsor, for example—took place on Spanish and Portuguese soil. If such meetings did actually occur, Moscow would have known all about them”—Natterman grinned with glee—“because the MI-6 officer responsible for the Spanish desk at that time was none other than Kim Philby. What irony! The Russians couldn’t reveal the Windsor-Hess connection without exposing the Philby-KGB connection! Of course that only explains the Russian silence up until 1963, the year Philby fled England. The real mystery is what kept the Russians quiet during the remaining years.”
Ilse was shaking her head. “You make it sound so plausible, but it’s like a huge house of cards… . It’s just too complex.”
“I’ll give you something simple, then. Why did the British never use ‘Hess’ for propaganda during the war? They locked him away from the world and refused even to allow him to be photographed. Think about that. England and Germany were locked in a death struggle. Even if ‘Hess’ had refused to cooperate, the British could easily have released statements criticizing Hitler that were supposedly made by Hess. Think of the boost that would have given English morale. And the negative effect on the German people! Yet the British never tried it. The only possible reason I can see for that is that the British knew they didn’t have the real Hess. They knew if they tried to use ‘Hess’ against the Nazis, Joseph Goebbels could jump up and say, ‘Fools! You’ve got a bloody corporal in your jail!’ or something similar.”
“If that’s true, why wouldn’t the Nazis have said that from the beginning?”
Natterman smiled enigmatically. “Hitler’s reasons I cannot divine. But as for the other top Nazis—Göring, Himmler—they were only too glad to be rid of Hess. He was their chief rival for Hitler’s favors. If the Führer, for his own reasons, was content to let the world believe that his lifelong friend and confidant had gone insane, and was a prisoner of the British, Hess’s chief rivals would have been only too glad to go along.” Natterman rubbed his hands together. “Yes, it all ties up rather neatly.”
“So says the great professor,” Ilse said dryly. “But you’ve missed one thing. Even if the Allies had reasons to keep quiet, why in God’s name would the double—even if he had agreed to such a mission—keep silent for nearly fifty years? What could anyone threaten him with? Solitary confinement in Spandau Prison must have been a living death.”
Natterman shook his head. “You’re a clever girl, Ilse, but in some ways frighteningly naive. Soldiers aren’t asked to agree to missions; they’re ordered. In Hitler’s Reich refusal meant instant death. You saw the word Sippenhaft in the papers?”
She nodded. “What does it mean? ‘Clan punishment’?”
“That’s close enough. Sippenhaft was a barbaric custom that Himmler borrowed from the ancient Teutonic tribes. It mandated that punishment be visited not only upon a traitor, but upon his ‘clan.’ After Graf von Stauffenberg’s abortive attempt on Hitler’s life, not only the count but his entire family was executed. Six of the victims were over seventy years old! That is Sippenhaft, Ilse, and a more effective tool for ensuring the silence of living men has yet to be devised.”
“But after five decades … who would be left to carry out such a sentence?”
Natterman rolled his eyes. “How about one of those bald neo-Nazi psychopaths who roam our streets at night with brickbats? No? Then how about these ‘soldiers of Phoenix’ that Number Seven mentions? He certainly seems terrified of them. And don’t forget this: at the end of the war, close to forty divisions of Waffen SS remained under arms throughout the world. That’s more than a quarter of a million men! I don’t know how many Death’s-Head SS survived, but what if it were only a few hundred? Just one of those fanatics could wipe out a man’s family, even today. I fought in the war, and I could easily shoot someone down in the street tonight.” Natterman glanced at his watch. “And that is my final word on the subject,” he announced. “I must go.”
“Go?” Ilse said uneasily. “Where are you going?”
Natterman picked up his briefcase. “To do what must be done. To show the arrogant, self-righteous British for what they were during the war—no better than we Germans.” His eyes sparkled with youthful excitement. “Ilse, this could be the academic coup of the century!”
“Opa, what are you saying? Those papers are affecting you just like they did Hans!”
Natterman looked sharply at his granddaughter. “Where is Hans, by the way?”
“At the police station … I guess.” Ilse tried to summon a brave face, but her mask cracked. Hans had been gone far too long. “Opa, what if they know what Hans did … what he found? What would they do?”
“I don’t know,” he answered frankly. “Why don’t you call the station? If Hans’s superiors don’t know about the papers, it can’t hurt. And if they do, well … they’ll be expecting your call anyway, won’t they?”
Ilse moved uncertainly toward the phone in the living room, then snatched it up.
“Listen very closely,” Natterman cautioned. “Background voices, everything.”
“Yes, yes … Hello? May I speak to Sergeant Hans Apfel, please? This is his wife. Oh. Do you know where he is now?” She covered the mouthpiece with her palm. “The desk sergeant says he knows Hans but hasn’t seen him tonight. He’s checking.” She pulled her hand away. “I beg your pardon? Is this the same man I spoke to earlier? Yes, I’ll be home all evening.” Natterman shook his head violently. “I’m sorry,” Ilse said quickly, “I have to go.” She dropped the phone into its cradle.
“What did he tell you?” Natterman asked.
“Hans stopped in to answer a few questions, but left soon after. The sergeant said he wasn’t there longer than twenty minutes. Opa?”
Natterman touched his granddaughter’s quivering cheek. “Ilse,