The Secret of Spandau (16 page)

Cal said supportively, ‘Mr Goodbody's work is syndicated all over the States.'

Red modestly remarked, ‘I expect to sell this story throughout Europe, too.'

‘A story about table-tennis?' asked Heidrun, giving no sign that she even wanted to be convinced.

‘Absolutely,' Red assured her. ‘Only let's be clear about this. I want the personal angle. This will feature the two of you, the sort of people you are, the reason you play, the satisfaction you get from the game. I'm not interested in league positions and all that crap.'

Heidrun cut in, ‘What do you mean: all that crap?'

‘What I mean is that some guy reading his paper in Los Angeles doesn't give a toss about the piddling club you play for and how many points you get.'

‘Charlottenburg is not a piddling club, whatever you mean by that, and I don't care about a man in Los Angeles, because I do give a toss,' said Heidrun, puffing up her chest. ‘All the club members give a toss. And that is why we expect to win the league.'

‘No question!' said Red with a slick change of tack. ‘I can see what motivates you, my darling: the honour of playing for a great club.'

Heidrun said witheringly, ‘It is not the custom in Germany to address a woman as darling when you meet her for the first time.'

‘No offence, sweetheart,' said Red.

‘I am not your sweetheart, either.'

Red winked at her. ‘Cross your fingers. You never know your luck.' He switched to Cal. ‘So you're American. What are you doing over here if you're not a soldier?'

Cal shifted in his chair and looked around him. ‘I'm not sure if I should be talking about my job.'

‘Secret, is it? CIA?' Red suggested blithely.

‘Jesus, no.' Cal grinned at the idea.

‘Don't worry. This is off the record. You can see I'm not writing down a thing.'

‘Could I have a sight of anything you do decide to write about me?'

‘No problem.'

‘Okay, I work in Spandau Jail. I'm one of the US warders there.'

‘Guarding Rudolf Hess? No wonder you need an outside interest. Is it true that he's crazy?'

‘I'm not permitted to discuss Herr Hess.'

‘Understood,' said Red. There would be opportunities later to prise the information out of Cal, and this was not the occasion to declare an interest. ‘Tell me, do you two date each other, apart from table tennis fixtures?'

‘Of course not,' Heidrun scornfully answered. ‘We have more important things to do.'

‘Jesus, yes,' said Cal, looking at his watch. ‘I must be going. I'm on duty in twenty minutes. Maybe we can talk some other time, Red. You can find me at the sports centre most evenings.'

‘Tomorrow?'

‘You're on.' Cal mumbled his farewells and left in a hurry.

Red studied Heidrun. He had to face it: she was not going to go away, not now and not tomorrow. She continued to sit at the table, sipping her fruit juice and looking at Red as if he owed her a better explanation. They were blue-green eyes with flecks of gold. She wore no make-up, yet she was not indifferent to her appearance, because she definitely plucked her eyebrows.

‘Too bad Cal had to go,' said Red. ‘I was hoping to interview the two of you together.'

‘Then you should have made an arrangement,' Heidrun pointed out. ‘He is a busy man. He works nights at Spandau to leave the evenings free for table-tennis.'

‘Rather him than me.'

‘It's only while the season lasts. In five weeks it will be over. He has only recently joined the club. My last partner had an accident. He broke his ankle.'

‘Pity.'

‘Not really,' Heidrun said matter-of-factly. ‘Cal Moody is a better player.'

‘Pity for the other guy.'

‘The club is more important than any individual.'

Red commented, ‘That's the totalitarian concept.'

‘It doesn't make it any less true,' she retorted. ‘All team sports proceed on that understanding.'

‘And all dictators,' said Red.

She gave him another of her riveting stares. ‘I don't believe you are a sports journalist at all, Mr Goodbody.'

He returned the stare. ‘What's your theory about me, then?'

‘I don't know who you are working for, but you are interested in Cal because of Rudolf Hess. You hope to find things out. It's transparently obvious that you know practically nothing about sport, so what other reason can there be for your interest?'

Red's reply was so rapid that it sounded wholly convincing. ‘I wanted to meet you, didn't I?'

With a blank expression, she asked, ‘Whatever for?'

Equally solemnly, Red said, ‘I'm crazy about you, darling.'

Heidrun's expression stayed blank, but it was suffused with a deeper shade of pink. Her voice was totally under control. ‘You know nothing at all about me, except that I play table-tennis.'

‘True, there's so much to catch up on,' said Red with a winning smile. ‘Where would you like to go for a meal? I know a good French restaurant just a few minutes away, in Paulsborner Strasse. Very informal.'

‘Do you seriously expect me to go out with you?'

‘Do you believe me when I say I'm crazy about you?'

‘Actually, no,' answered Heidrun.

‘OK, call my bluff and have a
cordon bleu
at my expense,' suggested Red. Spotting a glimmer of indecision in her eyes, he added, ‘While you eat, I'll tell you precisely why you're the most fantastic fraulein in Berlin.' He got up and reached for her sportsbag.

Heidrun asserted her independence with a shrug, and walked with him to the exit.

It went unsaid that Red was prepared to demonstrate his sincerity in Heidrun's bed. It was implicit in the offer.

Slightly over two hours later, buoyed up by Moselle and Armagnac, and jubilant at having carried conviction right through the meal, he followed her into her apartment, mentally reciting lines from Betjeman about adorable sports girls.

The place was better set up than he had expected from the outside of the block. Pine cladding and pale blue emulsion gave it the relaxing ambience of a sauna. There were Persian rugs scattered about the wood-block floor. Halogen lamps in white metal stands provided a soft, even light. The furniture was upholstered in white leather.

‘The customers in Mohring's must be good tippers,' Red remarked.

‘Like to see the rest?'

He was shown the kitchen first, ceramic-tiled and immaculate, with built-in gadgets, including a microwave.

‘And the bathroom is upstairs.' She led him back into the living-room and up a wrought-iron spiral staircase. As a consequence he could not help noticing an extra swing to her hips as she mounted the stairs.

The bathroom was pastel pink. It looked more lived-in than the kitchen, with a range of bottles, aerosols, tins and glass pots along the shelf over the bath.

Red felt his wrist held in a tight grip. ‘First we take a shower, hm?'

‘Together?'

‘Mixed doubles.'

She unzipped her tracksuit top, confirming what he had guessed across the table in the restaurant – that she was naked underneath. Facing him, she pushed the sides sufficiently apart to expose both breasts. She supported them with her hands, and lifted them a fraction for appreciation. They had deep pink aureoles the size of wine-coasters.

‘Ladies' doubles,' said Red.

‘A fine pair?'

‘Top of the league.'

She slid back the glass shower-guard and turned the jets full on. ‘I like to have it strong and hard.'

She turned towards him again and unfastened the top button of his shirt, then worked systematically downwards as far as his belt, unbuckled that, unzipped his fly and pressed her hand against him, arousing him with the warmth of her palm.

Red responded by easing the waistband of her tracksuit over her hips and tracing the curve of her buttocks, feeling the unexpected coolness on his hand. Her bottom clenched as she swayed forward, naked, and kissed him.

She tugged the rest of the clothes from his body and pulled him into the steaming shower.

‘Christ, it's hot!' He reached out to adjust the taps.

‘Come here and it won't touch you.' Heidrun grasped his penis like the handle of a table-tennis bat and tugged him towards her. She had her back to the tiled wall and her legs apart. The soles of her feet gripped the rubber shower-mat to prevent her from slipping. She guided him into her, shouting, ‘Strong and hard!'

It was not a comfortable position. His knees were bent and his thighs ached. He had turned off the hot jet and now the cold cascaded onto his back with each thrust.

‘Harder!' In her passion, Heidrun dug her fingernails deep into the flesh of his lower back.

His climax was slow in coming, and that seemed to suit her. They ended up in a heap on the floor of the shower, with cold water dowsing their fires.

‘And now,' Heidrun told him brightly, ‘I would like you to do it to me in the bedroom.'

In Spandau Prison, the weekly meeting of directors was in session. It took place in a section of the administration block dignified with the label of ‘Conference Room'. In reality, the room was unimpressive. The walls were painted in institutional green and white that contained the minimum of simple furniture: a plain wooden table, chairs, a hat-stand and the small safe where the keys were kept. There was a large map of Europe on one wall and a calendar on another. There had been periods in the Cold War when this undistinguished room had been the only place in the world where East met West for discussions on an official footing.

Here, the four Colonels from Britain, France, the Soviet Union and the United States who shared the duty of commanding Spandau, had met regularly since 1947. Their discussions were, for the most part, humdrum, but the arguments over prison routine had been known to carry on from late morning to early the following day, prolonged by the need for everything to be explained in three languages.

This morning looked like being a quicker session. It was the Soviet director's turn as chairman; the office went to the nation whose troops were presently on guard. After just over an hour, they had reached the fifth item on the agenda: the current state of health of the prisoner. The usual report had been submitted by the Allied prison doctors, who also represented the four Powers and met regularly in the Conference Room.

Translations of the report were handed around the table. Hess, still known in official documents as Prisoner Number 7, was apparently in reasonable health for a man of his advanced years. His weight was 121 lbs, slightly less than at his previous medical, but this was considered normal with the onset of extreme old age. He still exercised by walking for an hour in the garden twice each day, and his heart and lungs were as sound as could be expected. His bladder problems were no worse.

Mentally, the report continued, Number 7 was alert and able to converse intelligently – for example about the latest space-shot, in which he had taken a lively interest. He was currently reading a NASA publication borrowed from the Berlin Public Library. However, it had not been possible to evaluate his memory because he still refused to discuss the past.

Following the medical report, the French director moved next business.

‘It concerns a letter?' asked the chairman.

‘
Oui
.' The French director explained through his pretty interpreter that in the previous week a letter had arrived for Hess from a German publisher, and he had thought it right to submit it to the meeting. It had been marked ‘Private and Confidential', but every communication addressed to Hess had, of course, to be examined by the authorities.

‘Jeez, not another offer for the old man's memoirs,' said the American. ‘He could be a millionaire by now.'

‘Non
.' The French director explained that this was not the usual offer, but appeared to raise different matters that had not been discussed by the directors before.

‘Is it in German?'

‘The Colonel has obtained translations,' said the French interpreter.

‘Nice work, sweetheart.'

They examined their copies silently.

The letter came from one Herr Harald Beer, Managing Director of Beer Verlag of Munich. It read as follows:

Dear Herr Hess,

We have not met, and I am not certain whether you met my father, Sigmund Beer, but I gather that in 1964 you signed an agreement with him for Beer Verlag to publish an original work entitled MEMOIRS 1894–1941 on condition that publication should not be initiated until after your death. I write to inform you now that my father died suddenly last month and I have succeeded to the chairmanship of Beer Verlag.

It was while sorting through my late father's effects that I came across the package containing the typescript of your MEMOIRS. My father, who was a man of absolute discretion, had not informed me of the contents of the package, so you may imagine my astonishment when I opened it this week.

I have now read the typescript, and I would like to congratulate you on your astonishing achievement. Without any question, the book is going to become one of the publishing events of the twentieth century.

Be assured that we at Beer Verlag are equal to the challenge of publishing a work of such historical and political importance, and also, as set out in the agreement, we shall negotiate the most favourable terms from publishers throughout the world.

There is one matter I would like to raise with you, and that is the proposed date of publication. It may be that, in more than twenty years since you signed the agreement, you have had second thoughts about your decision to delay publication until after your decease.

How would you feel about going ahead with publication this year? There may well be advantages in bringing your remarkable story to the attention of the public. I am not speaking merely of financial considerations, but I have in mind your present circumstances.