The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

  slowing. Number twelve. Ilse was counting. Wait until midnight, her

  grandfather had told her. If Hans isn't home by then, get out. Sound

  advice, perhaps, but Ilse couldn't imagine running for safety while Hans

  remained in danger. She fumed at her own obstinacy. How could she have

  let a stupid argument keep her from telling Hans about the baby? She

  had to find him. Find him and bring him to his senses.

  But where to start? The police station? The nightclub district?

  Hans might meet a reporter anywhere. Rising from her telephone vigil,

  she went to the bedroom to put on some outdoor clothes. Outside, a long

  low groan built slowly to a rattling roar as a train passed on the

  elevated S-Bahn tracks up the street. During the day trains passed

  every ten minutes or so; at night, thank God, the intervals were longer.

  As Ilse tied a scarf around her hair, yet another automobile clattered

  down the Liitzenstrasse, coughing dnd wheezing in the cold.

  Unlike the others, however, this one sputtered to a stop near the front

  entrance of the building. Please, she prayed, rushing to the window,

  please let it be Hans.

  It wasn't. Looking down, she saw a shiny black BMW sedan, not Hans's

  Volkswagen. She let her forehead fall against the freezing pane. The

  cold eased the throb of the headache that had begun an hour earlier. She

  half-watched as the four doors of the BMW opened simultaneously and four

  men in dark business suits emerged. They grouped together near the

  front of the car. One man pointed toward the apartment building and

  waved in a circle. Another detached himself from the group and

  disappeared around the corner.

  Curious, Ilse watched the first man turn his face toward the upper

  floors and begin counting windows. His bobbing arm moved slowly closer

  to her window. How 'odd, she thought.

  Who would be out counting apartment windows at midnight in-?

  She jumped back from the window. The men below were looking for her. Or

  for Hans-for what he'd found. She groped for the light switch to turn

  it off, then thought better of it. Instead she ran into the living

  room, opened the door, and peered cautiously down the hall.

  Empty. She dashed down the corridor and around the corner to a window

  that overlooked the building's rear entrance. Three men huddled there,

  speaking animatedly. Ilse wondered if they might be plain-clothes

  police. Suddenly two of them entered the building, while the third took

  up station in the shadow of some garbage bins near the exit.

  The metallic groan of the ancient elevator jolted Ilse from the window.

  Too late to run. They would reach her floor in seconds. With her back

  to the corridor wall, she inched toward the corner that led back to her

  apartment. She felt a tingling numbness in her hands as she peeked

  around it. A tall young man in a dark suit stood outside her door.

  Remembering the fire stairs, she started in the other direction, but the

  echo of ascending steps made her thought redundant.

  Hopelessly trapped, she decided to try to bluff her way out.

  Feeling adrenaline suffuse her body, she stepped around the corner as if

  she owned the building and marched toward the man outside her apartment.

  She cocked her chin arrogantly upward, intending to walk right past him

  and into the lift that would take her to the lobby.

  After all, she had appeared from another part of the floor-she might be

  anybody. If she could only reach the lobby ...

  The man looked up. He began to stare. First at Ilse's legs, then at

  her breasts, then her face.

  I can't do it! she thought. I'll never make it past himIn a

  millisecond she saw her chance. Stay calm, she told herself. Steady

  ... Fifteen feet away from her apartment she stopped and withdrew her

  apartment key from her purse. She smiled coolly at the guard, then

  turned her back to him and bent over the door handle of apartment 43.

  Be here, Eva! she screamed silently. For God's sake, be here!

  Ilse scratched her key against the knob to imitate the sound of an

  unlocking door, then she said one last prayer and turned the knob.

  It opened! Like a reprieved prisoner, she backed into her friend's

  apartment, smiling once at the guard before she shut and locked the

  door. After shooting home the bolt, she sagged against the door, her

  entire body quivering in terror.

  For an unsteady moment she thought she might actually collapse, but she

  forced down her fear and padded up the narrow hall to her friend's

  bedroom door. A crack of light shone faintly beneath it.

  Ilse knocked, but heard no answer.

  "Eva?" she called softly. "Eva, it's Ilse."

  Too anxious to wait, she opened the door and stepped into the room. From

  behind the door a hand shot out and caught her hair, then jerked her to

  the floor. She started to struggle, but froze when she felt a cold

  blade press into the soft flesh of her throat. "Eva!" she rasped.

  "Eva', it's me-Ilse!"

  The hand jerked harder on her hair, drawing her head back. The blade

  did not relent. Then, suddenly, she was free.

  "Ilse!" Eva hissed. "What the hell are you doing here? I might have

  killed you. I would have. I thought you were a rapist. Or worse."

  The remark threw Ilse off balance. "What's worse than a rapist?"

  "A faggot, dearie," Eva answered, bursting into laughter.

  She folded the straight razor back into its handle.

  Ilse's panic finally overcame her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and

  she sobbed as her middle-aged friend hugged her wet face to a

  considerable bosom and stroked her hair like a mother comforting her

  child.

  "Ilse, darling," Eva murmured. "What's happened? You're beside

  yourself."

  "Eva, I'm sorry I came here, but it was the only place I could go!

  I don't know what's happening-"

  "Shh, be quiet now. Catch your breath and tell Eva all about it. Did

  Hans do sometfiing naughty? He didn't hit you?"

  "No ... nothing like that. This is madness. Crazy. You wouldn't

  believe me if I told you!"

  Eva chuckled. "I've seen things in this city that would drive a

  psychiatrist mad, if you could find one who isn't already. Just tell me

  what's wrong, child. And if you can't tell me that, tell me what you

  need. I can at least help you out of trouble."

  Ilse wiped her face on her blouse and tried to calm down.

  Despite the presence of the men outside, she felt better already.

  Eva Beers had a way of making any problem seem insignificant. A barmaid

  and tavern singer for most of her fifty-odd years, she had worked the

  rough-and-tumble circuit in most of the capitals of western Europe. She

  had returned home to Berlin three years ago, to "live out my days in

  luxury," as she jokingly put it. Hans sometimes commented that Eva was

  only semiretired, for the frequent pilgrimage of well-dressed and

  ever-changing old gentlemen to her door seemed to indicate that

  something slightly more profitable than conversation went on inside

  number 43. But that was Eva's business; Hans never asked any questions.

  She was a cheerful and discreet neighbor w
ho often did favors for the

  young couple, and Ilse had grown very close to her.

  "Eva, we're in trouble," Ilse said. "Hans and I."

  "What kind of trouble? Hans is Polizei. What can't he fix?"

  Ilse fought the urge to blurt out everything. She didn:t want to

  involve Eva any more than she already had. "I don t know, Eva, I don't

  know. Hans found something. Something dangerous!"

  "It's drugs, isn't it?" Eva wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  "Hashish or something, right?"

  "I told you, I don't know. But it's bad. There's a man in the hall

  right now and he's waiting for Hans to get home.

  There are three more men outside by the doors!"

  "What? Outside here? Who do you mean, child? Police?"

  Ilse threw up her hands. "I don't know! All I know is that Hans's

  station said he left hours ago. I've got to get out of here, Eva. I've

  got to warn Hans."

  "How can you warn him if you don't know where he is?"

  Ilse wiped a wet streak of mascara from her cheek. .1

  don't know," she said, trying to stop her tears. "But first I've got to

  get past those men outside."

  As the old barmaid watched Ilse's mascara run, a hot wave of anger

  flushed her cheeks. "You dry those tears," she said. "There hasn't

  been a man born to woman that Mama Eva can't handle."

  10. 10 P. m. Europe Center, Breitscheid Platz. West Berlin

  Major Harry Richardson stared curiously at the receding back of Eduard

  Lenhardt, his contact in Abschnitt 53. In seconds the policeman

  disappeared into the crush of bodies crowding the bar of the imitation

  Irish pub in the basement of the Europe Center, West Berlin's answer to

  the American megamall. This twenty-two-story tower housed dozens of

  glitzy shops, bars, restaurants, banks, travel agencies, and even a

  hotel-all of whose goods and services seemed to be priced for the

  Japanese tourist. Harry had chosen it for its crowds.

  He swallowed the last of an excellent Bushmill's and then began to

  gather his thoughts. Eduard Lenhardt was only the third in a chain of

  personal contacts Harry had spoken with tonight.

  Contrary to Colonel Rose's orders, Harry had kept his racquetball date.

  And by so doing, he had learned that Sir Neville Shaw, director of

  Britain's mI-5, hid ordered British embassy personnel to burn the

  midnight oil in West Berlin.

  Shortly after that, Harry had called a State Department contact in Bonn,

  an. old college buddy, who had let it slip that the Russian complaint

  filed against the U.S. Army specified papers taken from Spandau Prison

  as the primary object of Soviet concern. The British and the French had

  received the same complaint. Harry could well imagine the British

  consternation at such an allegation. After the phone call, Harry had

  finally gained an audience with his reluctant contac from Abschnitt

  53-Lieutenant Eduard Lenhardt.

  Lenhardt had revealed information to Harry in three ways: by what he'd

  said, by what he hadn't said, and simply by how he'd looked. In Harry's

  professional opinion, the policeman had looked scared shitless.

  What he had not said was anything about papers found in Spandau Prison.

  What he had said was this: That the prefect of police, Wilhelm Funk, had

  moved out of the Police Presidium and set up a command post in Abschnitt

  53, after which the station had taken on the demeanor of an SS barracks

  after Graf Stauffenberg's briefcase exploded in Hitler's bunker. That

  two Berlin policemen had been detained in a basement cell, then had

  either escaped or been killed. And that while the Russians had pulled

  out of Abschnitt 53 at eight, they had acted as if they might return at

  any time with T-72 tanks. All this in breathless gasps from a veteran

  policeman whom Harry had never seen get excited about anything other

  than the piano quartets of BrahmsHarry dropped ten marks on the table

  and hurried out of the pub. Sixty seconds later he was on the Ku'damm,

  where he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver an address near the

  Tiergarten. The man who occupied the house there was one of Harry's

  "private assets," a rather high-strung German trade liaison named Klaus

  Seeckt. During Harry's first year in Berlin, he had spotted Klaus at

  the Philharinonie, in the company of an arrogant and well-known KGB

  agent named Yuri Borodin. It hadn't taken Harry long to establish that

  Klaus was using his semi-official cover to funnel restricted technology

  to Moscow. That had not interested Harry much; what had interested

  him-after a thorough investigation of Seeckt-was that while Klaus dealt

  directly with the KGB, he had no ties, voluntary or otherwise, to the

  East German secret police, the Stasi. And that was a very rare

  combination in Berlin.

  Rather than arrest Klaus for the high-tech ripoff, Harry had opted to

  use his leverage whenever he needed a direct line into KGB operations.

  He never even filed a report on Klaus. Colonel Rose might have insisted

  that Hariy push the German too hard, which would only have spooked him

  into fleeing the city. Men like Klaus had to be treated delicately.

  Harry cultivated the man's ego, pretending to share with him the

  fraternal enjoyment of superior intellect, and applied pressure only

  when necessaryTonight was different. Eduard Lenhardt's apprehensions

  were worming their way into Harry's gut, and the checks he non-nally

  kept on his imagination began to erode as his mind raced through the

  possible implications of the events at Abschnitt 53. When the taxi

  reached the Tiergarten house, Harry tipped its driver enough to satisfy,

  but not enough to draw attention. And as he reached Klaus's door, he

  decided that his sensitive East German would have to pay the remainder

  of his debt tonight.

  10.10 Pm. The Bismarekstrasse

  "Captain!" Hans warned.-"Motorcycle patrol, three cars back!

  "I see him." Hauer swung the Volkswagen smoothly around a corner just

  as the traffic signal changed, stranding the police cycle in the line of

  vehicles stopped at the light.

  "We've got to get off the street."

  "Where do we go? My apartment? Your house?"

  "Think, Hans. They'll be covering both places."

  "You're right. Maybe-" He grabbed Hauer's sleeve. "Jesus, Ilse's at

  the apartment alone!"

  "Easy, Hans, we'll get her. But we can't walk in there like lambs to

  the slaughter."

  "But Funk could have men there already!"

  "Hold your water. Where are we, Bergstrasse? There should be a hotel

  four blocks south of us. The Steglitz. Just what we need."

  "A hotel?"

  "Get in the backseat," Hauer ordered, and stepped on the accelerator.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Do it!"

  As Hans climbed into the backseat, Hauer ripped the police insignia from

  his collar and spurred the VW into the Steglitz garage.

  The violent turn threw Hans against the side door. They squealed down

  the curving ramp to the parking sublevels below and into a tiny space

  between two large sedans.

  "All right, Hans," Hauer said. "Out with it. Everything.

  What really happened at
Spandau this morning?"

  Hans climbed awkwardly through the narrow gap between the seats.

  "I'll tell you on the way to my apartment."

  Hauer shook his head. "We don't move one meter until you talk."

  Hans bridled, but he could see that Hauer would not be swayed.

  "Look, I would have reported it if it hadn't been for those damned

  Russians."

  "Reported what?"

  "The papers. The papers I found at Spandau."

  "Christ, you mean the Russians were right?"

  Hans nodded.

  "Where did you find these papers? What did they say?"

  Hauer looked strangely hungry. Hans looked out the window. "I found

  them in a pile of rubble. In a hollow brick, just like Schmidt asked

  me. What does it matter? I started reading them, but one of the

  Russians stumbled on me. I hid them without even thinking." He turned

  to Hauer. "That's it!

  That's all I did! So why has everyone gone crazy?"

  "What did the papers say, Hans?"

  "I don't know. Gibberish, mostly. Ilse said it was Latin."

  "You showed them to your wife?" ' "I didn't intend to, but she found

  them. She understood more of it than I did, anyway. She said the

  papers had something to do with the Nazis. That they were dangerous."

  He looked down at his lap. "God, was she right."

  "Tell me everything you remember, Hans."

  "Look, I hardly remember any of it. The German part sounded bitter,

  like a revenge letter, but ... there was fear in it, too. The writer

  said he had written because he could never speak about what he knew.

  That others would pay the price for his words."

  Hauer hung on every syllable. "What else?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "It was Latin, I told you! I couldn't read it!"

  "Latin," Hauer mused, leaning back into his seat. "Who wrote the

  papers? Were they signed?"

  Hans shrugged uncomfortably. "There wasn't any name.

  Just a number."

  "A number?" Hauer's eyes grew wide. "What number, Hans?"

  "Seven, goddamnit! The lucky number. What a fucking joke. Now can we

  get out of here?"

  Hauer shook his head slowly. "Hess," he murmured. "It's impossible.

  The restriction&, the endless searches. It can't Hans ground his teeth

  angrily. "Captain, I know what you're talking about, but right now I

  don't care! I just want to know my wife is safe!"

  Hauer laid a hand on his shoulder. "Where are these papers now?"