Spandau Phoenix

by Iles, Greg

  Hans gulped in surprise. “Who?” he asked lamely.

  “Polizei Captain Dieter Hauer!” Smuts roared. “The man who helped you escape from Berlin! What kind of game is the fool trying to play? Where is he now?”

  Hans felt suddenly faint. Phoenix knew everything. They had known from the beginning. “Hauer doesn’t have the pages, I swear it.” he said. “The pages were stolen in Germany.”

  Smuts grabbed him by the sleeve and jerked him across the room toward the window. Hans was amazed by the strength in the wiry arm. Pulling back the curtains, Smuts waved his arm back and forth across the pane. Satisfied with what he saw, he motioned for Hans to step forward. Puzzled, Hans put his face to the glass. When he saw what waited beyond, every muscle in his exhausted body went rigid.

  Thirty metres from the window, Ilse Apfel stood facing the house. Her hands were bound with wire. Affixed to the wire was a long chain, held at the other end by the Zulu driver. At the Zulu’s feet lay an old black tire; beside him stood Lieutenant Jürgen Luhr of the West Berlin police. Luhr wore civilian clothes, but his tall black boots gleamed, in the sun. Seeing Hans in the window, Luhr smiled and pressed a Walther PI against Ilse’s left temple. Smuts caught Hans in a bear hug and held him still.

  “Ilse!” Hans shouted.

  Ilse moved her head slightly, as if she had sensed the, sound but could not locate its source. When Luhr jabbed the’ pistol barrel into her ear, Hans jumped as if the gun had struck his own head. He sucked in a rush of air to shout again, but Smuts cut him off. “Scream again, Sergeant, and she dies. I presume you know that man out there?”

  Hans had only spoken to Jürgen Luhr in person once, but he would never forget it. Luhr had called him in for the polygraph session at Abschnitt 53, the call that had started, all the madness. Luhr was the man who had gouged the Star of David into Erhard Weiss’s chest. His presence here, five thousand miles from Germany, compounded Hans’s sense of dislocation.

  Smuts released Hans. “Step back from the window,” he, commanded. Hans didn’t move. “Step back!”

  When Hans refused, Smuts gave another hand signal. The Zulu handed the leash chain to Luhr, then reached down and lifted the tire high into the air. As it hung suspended like a black halo over Ilse’s head, amber liquid sloshed out of it onto her hair. With a sadistic grin the Zulu jerked the tire savagely down around Ilse’s torso, pinning her arms to her sides.

  Smuts spoke from behind Hans. “Are you familiar with the ‘necklace’, Sergeant? It’s a local native specialty. They fill an old tyre with gasoline and pin the victim’s arms to his sides with the tyre—thus the term ‘necklace’—then they set the gasoline afire. The results are quite ghastly, even to a man of my wide experience. A human torch running about like a dying chicken”

  Blind with rage, Hans hurled himself backward and hammered his elbow into Smuts’s chest. Then he whirled, lowered his head like a bull, and drove the Afrikaner back toward the heavy door. The sudden attack startled Smuts, but as the Afrikaner backpedalled toward the wood, he bucked his knee into Hans’s ribs—an upward blow so sharp and quick that Hans did not even realize what had hit him. He went down gasping. When he looked up, Smuts was standing across the room, arms folded, glaring at him.

  “Let her go!” Hans begged. “What has she done to you?”

  “Where is Captain Hauer, Sergeant?”

  Hans staggered to his feet and went to the window. Ilse’s face had taken on an ashen pallor. She had recognized the smell of gasoline, and with it the terrible danger. She swayed slightly on her feet. Luhr jabbed his pistol at her. Behind Hans, Smuts lifted his hand yet again. Grinning, Luhr reached into his pocket, withdrew a cigarette lighter, and flicked it alight. He held the flame less than a metre from Ilse, his arm stretched to its limit in case the gasoline vapour should accidentally ignite.

  “Don’t make me do it, Sergeant,” Smuts said into Hans’s ear. “Why give Lieutenant Luhr the enjoyment at your expense?”

  “You fucking animal! Hauer’s at the hotel!”

  “Which hotel?”

  “The Bronberrick Motel! Now let her go!”

  Smuts raised his hand once more, and Luhr, his face red with anger and disappointment, snapped his cigarette lighter shut. The Zulu shoved roughly down on the tire until it dropped at Ilse’s feet, then he led her away.

  “Let’s go, Sergeant,” said Smuts, pulling Hans toward the door. “You’ve got a telephone call to make.”

  3.26 p.m. Room 604. The Protea Hof Hotel

  “I ought to shoot you!” Hauer growled. “You senile idiot!”

  “Steady, Captain,” Professor Natterman urged. “I told you I meant to get here one way or another.”

  Hauer’s mind reeled. How could he have been so stupid as to leave Natterman holding a shotgun on the forger in Wolfsburg? The professor had probably gotten the false passport names before he and Hans had driven a mile from the cabin! “Are you alone?” Hauer asked sharply.

  Natterman’s eyes flicked to the door. “Please don’t overreact, Captain. I was in no position to get here on my own.”

  “Who is with you?”

  “Another old man like me. He’s a Jew.”

  Hauer whirled around toward the foyer and covered the door with his pistol. “Where is he?”

  “Is Hans with you?” Natterman asked.

  “Where is this Jew?”

  Hauer’s question was answered by a deep, unfamiliar voice. “I am standing alone in the washroom,” it said.

  Hauer dived into the space between the bed and the bathroom wall, clutching his Walther to his chest. “I’m unarmed, Captain,” said the voice.

  “Shut up! Stay where you are!” Hauer jabbed his pistol at the professor. “You too, damn you. Don’t move.”

  Natterman snorted. “You’re being ridiculous, Captain. Herr Stern is harmless.”

  “You couldn’t stay away, could you?” Hauer thought furiously for several seconds. “All right!” he called finally. “You in the toilet—walk out slowly—with your hands over your head! I won’t hesitate to shoot!”

  “Can I put on the light?”

  “No!” Hauer lay prone in the space between the beds with only his head and his gun hand exposed. When the tall silhouette appeared in the dim foyer, Hauer trained his Walther on the man’s head. “Start talking,” he growled. “And keep your hands up.”

  “My name is Jonas Stern,” said the tall shadow. “I assure you that I mean you no harm, Captain. I suspect that my interest in this case is similar to your own, and I would like to discuss it with you.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “For myself. But to give you a frame of reference, my native country is Israel.” Stern paused. “May I switch on the light now?”

  “The bathroom light. That’s enough to talk by.”

  Fluorescent light flickered from the small cubicle. The fixture buzzed softly. Stern stood squarely in the pool of light so that Hauer would feel at ease, but Hauer kept his Walther trained on him anyway. As the silhouette took on human features, Hauer noted the tanned, angular face with its quick, piercing eyes.

  “Captain Hauer,” said Stern, “would you mind telling me where Sergeant Apfel is now?”

  “I’d rather find out how you arrived on my doorstep.”

  Stern’s eyes met Hauer’s with steady assurance. “Frankly, that would be a waste of time. Suffice to say that I have been involved in this situation since the first night at Spandau. I’m sure the most important detail from your perspective is that I have the three missing Spandau pages in my possession.”

  Hauer felt his heart stutter. So you’re the one. You slashed that Afrikaner’s throat like a suckling pig. “You still haven’t explained your interest in this matter.”

  Stern sighed. “We’re all concerned for the girl, Captain, let’s have that said. But I suspect that your interest, like mine, runs a bit deeper than simple kidnapping. To the safety and future of Germany, perhaps?”

  Hauer waited.
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  “I am a Jew, Captain. An Israeli. I believe that the men who want these Spandau papers pose a very serious threat to my country. They may pose a different but equally perilous danger to democratic Germany—I have come to root these men out.”

  “How do you propose to find them?”

  “With your help.”

  Hauer shook his head in amazement. “You expect me to drag the two of you along with me? Is that what you think?”

  Stern smiled. “I do bring certain assets to the game.”

  Hauer raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Such as?”

  “Superior intelligence experience. The professor tells me that you have counter-terror training, Captain. That is of limited value under the circumstances. We’re not dealing with the Red Army Faction here. This is the ‘big league,’ as the Americans say. I’ve fought in the secret world for many years. I can keep you from making some very serious mistakes.”

  Hauer shook his head. “I don’t think your experience offsets your age. This is a hostage situation. Speed and reflexes will be critical.”

  Stern suppressed his anger. “If you see this as solely a hostage situation, you are fatally mistaken. We are at the edge of a web of intrigue spun fifty years ago, a web that has grown more complex with each passing year. Ilse Apfel is but a speck of dust trapped inside it.” Stern raised his hand and plucked an imaginary mote from the air. “Every time you take a step toward her, Captain, the entire web shakes. The spider knows where you are at every moment, and when you finally make your move, you will find that it is you who are trapped.”

  “Interesting metaphor,” said Hauer. “What lesson should I draw from it?”

  Stern smiled patiently. “Your attention should have been fixed upon the spider from the start, not the speck of dust. Eliminate the spider, you can plunder the web at your leisure.”

  Hauer said nothing for a while. “I’ll take my chances alone,” he answered finally. “I’ve handled a few spiders in my time.”

  Stern’s jaw muscles tightened. “You’d stand a much better chance with my help.”

  Hauer raised his Walther. “If information is all you have, Stern, you can give that to me right now.”

  In the instant Hauer’s finger hesitated on the trigger, Stern slipped out of the door. He reappeared moments later. Behind him stood three very fit young men. Their hard faces and burning eyes told Hauer everything he needed to know about their probable areas of expertise. “These are my other assets, Captain,” Stern said. “Sayaret Matkal—Israeli commandos. You may have heard of them. If you’re any judge of men, you will recognize their value vis-a-vis our particular situation.”

  Hauer instantly revised his estimate of Stern’s possible contribution. Even the elite officers of Germany’s GSG-9 spoke of the Sayaret Matkal with respect. “You!” he cried suddenly, recognizing the bandaged Yosef Shamir from the stairwell of the Burgerspark Hotel. “You were following me last night!”

  Stern quickly interposed himself between Hauer and the young Israeli. “Yosef was there at my request,” he explained. “I had hoped to meet you at the Burgerspark myself, Captain, but unexpected trouble prevented me. I’m only thankful you decided to return here this evening. I assume you found another hotel last night after your brush with Yosef?”

  Hauer nodded reluctantly.

  “And you returned here because … ?”

  “Because our distraught young husband decided to lie to me. He made contact with the kidnappers on his own.”

  Stern closed his eyes.

  “Oh no,” Natterman groaned. “Why?”

  “Because he realized that any attempt to free Ilse by force might well bring about her death. I believe that was the same position you took back in Germany, wasn’t it, Professor? Also because Ilse is pregnant.”

  Natterman’s eyes widened.

  “Is the boy mad?” Stern asked. “Doesn’t he know the kidnappers will kill both him and his wife, no matter what he does?”

  “No. I don’t believe he does. He thinks with his heart, not his head.”

  “An often fatal mistake,” Stern said dryly.

  “Ilse is pregnant?” Natterman murmured.

  Hauer walked to the window and opened the drapes. Van Der Walt Street looked as calm as the Kurfürstendamm on an early Sunday morning. In the corner of the room, Aaron Haber picked up Hans’s loaded crossbow and showed it to his fellow commandos, an amused smile on his face. Stern motioned for him to put it down.

  “What had you planned to do before we arrived, Captain?” Stern asked. “Play bait? Tell the kidnappers you had the missing pages of the Spandau diary and try to turn their trap inside out?”

  Hauer grunted. “That’s about it.”

  “A dangerous game.”

  “The only one left.”

  “Not quite,” said Stern. “You’re forgetting something.”

  “I am?”

  “I really have the missing pages. I would think they rate us an invitation to the Kidnapper’s Ball, wouldn’t you?”

  Hauer’s lips slowly spread into a smile. Everyone froze as the telephone rang, faded.

  “You answer it,” Stern advised. Hauer darted between the beds and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Captain!”

  Hauer kept his eyes on Stern. “Where are you?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “I can’t say,” Hans replied. “I’m not sure, anyway. Captain, I’ve got to have those missing diary pages. I made a mistake in leaving you, I’m sorry. But these men really will kill Ilse unless they get all the pages. They’re insane!”

  Hauer thought silently. “But I don’t have the pages,” he said at length, still watching Stern.

  “I know,” Hans said quickly. “But you can find them. You’ve got to! Go back to Germany! To the cabin! You can find them, Captain, you must. It’s simple police work!”

  “Not so simple,” Hauer stalled. “Not when I’m wanted for murder in Germany.”

  “They can fix that!”

  Hauer sealed the mouthpiece with his palm and whispered to Stern. “Phoenix wants the rest of the diary. Do I tell them I have it?”

  Stern shook his head vehemently. “They won’t believe that. If you’d really had the other pages, Hans would have found a way to steal them before he went to the rendezvous.”

  “Hurry!” said Hauer, wondering why he was asking this strange old Israeli for answers anyway.

  Stern jabbed his finger at Professor Natterman. “He’s got them. Tell them the professor followed you and Hans to South Africa, and that he brought the missing pages with him.”

  Hauer shook his head angrily, but he could think of nothing else to say. “Hans?”

  “I’m here!”

  “Can the kidnappers hear me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Don’t hurt the girl,” Hauer said slowly. “Do you hear me? Do not hurt the girl. Her grandfather is here with me, and he has what you want.”

  Hans gasped.

  A new voice came on the line. “Listen well, Captain Hauer,” said Smuts. “You will send the old man to the same place as before, the Voortrekker Monument. He must be there thirty minutes from now, alone, with the missing pages. After we are satisfied that no copies exist, we will release our prisoners. If you attempt to follow the vehicle that picks up the professor, the driver will shoot him on the spot.” Smuts’s voice went cold. “And you will never leave this country alive. Do you understand?”

  “Ja,” Hauer growled. The phone went dead.

  Hauer whirled on Stern. “Well, Herr Master-Spy, you’ve painted us into some damned corner. They want the professor to deliver our last bargaining chip to them, and if we try to follow, they’ll kill him. Now three hostages will die instead of two.”

  Stern smiled enigmatically. “Captain, where is your imagination?”

  Hauer flushed with anger. “I try to be practical when lives are at stake.”

  “As do I,” Stern said calmly. “But pragmatism alone is never enough. Y
ou should know that, Captain. It is imagination that wins the day.”

  “And what miracle does your imagination suggest for this problem?”

  “A simple one.” Stern’s eyes had settled on a befuddled Professor Natterman. “Does your granddaughter carry any pictures of you in her handbag, Professor?”

  Natterman looked mystified. “I … I don’t believe so.”

  “Well,” Stern said brightly, “there it is.”

  Hauer’s eyes widened in comprehension. Stern smiled. “It’s the perfect solution, Captain. I become the professor.”

  Hauer was shaking his head, but he knew that he had been trapped by a master. Stern was already disrobing. “It’s too risky,” he objected.

  “Let’s have that jacket, Professor,” said Stern. “I must wear something Ilse can recognize immediately.”

  Hauer wanted to argue, but he could think of no better plan. He watched enviously as the Israeli prepared to slip into the very centre of his metaphorical spider’s web.

  As Stern stripped, Professor Natterman leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Remember what we talked about on the plane, Jonas? About the man with one eye? About Hess—” Stern gently but firmly shoved Natterman away. Naked to the waist, he handed his pistol to Gadi, then turned to Hauer and smiled.

  “Sorry, Captain,” he said. “You’re just too young for the job.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  3.37 p.m. Van der Wan Straat, Pretoria

  Yuri Borodin wiped his neck and forehead with a silk handkerchief. It was beastly hot in the van, with the oppressive closeness of impending rain, and it stank. The van’s engine was not running, so there was no air conditioning. Borodin looked up. Five fleshy faces stared dumbly back at him. Gorillas. That’s what Borodin called them. Embassy gorillas. They were the KGB muscle available at every Russian embassy in the world, and everywhere in the world they looked the same. Off-the-rack suits, pomaded hair, big faces, big fists, and most of them smelled. Of course there were no Russian embassies in South Africa, but there was an illegal residency in Johannesburg. And the gorillas from the residency had the same aroma, a cloying mix of body odour and aftershave.