The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

Stern seemed to search for words. "Call me a concerned citizen," he

  said finally. "I'm retired, but I keep myself wellinformed in the area

  that you've stumbled into with such dire consequences for yourself and

  your family."

  "And what area is that?"

  "The security of the State of Israel."

  "What?" Natterman gaped. "Are you a Nazi-hunter?"

  "You're not a historian!"

  Stern laughed again. "Professional jealousy, Professor?

  Don't worry. I'm a historian of sorts, but not like you.

  You've studied history all your life-I have lived it."

  Natterman scowled. "And what have you accomplished, my arrogant

  friend?"

  "Not enough, I'm afraid."

  "What do you want from me?"

  'Everything you know about the document that Sergeant Apfel discovered

  in the ruins of SpandEiu Prison."

  Natterman paled. "But-how do you know?"

  Stern glanced at his watch. "Professor, I haven't been more than five

  hundred meters from those papers since they were discovered. I know the

  British-and the Russians are searching like mad for them. I know about

  Hauer, Apfel, and your granddaughter. I know you made a copy of the

  papers in your office at the Free University, which you mailed to a

  friend for safekeeping. I know that Hauer and Apfel have taken away the

  six pages which were not stolen by the rikaner. I know-"

  "Stop!" cried Natterman. "Where are the other three pages9' "In'my

  pocket.. Our Afrikaner friend was kind enough to give them to me, after

  a little friendly persuasion."

  Natterman shivered, realizing that Stern meant torture.

  But ambition overpowered his fear. "Give them back to me," he demanded.

  "They're mine."

  Stern smiled. "I hope you haven't deluded yourself into believing that.

  These papers belong to no single man. Now, Professor, I'd like to ask

  you some questions."

  Natterman recoiled. "Why should I tell you anything?"

  "Because you have no choice."

  "That's what everyone keeps telling me," Natterman grumbled.

  "I assure you, Professor, if I'd wanted the papers, I could have taken

  them any time in the last sixteen hours."

  Natterman felt a flash of anger, but something told him Stern was

  telling the truth. The same instinct told him that to resist the

  Israeli would be pointless, that this man who had materialized out of

  the snow like a ghost would get the information he wanted, one way or

  another. "All right," he said grudgingly, "Prisoner Number Seven,"

  Stern said brusquely. "The papers prove he was not Hess?"

  "I believe they do," the old historian said warily.

  "Where was the double substituted?"

  "Hess picked up the double in Denmark. They flew to Britain together.

  The double was part of the plan all along' Hess bailed out the moment

  they reached the Scottish coast, over a place called Holy Island."

  Stern digested this quickly. "And his mission?"

  "The double didn't know Hess's mission, only his own.

  After Hess bailed out, the double was to fly on toward Dungavel Castle

  and await some sort of radio signal from Hess. If he received it, he

  was to parachute down and impersonate Hess for as long as he could."

  Stern's eyes narrowed. "And if he didn't receive the signal?"

  Natterman smiled wryly. "He was to fly out to sea, take cyanide, and

  ditch the plane. Standard SS procedure."

  Stern smiled cynically. "Nazi melodrama. Few Occidentals have the

  nerve or the fanatical loyalty required to sacrifice themselves in cold

  blood." The Israeli's eyes moved restlessly as he pieced the rest of

  the story together. "So when the double turned back and jumped, he was

  disobeying orders. He went ahead and impersonated Hess as if he had

  received the signal ... and the British believed him."

  Natterman listened to these deductions in silence. "Or perhaps they

  didn't believe him," Stern mused. "It doesn't really matter. What

  matters is this: Who did the real Hess fly there to see? And why in

  God's name should anyone in South Africa give a damn about it?"

  "Now that you know what the papers say," said Natterman, "what do you

  intend to do?"

  "I told you, Professor, my interest is not in the Hess case."

  Stern's hand slipped into his trouser pocket, fingered something there.

  "Long before the death of Prisoner Number Seven, I had reason to

  investigate Spandau. My mmon had nothing to do with Hess@everything to

  do with the safety of Israel. But until Number Seven's death, gaining

  access to Spandau was virtually impossible." Stern paused, apparently

  conducting some debate with himself "Tell me, Professor," he said

  suddenly, "does the Spandau diary mention weapons or scientific

  materials of any type?"

  Natterman blinked in confusion. "Weapons? Herr Stern, the Spandau

  diary has nothing whatsoever to do with any kind of weapons."

  "Are you positive?"

  "Absolutely. What is it, suddenly? First Hauer badgers me about

  reunification, now you ask me about weapon@' "Reunification?" Stern

  asked sharply.

  "Oh, it's nonsense," Natterman said. "These papers deal only with the

  Hess case. They are going to expose those who share responsibility for

  the scars on Germany's national pride.Stern's suspicious face hardened.

  "I'm afraid there's new infection festering beneath those old scars," he

  saidd coldly.

  "What the devil do you mean?"

  "Professor, I don't care if you're after academic fame, or if you want

  to ease Germany's national guilt." The Israeli waved away Natterman's

  protests. "I care about the past only insofar as it impacts the present

  NW the -future. The people who are after these papers are worried about

  a lot more than history books. I tried to interrogate that Afrikaner.

  protect som Professor. He had the crazy eyes, did you notice? With only

  one arm he fought like a tiger, and before he died he screamed something

  very startling at me. It was in Afrikaans-which I don't speak-but I

  knew enough Dutch to translate it. Roughly, it was 'Death to. Israel!

  Death to Zion!"' Stern paused. "He didn't even know I was Jewish."

  Natterman looked thoughtful. "He said something similar to me in the

  cabin. He called me a 'Jew maggot,' I believe."

  Stern raised an eyebrow. "You don't find that curious?

  Why should a South African have some fixation on Jews?

  Or on Israel?"

  "I never considered it until now."

  Stern glanced back toward the main road as the drone of a heavy truck

  filled the woods. "Tell me," he said, "are Hauer and Apfel flying

  directly to South Africa?"

  Natterman's eyes grew wide. "You know their destination?"

  "Answer me!"

  Natterman held out but a moment more. "Yes!" he blurted. "My

  granddaughter is being held prisoner there. The kidnappers instructed

  Hans by phone to leave today from Frankfurt."

  "With the Spandau papers as ransom?"

  "Yes, but Hauer has some kind of rescue plan up his sleeve."

  Stern looked off into the dark forest. Frozen limbs cracked in the

  slowly rising sun. Icicles stretched earthward, reaching it one drop
at

  a time. "The diary is incomplete now," he murmured. "Who is aware of

  that' "No one," Nanerman confessed. "Only you and I."

  Stern turned and eyed the professor appraisingly. "That is good for us,

  but very dangerous for your granddaughter. Tell me, what kind of man is

  this Captain Hauer?"

  "Tough. Very tough."

  "And the boy?"

  "Angry ... frightened to death. Untested."

  Stern nodded. "One thing has puzzled me from the beginning, Professor.

  Why has Captain Hauer-a man nearing retirement, a man whose own

  personnel file shows him to be a member of a neofascist police

  organization-sacrificed his pension and possibly his life to help this

  apparently innocent young sergeant?"

  Natterman smiled at the irony. -Hauer is Hans's father.

  It's a complicated family matter. Very few people know about it."

  Stern took a deep, satisfying breath, as if this last bit of information

  had completed some circle in his mind.

  'You must tell me who you are," Natterman demanded.

  "Are you a spy? Are you really an Israeli?" To the professor's

  amazement, Stern turned suddenly on his heel and without a word marched

  down the lane toward the main road.

  "Where are you going?" Natterman cried.

  "South Africa, Professor! Get that log out of the road if you want to

  come!"

  Natterman's jaw dropped in astonishment. "But I have no "in an hour you

  shall!" Stern caUed, then he disappeared amnd the curve.

  As the huffing professor wresded the rotted tree trunk over a snowdrift

  at the lane's edge, he heard the sound of an approaching engine. Seconds

  later, a big blue Mercedes rounded the curve from the direction of the

  main road and stopped beside him. At the wheel sat Jonas Stern. In the

  backseat, laid out and trussed like a Christmas turkey, Hermann the

  forger jerked his head back and forth in impotent rage.

  "Get in," said Stern. "I thought this fellow might come in handy, so I

  invited him to stay for a while."

  Too surprised to speak, Natterman climbed into the car and stared back

  at Hermann as they drove back to the cabin.

  "Is the cabin phone still working?" Stern asked.

  Natterman nodded.

  "I've quite a few calls to make, but soon we shall be on a plane bound

  for Israel. And from there, South Africa."

  "Why Israel? Why not fly straight to South Africa?"

  Stern skidded to a stop before the battered cabin. "We have some

  packages to pick up. Now, untie that fool while I get his equipment.

  I have much to arrange before we can be on our way."

  Like a dazed recruit of eighteen, the old historian followed the

  Israeli's orders, a little afraid, but grateful to be part of the chase

  at last.

  555 Pm. Sonnonalloo Checkpoint.

  American Sedor, West Berlin Harry Richardson walked slowly toward the

  barrier post on the eastern side of the Berlin Wall. In spite of

  Kosov's assurances to Colonel Rose, Harry still half-expected to be

  arrested at the checkpoint. He walked quickly past the Fmt German

  documents-control booth, then stopped as instructed at the

  currency-check station. Glancing right, he saw two pale faces peering

  out of the warmly lit observation window.

  One hovered above the red shoulder boards of a KGB colonel: Ivan Kosov.

  The other, angrier face belonged to Captain Dmitri Rykov. A bad week

  altogether for the young chekist, Harry thought. He tipped his head at

  Rykov, then walked on.

  The gray sky had darkened. Harry could just make out the U.S, Army Ford

  waiting on the American side of the Wall, parked beyond the harsh glow

  of the checkpoint area, motor running. Beside the Ford, a restless line

  of cars and lorries waited to pass through the blocked checkpoint. Fifty

  yards closer, the door to the West Berlin customs booth opened suddenly

  and a young border policeman stepped out. Behind him emerged Colonel

  Rose, wearing a long olive-drab greatcoat. Then came two men wearing

  civilian clothes and handcuffs, followed by Sergeant Clary, who carried

  a Colt .45 in his right hand.

  Harry heard footsteps behind him, then felt Kosov's hand grip his upper

  arm. Twenty seconds later, seven men stood awkwardly around the

  white-painted line that marked the absolute boundary between East and

  West Berlin-five on the American side, two on the Soviet. Tonight

  protocols were few. With a nod Kosov signaled the . two handcuffed

  Soviet illegals to step over the line. As they did, he released his

  grip on Harry's arm- Harry stepped across the line. He breathed a

  heartfelt sigh of relief when Clary clapped him on the back in welcome.

  Kosov looked at Rose. "I commend your nerve in negotiating this

  exchange, Colonel. Your pragmatic style is somewhat surprising in an

  American. Next time, however@' Rose turned and marched away without a

  word. Sergeant Clary and the border policeman followed him. Before

  Harry could turn, however, Kosov reached out and caught hold of his arm.

  "Axel Goltz is dead," he growled.

  "Does that bother you?"

  "What bothers me is that I don't understand why he did what he did.

  Since you killed him, I doubt very much that he worked for you.

  And given that, I must begin to take seriously the nationalistic drivel

  he spouted off before he shot Corporal Ivanov. He mentioned something

  called Phoenix, I believe? Have you heard of this?"

  Harry shrugged. "Sure. It's about a hundred miles south of Tucson,

  isn't it?"

  Kosov smiled coldly. "Have it your way, Major. I would prefer that our

  two services collaborate on the Hess case. All my country wants is for

  the truth to be exposed to the world.

  When Germany begins to stir, even traditional enemies must join forces."

  "Someone should have told Stalin that in 1939," Harry observed.

  "Guten Abend, Colonel." He turned and jogged to the waiting Ford.

  While Kosov fumed, Rykov emerged from the customs booth, trailed

  noiselessly by a lean figure dressed from head to toe in black.

  "Misha," Kosov muttered, his voice hoarse with fury.

  The young killer pricked up his ears like a hungry panther.

  "I think it's time you paid a visit to the whore who showed us such

  disrespect. Show her that we keep our promises."

  Misha nodded, and then, with a swiftness that astonished Rykov, he

  melted into the gray dusk of the Sonnenallee.

  "What now, Colonel?" asked Rykov.

  "We wait," Kosov replied, still staring after the Americans. "I'm

  expecting a visitor."

  Fifty meters away, Harry climbed into the Army Ford and found a bearish

  man wearing a hat and civilian clothes waiting in the backseat.

  He looked familiar, but Rose made no introductions.

  Sergeant Clary swept across West Berlin with the subtlety of a fire

  truck. Harry let his head fall back on the seat, intending to savor his

  newfound freedom, but Rose gave him no respite. The colonel heaved a

  beefy forearm back over the passenger seat and grinned.

  "Okay, Harry, what did you find out over there?"

  Harry answered with his eyes closed. "I found out that whatever is in

&
nbsp; those Spandau papers is important enough for a Stasi agent to kill a KGB

  officer over it."

  "Axel Goltz," said Rose. "Did you kill him?"

  "He didn't leave me any choice."

  The colonel nodded. " ' Our East German sources said Kosov went berserk

  when he found out he couldn't interrogate Goltz. He arrested every

  ranking Stasi officer he could lay his hands on."

  Harry shook his head. "Colonel, Goltz was no more afraid of Kosov than

  a rabid dog would have been. He acted as if he expected Heinz

  Guderian's tanks to roll out of the Black Forest any minute and chase

  the Russians right out of Germany."

  "It'd take more than that," Rose muttered. "Every T-72

  tank in the DDR is on the move. They're running civilian vehicles right

  off the roads. Someone in Moscow has decided that the Germans need a

  lesson in humility."

  "Maybe they do," Harry said softly. "Did you pick up anything on the

  names I gave you? Zinoviev or Phoenix?"

  "Yes and no." Rose shared a glance with the unidentified passenger in

  the backseat- "In the office, Harry."

  Harry nodded slowly. "Okay."

  In the silence that followed, it became impossible for Harry to ignore

  the man on the seat beside him. Finally, Rose acknowledged the

  stranger. "Harry, meet Detective Julius Schneider of the Berlin

  Kriminalpolizei. He's gonna be working with us for a while. He's the

  guy who saved your ass. Says he knows you."

  "A pleasure, Detective." Harry shook Schneider's bearlike paw.

  "I thought you looked familiar. I owe you a very tall "It is not

  necessary," said the German.

  "Okay, okay," Rose grumbled. "Let's adjourn this mutual admiration

  society and get up to my office."

  The car had arrived in Clay Allee, the thoroughly American boulevard

  named for the first U.S. commandant of West Berlin. While Sergeant

  Clary returned the Ford to the motor pool, Rose, Schneider, and

  Richardson made their way to the fourth floor. Rose took a seat behind

  his huge desk. poured whiskeys all around, and waited for Clary to take

  up his post outride the door H&" opened the discussion. "So what's the

  big secret, guys? Who's Comrade Zinoviev? He isn't Lenin's Zinoviev,

  is he?"

  Rose gave Schneider a sidelong glance. "H@y, Harry.

  We don't know exactly who Zinoviev is, or was. We don't know if he's

  dead or alive. But I can guarantee you that 'comrade' wasn't his

  preferred manner of address."