by Greg Iles
"We finally got something on Spandau-from a Ukrainian in the technical
section of KGB East Berlin. It seems the KGB shot pictures of everyone
who gathered to watch the destruction of the prison. He didn't know why
they took the pictures, but he slipped us the list of names their
computers matched to the photos. They actually turned up a couple of
old SS men-"
"Get to the point!" Shaw barked.
"It's Stern, sir. Jonas Stern. The Israeli that the Mossad wrote us
about. He was at Spandau Prison on the day we tore it down!"
Only a steady whitening of Shaw's, knuckles on the desktop revealed how
shocked he was. He rocked slowly back and forth for nearly a full
minute; then he looked up at Wilson, his eyes bright with purpose. "Did
you pull the file on the woman I told you about?"
"Swallow? Yes, sir. Ann Gordon is her real name."
"Is she living in England?"
"In a little hamlet about thirty miles west of London."
Shaw nodded contentedly. "I'll need to speak to her. I don't want her
coming here, though. Set up a secure line so that I can brief her by
phone."
Wilson's brow knit with confusion. "But I don't understand, Sir
Neville. Swallow is retired."
"I seriously doubt that. But even if she is, she'll come running when
she hears Stern's name."
"Do you mean to reactivate this woman, sir?"
Shaw ignored the question. "I don't know how Jonas Stern is tied into
the Hess case, but he can't be allowed to get near those papers.
If papers are what's been found."
"But why use Swallow at all? She's ... she's an old woman. My lads can
handle any situation with twice the reliability."
Shaw laughed quietly. "Wilson, we tread shadowy paths, but there are
deeds done in this world that should never see the light of day.
Swallow has done more than her share of them. I'll bet your four best
men couldn't sandbag that old harridan."
Wilson looked indignant. "Sir Neville, this seems terribly irregular.
Going out of school like this-"
"That's exactly the point," Shaw snapped. "Swallow is absolutely,
totally deniable. If something embarrassing were to happen-if she
happened to kill Stern, say-all could be blamed on this old vendetta.
Even the Israelis couldn't fault us. Their letter practically
exonerates us before the fact. It proves Stern was at risk the moment
he left Israel."
Sir Neville folded his hands into a church steeple and studied a
Wedgwood paperweight on his desk. Wilson watched his master with
growing apprehension. The mI-5
director looked as if he'd aged five years in the brief hours since
their last meeting.
"You're to put together a second team," Shaw said slowly.
"No brief as yet, but have them ready. More hard boys. The hardest."
Wilson cleared his throat. "May I ask what for, sir?"
Sir Neville ran his hands through his thinning hair, then massaged his
high forehead with his fingertips. "I'm afraid, Wilson, that if your
other lads are unlucky enough to find those Spandau papers, they'll have
cashed in their chips."
Wilson's face went white. "But you . . ." He faltered, recognizing
the diamond-hard gleam in Shaw's eye. "When you briefed them you gave
direct orders not to read the papers if found. They won't."
Sir Neville sighed. "We can't be sure of that."
"But they're my best three men!" Wilson exploded.
Sir Neville raised an eyebrow. "Your men? Interesting choice of words,
Wilson." His craggy face softened. "Damn it, Robert, it's not my
choice, is it? It's the word from on high. Tablets from the bloody
mountaintop!"
Wilson's mouth worked in silent, furious incomprehension. "But what
does that mean, Neville? We are a constitutional monarchy, for God's
sake!"
Sir Neville cleared his throat. "That's quite enough, old boy.
I've been instructed that as regards this case, we're to consider
ourselves on a war footing."
"But we're not at war! We can't just kill our own people!"
Sir Neville attempted a paternal smile, and it was terrible to see.
His eyes had focused into some foggy distance that he alone perceived.
"Some wars, Wilson," he murmured, "last a very long time. A war like
the last one-the last real one-Aoesn't end on a battlefield. Or on some
baize treaty table. There are loose ends, unfinished business.
Left uncut, those loose ends tangle and eventually get drawn into the
skein of the next war. That's what's happening here. For too long we
simply hoped that this Hess business would go away. Well, it hasn't."
Sir Neville blinked, then splayed his hands on the mahogany desktop.
"It's settled," he said with resignation. "I've got my orders.
When those papers are found, everyone down the chain is on borrowed
time.
"But that's insane!" Wilson almost shouted. "You sound like a bloody
Nazi yourself!"
Sir Neville bit his lip in forbearance. "Wilson," he rasped, "if your
lads find those papers and bring them to you, you shut your eyes and
shove them right in here to me. Because no one in that chain will be
exempt. Am I clear?" He examined his fingernails. "And I've got a
feeling that includes myself."
The deputy director's eyes widened. "What in God's name is in those
papers, Sir Neville? What could that motheaten old Nazi have known?"
Shaw grimaced. "It's not what's in them, Robert, but what might be in
them. What they could lead to. You think the Cold War's over?
What a load of tripe. Twenty hours ago it reared its ugly head, and not
for the last time, I'll wager.
I've heard half a dozen back-corridor versions of the Hess affair in my
time, and not one of them is true. There are guilty consciences on
high, Wilson. It's evidence we're after.
Of what? A bargain with the devil, British-style. A marriage of
convenience to the Teutonic Mephistopheles. Enough black ink to smudge
out the oldest reputations in banking, government, and manufacturing.
Maybe enough heat to crack the bloody Crown itself."
Wilson flexed his fists. "The Crown be damned," he said softly.
"We should have killed Hess years ago."
Arctic fire flickered in Sir Neville Shaw's eyes. "We did kill him,
Robert," he said. "I suppose it's high time you knew."
Wilson felt cold sweat heading on the back of his neck.
"I ... I beg your pardon, Sir Neville?"
"I said we killed Hess." Shaw plucked an errant lash from his eye. "The
damned thing of it is, we're going to have to kill him again."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
2DD A.m. Tiorgarten Kriminalpolizei Division West Berlin Detective
Julius Schneider lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a number from
the special list he kept in his top desk drawer. A very loud voice
inside his head was telling him it would be better to drop this matter
altogether-better for his marriage, much better for his career. But the
adrenaline pulsing through his body kept the phone in his hand.
"What?" growled a tired voice at last.
"Colonel Rose?" he said, concentrating on his English pronunciati
on.
"Yeah, Rose here. Who's this? Clary? Jesus, it'S tWO A.M."
"Colonel, my name is Julius Schneider. You don't know me. I'm a
detective with the West Berlin Kriminalpolizei."
"What?"
"Are you awake, Colonel? I have something very important to tell you."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm awake. Go ahead."
"This is a very sensitive matter. Perhaps we could meet somewhere."
Rose was definitely awake now. His voice took on a hard edge of
suspicion. "Who did you say this is?"
"Detective Julius Schneider, Colonel. Eighteen months ago you gave a
lecture on NATO intelligence-sharingNovember, U.S. Army headquarters in
Dahlem. I attended along with nine other Kripo detectives."
"Uh-huh," Rose grunted. "Okay, let's say I'm mildly interested.
What's your problem?"
"As I said, Colonel, I don't feel comfortable going into it on the
telephone."
"Outline the situation."
"I'd prefer to meet you somewhere."
"It's gonna take more than that to get me out into the cold alone, son.
Give me something."
Schneider glanced through his office window at the sluggish activity of
the night duty officers. "I think you've got a man over the Wall," he
whispered quickly.
"A what?" Rose sounded incredulous. "What do you mean? A defector?"
Schneider spoke still lower. "No, Colonel, I think one of your officers
has been taken over the Wall against his will-"
"Don't say another word! " Rose snapped. "Where are you?"
"The Tiergarten Kripo station."
Colonel Rose pulled a map of Berlin from his bedside table.
"Okay, Mr. Detective," he said slowly, "you know the Penta Hotel?
Should be two blocks from where you are now."
"I know it."
"Be standing in the front service doorway in fifteen minutes.
I'll cruise by with my door open-you jump in. Got it?"
"Ja.
"You in uniform?"
"Nein. Kripo don't wear uniforms."
"When you move toward the car have both hands extended. Empty.
Wait a second ... what was your name? Full name?"
"Julius K. Schneider, Kripo Detective First Grade."
"Right. Fifteen minutes."
Schneider heard Rose disconnect. Looking at his watch, he decided to
wait fourteen minutes in his office, then sprint the two blocks to the
Penta. At two-twelve he donned his hat and overcoat, said good night to
the duty sergeant and strolled casually out of the station.
The wind hit his face like a shrew's slap. Schneider turned into the
blast and began running with surprising speed for a man of his bulk.
He glanced at his watch as he crossed to the next block.
Twothirteen.
Come on, Colonel ... A car moved up from his rear, slowed, passed.
Halfway up the second block, he ducked into the front service doorway of
the imposing Penta Hotel. His gasps filled the lighted alcove with
steam.
Two-fourteen, and still no colonel. Schneider pulled off his left boot
and smashed the fluorescent bulb over his head.
No sense in advertising, he thought, tugging the boot back on. As he
straightened up, a battered U.S. Army Ford came roaring up the
Nijrnberger Strasse. The passenger door swung open thirty meters from
the Penta's service door, but the car showed no signs of slowing.
Schneider judged the Ford's speed at sixty kilometers per hour.
Like a fullback he charged from the safety of his niche and sprinted
alongside the car with both hands extended. He could see the
bull-necked American colonel in the driver's seat, scrutinizing him over
the barrel of what looked like a .45 caliber pistol. Tiring quickly,
Schneider flailed his arms for Rose to stop. The Ford slowed to thirty
kilometers per hour. Schneider could hear Rose yelling for him to jump
in.
Almost out of wind, he managed to catch hold of the doorframe and dive
headlong across the front seat. When he tried to rise, he felt the cold
metal of a gun barrel pressed to his temple.
"That's a Colt .45 on your noggin, son," Rose growled.
"Don't move until I say so. Understand?"
"Ja, " Schneider grunted.
With a skillful swing of the steering wheel Rose simultaneously slammed
the passenger door and swung onto the six-lane Hohenzollemdamm, heading
west. "Full name?" he barked.
"Julius K. Schneider."
"Rank?"
"Detective, First Grade."
"Length of service?"
"Seven-no, eight years."
"Name of spouse?"
"What the hell does it matter? I'm the one-" Rose jammed the pistol
barrel into Schneider's ear.
"Name of spouse!"
"Aarrghh! Liese, damn you!"
Rose withdrew the gun. "Okay, get up."
Rattled and angry, Schneider thrust himself against the passenger door
and rubbed his cheek where the gun had scraped it. "What the hell was
that for?"' he asked in German.
"You ought to have expected it," Rose replied,in English.
"You call in the middle of the night to tell me one of my men has been
kidnapped, and you expect a cocktail party?"
"Is this the way Americans return favors?" Schneider said stiffly.
"Last I checked, you hadn't done me any favors. We'll see how I return
one when you do. Now what the hell's this all about?"
"Major Harry Richardson," Schneider answered, relishing the poorly
concealed look of shock that crossed Rose's face.
"You know him?"
"Go on," Rose said noncommittally.
"Very well, Colonel. Tonight I was called to the scene of a murder. A
house near the Tiergarten. The murdered man was one Klaus Seeckt, an
East German trade liaison employed by my government. My colleagues
believe Seeckt surprised a gang of professional thieves who murdered
him, then tried to make it look like suicide. And they could be right,
of course. The Kripo are famous for their skill in solving homicides."
"Get to the point, Detective."
"I believe a real suicide took place, Colonel. Not a simple suicide,
but a suicide still."
"I'm listening. You can speak,* German-if you like."
Schneider sighed with reliel "Physical evidence, Colonel.
First, eight 7.65mm slugs fired into an interior wall beside the front
door-burst pattern- We found no shell casings to match these slugs.
Second, no fingerprints on the pistol in the corpse's hand except his
own. Third, I found something odd outside the house. It was a white
business card"Schneider paused for effect@'with nothing but a telephone
number on it."
He saw Rose's jaw tighten. "When I called the number on the card, I got
an answering machine with a message from one Harry Richardson.
As I'm sure you're aware, Major Richardson makes a rather special effort
to know Berlin.
Consequently, we Berliners know him."
Rose exited right off the Hohenzollemdamm onto ClayAllee, then looped
under to the Avus autobahn. Solemn ranks of bare trees closed about the
car as it rolled into the Grunewald. The colonel seemed to feel more
comfortable here, Schneider noticed. Perhaps because from the heart of
the
Grunewald jutted the Teufelsberg-the Devil's Mountain-a massive hill
constructed from the millions of tons of rubble that was Berlin after
the war. Schneider thought it depressingly symbolic that the highest
peak in Berlin was crowned by the futuristic onion domes of a gargantuan
U.S./British radar spying station. Rose slowed and turned to Schneider
as they rolled through the darkness.
"And what does all that tell you, Mr. Detective?"
"The 7.65mm slugs tell me Czech vz/61 Skorpion machine pistol. I
translate that KGB. I know it would be stupid for them to use one here,
but they've made stupid mistakes before. I also happen to know that, in
spite of the drawbacks of the 7.65 cartridge, several Berlin-based KGB
agents still favor the Skorpion. Granted, burglars could use one, but I
haven't seen any pass through the evidence room lately."
Rose eyed the German with increasing interest.
"Then there's the weapon that killed Seeckt. If burglars faked a
suicide, they had to shoot Seeckt, wipe the pistol, then press a set of
his fingerprints onto it. Leaving what?
One good set of Seeckt's prints. But there were dozens. If they used
gloves, they'd have smudged many of Seeckt's original prints. But they
didn't. So what happened? Burglars forced Seeckt to kill himself?
Unlikely. But the'KGB? It's possible. If KGB agents had just
discovered that Richardson had turned Seeckt, for example, Seeckt might
have preferred a quick bullet to what would have been waiting for him in
Lubyanka. My trieb, Colonel-my instinct-tells me that's what happened.
The question is, what was your man doing there in the first place? Was
Klaus Seeckt working for you?"
Rose said nothing.
"One more thing," Schneider added. "There was blood near the card."
Rose winced.
"A good bit of it, too. Colonel, I think Richardson, dropped that card
as an SOS. Why else would it be there?"
Without really knowing why, Rose decided to trust the German.. He
really didn't have much choice. "Harry Richardson's an exceptional
officer," he said tersely. "A bit of a loner, maybe, but sound as a
K-bar. Especially in tradecraft.
But even if he has been kidnapped, what makes you think he's not still
in West Berlin?"
Schneider's barrel chest swelled a size; he recognized the respect that
came with Rose's decision to trust him. "Because Russians wouldn't have
the nerve to keep him here," he explained. "East Germans would-the