The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

disappeared through a narrow doorway behind the counter.

  "Why does he keep staring at you?" Hauer muttered. "Is he queer?"

  "He thinks I'm a goddamn tennis star."

  After a moment, Hauer nodded with reliel "What about guns?" Hans asked

  again. "The rendezvousis tonight. Eight o'clock."

  "Hans, if the kidnappers are smart-and so far they have been-they'll

  just sniff you out tonight. You didn't take the' plane they told you

  to. That will put them off balance. For all they know, a hundred

  Interpol agents are going to descend on the Burgerspark Hotel tonight.

  No, they'll either send a drone or telephone you with further

  instructions. My, guess is they'll call."

  Hans looked far from satisfied. "I'd feel a lot better if I had a

  pistol, and there are dozens right in that case."

  "True," Hauer acknowledged. "But I don't see any silencers, do you? We

  can't go around Pretoria firing off pistols.

  Our badges are worthless here. Plus, I don't want to subject our papers

  to even a cursory background check."

  While Hans sulked, Hauer glanced around the store. "All right," he said

  resignedly. "You see that rack over there?" He pointed across the

  store to a large display of hunting bows.

  Hans nodded.

  "Go over and tell that salesman you want the smallest crossbow he has

  with a seventy-pound draw, and six of I sharpest bolts he has." Hauer

  pulled a wad of bills from his trousers pocket and peeled off four

  hundred rand.

  Still looking longingly at the gun case, Hans took the money.

  "Here you are, gentlemen." The salesman had reappeared in the doorway

  with a small brown-wrapped parcel. "That comes to, ah . . ."

  He trailed off, looking past Hauer.

  Hauer turned and followed his gaze. The salesman was staring at Hans,

  who now stood with his hands on his hips, scrutinizing a rack of

  expensive tennis racquets with an expert's disdainftil eye.

  The salesman cleared his throat. "Could I show you something else, er

  ... sir?"

  Hans continued to stare silently at the racquets.

  The salesman reached out timidly and touched Hauer's sleeve.

  "Pardon me, sir, but isn't he ... ?"

  Slowly Hans turned to the salesman and smiled the confiding, slightly

  embarrassed smile celebrities use when they would prefer that no one

  make a fuss over them. "Could I possibly see a few racquets?"-he asked.

  "Estusas? Preferably the N100O."

  The salesman almost tripped over his feet in his haste to get around the

  counter. "Why certainly, sir. I am at your complete disposal." He

  blushed. "I'm a terrific fan, you know. We have just the racquet you

  want, and I'm positive that a very agreeable discount could be arranged

  -' ' " As the gushing salesman led his prize across the store, Hans

  looked back over his shoulder and glared pointedly at Hauer, then at the

  gun case, talking all the way. "Normally my racquets are supplied

  directly from the factory," he explained, "but the stupid airline put my

  bag aboard the wrong plane .

  Stunned by Hans's boldness, Hauer took 9;ie look around the store for

  surveillance cameras, slipped quickly behind the gun case, dropped to

  his knees and went to work on the

  lock.

  When Hans stepped out of the store twenty minutes later, he saw Hauer

  waiting for him at the end of the block, surrounded by shopping bags.

  Stuffing a large, oblong parcel under his arm, he jogged awkwardly up

  the street.

  "Don't tell me," said Hauer. "You bought the tennis racquet."

  "The crossbow," Hans muttered. "I wasn't sure you could break into the

  gun case."

  Hauer opened his jacket slightly. The handgrips of two gleaming black

  pistols jutted from his waistband. "Walthers.

  Matched pair. A child could have sprung the lock on that case."

  He closed his jacket and laughed softly. "That was pretty good acting

  in there, Boris. You almost had me convinced."

  "Let's just get the hell out of here," Hans snapped. "I had to sign six

  autographs before they let me out of the store."

  At that moment Salil pulled his taxi smoothly up to the curb.

  "Your carriage awaits," said Hauer. He reached down and picked up the

  boxed rifle, scope, and camera, and loaded them into the trunk of the

  Indian's Ford. "Let's go shoot some pictures."

  11:44 A.M. mI-5 Headquatlers, Charles Street, London, England Sir

  Neville Shaw had not slept in his office for quite some time-not since

  the Falklands War, his deputy had reminded him. But now he lay sound

  asleep on a squeaky cot he had ordered brought to his office early this

  morning. When Deputy Director Wilson came barging into the office

  without even a perfunctory knock, Shaw came up off the cot like he had

  as a child during the Blitz.

  "What in God's name is it?" he bellowed. "World War Three?"

  Wilson was breathless. "It's Swallow, sir. She's picked up Stern."

  Shaw pounded his fist on his thigh. "By God, I knew that woman could do

  it!"

  "She boarded his plane at Ben-Gurion. They're airborne now, and Stern

  is definitely headed for South Africa. Not only did Swallow overhear

  Stern say that he had part of the Spandau papers, but she also heard him

  discussing the involvement of the Duke of Windsor in the Hess affair."

  "Good Christ! Discussing it with whom?"

  "A German his professor. He's a relative of one of the tory Berlin

  policemen who found the Spandau papers. Swallow thinks Stern plans to

  use him to make contact with HE and ApfelShe called from the aircraft

  telephone. She u a verbal code from the nineteen sixties, sir. It took

  a crypto team two hours to dig the cipher key out of the basement."

  Shaw left his cot and walked toward his desk. "With Swallow on his

  tail, Stern's as good as dead. We can count on getting whatever portion

  of the papers he's carrying."

  Wilson looked uncomfortable. "if Swallow does kill Stern, sir, do YOu

  think the fact that she's retired is enough to shield us from an Israeli

  protest?"

  ,Protest! What do we care about one scruffy Yid? You can bet Stern

  asked for it somewhere up the line. The Zionist terrorists in Palestine

  were a damned sight mo re ruthless than your Palestinian today, Wilson.

  A damned sight!" Shaw rubbed his hands together anxiously. "South

  Africa," he murmured. "How in blazes did that old fox figure that Out?"

  Wilson looked puzzled. "I'm not sure what you mean, but Swallow

  overheard Stern discussing the wife of Sergeant Apfel. Frau Apfel seems

  to have been kidnapped by someone in South Africa who is demanding the

  Spandau papers as ransom."

  For a moment Shaw seethed to have lost his breath.

  "Where's my bloody ship, Wilson?"

  "Ship, sir?" Wilson reddened. "Oh, yes. Lloyd's List has the MV

  Casilda bound for Tanzania. However, I managed to get hold of some

  American satellite photos which show her anchored in the Mozambique

  Channel, off Madagascar.

  There are two helicopters lashed to her decks."

  "Thank God," Shaw said under his breath.

  "Sir Neville?" Wilson said softly. "Does that freighter have s
omething

  to do with the Spandau affair?"

  "Better if you don't know just yet, Wilson. If all this blows up in my

  face, you'll be able to swear you never knew a bloody thing."

  "For God's sak Wilson looked distraught. e, Neville, at least let me

  help you!"

  Shaw pursed his lips thoughtfully. "All right, man. If you really want

  to help, I've got something that's just your line of country."

  "Name it."

  "There are some files I need. If this thing goes sour, we'll want them

  shredded and burned in a hurry." Shaw picked up a pen and scrawled

  three names on a sheet of notepaper.

  "Might be a bit sticky, but you've done this kind of thing before." He

  handed over the paper.

  Wilson read the names: Hess, Rudolf Steuer, Helmut Zinoviev, V V "And

  where are these files, sir?"

  "The Public Records Office." Shaw watched Wilson closely.

  "Although technically they're Foreign Office files.

  There is also a Hess file in the War Office, but it's sealed until 2050.

  I don't think anyone could get at that."

  Wilson swallowed hard. "You mean ... you want me to steal files from

  the Foreign Office?"

  "Be thankful it's only paper, man. There are much dirtier jobs involved

  in this case."

  Wilson met Shaw's steady gaze. "Won't the missing files be noticed?"

  "Probably." Shaw reached into a drawer and withdrew a thick, dog-eared

  file. "That's why I m giving you this." He handed the folder across to

  Wilson. :It's also a Hess file, but it's been ...

  amended. The Zinoviev and Steuer files simply have to disappear, but

  you can fill the Hess gap with that. It was prepared in the early

  seventies, after we were forced.by statute to reveal certain information

  on Hess. It was our insurance against the day some hothead like Neil

  Kinnock started pressing for radical disclosures. I think it will serve

  very well in this situation." Shaw sighed contentedly.

  "Now pour us a Glenfiddich, eh, Wilson? You look like you need one."

  1:L?5 Pm. Room 604, The Protea Hof Hotat Pretoria

  Hauer looked forlornly around the hotel room. He had steeled himself

  for an explosion that never came. Perhaps Hans was simply too exhausted

  to get upset. And then perhaps it was something else. His reaction did

  not fit the stimulus, and that bothered Hauer. The fact that three

  pages of the Spandau diary were missing clearly reduced the chances of

  getting Ilse back alive; yet when Hauer had revealed that the pages were

  missing, Hans hadn't said a word. fris eyes had widened in disbelief;

  he'd rubbed his temples, seen to sag a little; but he had not shouted at

  Hauer for pilfer the papers on the plane, or blasted Professor Natterman

  for his cowardice, or tried to attack Hauer as he had done to the

  professor at the cabin. He'd simply stood up and walked into the

  bathroom. Hauer could hear water running in the sink now.

  He unboxed the Nikon N/2000 camera with macro/micro lens that he had

  bought at the sporting goods store. Then he set up the special tripod

  he had bought to facilitate the time exposures. Less than a foot high,

  the squat instrument had short, splayed legs and fully pivoting head. It

  reminded him of a robot from a 1950s science fiction movie. He set it

  up on the table near the window and opened the drapes; then he mounted

  the Nikon.

  "Hans!" he called to the bathroom. "I need the papers!"

  Thirty seconds later Hans emerged from the bathroom with the crinkled

  foil packet containing the Spandau papers.

  He handed it to Hauer without a word.

  "Cover the door," Hauer said. "if anyone knows where we are, now is the

  time they'll hit us."

  Instead of drawing the Walther from his waistband, Hans leaned over and

  picked up the crossbow held bought.

  Hauer gingerly unwrapped the foil while Hans loaded a stubby,

  razor-sharp bolt. "I'm going to bracket the f-stops," he said. "I'll

  shoot at the widest aperture flash at one@eth of a second. Then

  progressively longer exposures until we'reach two full seconds, just to

  make sure."

  Hans said nothing.

  "I know you're still worried about the pictures, but Ilse said the

  kidnappers could detect whether photocopies o'f the papers had been

  made. This is no different than looking at the papers. We've got no

  choice, Hans. We're going to have to trade the original Spandau papers

  for Ilse. This is our fallback. Besides, to crack Phoenix in Berlin,

  Ive're going to need a copy of the papers, plus the evidence in the fire

  safe at Steuben's house."

  Hauer worked his way through the exposures for the first page-seven

  shots altogether-then carefully set it aside.

  Hans handed over the second page; Hauer repeated the procedure.

  The first roll of film ran out halfway through page four. While Hauer

  reloaded the Nikon, he heard Hans whisper: "Damn that old man."

  Hauer kept working while he talked. "It isn't the professor's fault,

  Hans. That blond Afrikaner got them, and whoever killed him got the

  papers. The professor should have told us about the missing pages, but

  you know why he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to admit he'd lost

  them.

  He knew you'd go crazy, and to no avail. We couldn't have done anything

  about it anyway."

  Hans sat silently.

  "Listen," said Hauer. "Natterman was stupid to put these blank sheets

  in with the papers. It made the missing pages twice as obvious.

  When we make the exchange, we'll use only the six matching pages.

  The kidnappers won't know the difference."

  Hans's opinion of this theory was painfully clear on his face.

  "You know better than that," he said softly. "They have Ilse, and she

  knows exactly what I found. She can describe it down to the-" Hans's

  mouth stopped moving. "Phoenix would torture her to find those things

  out!"

  "Stop talking like that!" Hauer snapped. "Ilse's smart.

  She'll tell them what they want without a fight. Look, Hans, all we

  need is Ilse in the open and ten seconds to get her clear. The

  kidnappers won't have more than ten seconds to examine the papers.

  That's the situation I intend to arrange.

  Anything else is unacceptable."

  "Ten seconds is enough time to count pages," Hans observed.

  Hauer sighed heavily. "At the cabin you said you trusted me, Hans. Now

  you've got to prove it. We've got the leverage here, not them. They

  know they'll never get the papers back if they kill Ilse.

  The moment they make contact, we set out our terms for the exchange.

  They have to accept them.

  And once they accept our terms, we've got them."

  Hans met Hauer's eyes. "But do we have Ilse?"

  Hauer picked the last diary page up off the bed, shot his last seven

  exposures, then removed the film from the camera. He folded the Spandau

  papers into quarters, then eighths, then he wrapped the aluminum foil

  tightly about them again.

  "I'm going to find a lab that can process the film in an hour or two,"

  he said, slipping the cartridges into his pocket.

  "I want you to sleep while I'm gone.
You've been up for thirty-six

  hours, and I've been up longer than that. Airplane sleep doesn't count.

  The Burgerspark rendezvous is at e tonight.

  Call the desk and set a wake-up call for seven-thirty."

  Hans looked up stonily. "You expect me to steep now?"

  "Just shut off the light and breathe deeply. You won't last five

  minutes. You should see your eyes right now. They look like they're

  bleeding."

  Working his jaw muscles steadily, Hans finally said, "Shouldn't I keep

  the papers here?"

  Hauer considered this. Hans had held the papers until now . . .

  "They're safer on the move," he said suddenly. He slipped the packet

  into his trouser pocket and headed for the door. "Get some sleep.

  I'll see you when we wake up."

  Outside the hotel the sun burned down without mercy.

  Hauer wished he'd thought to bring a hat. Moving watchidly through the

  tree-lined streets, he tried to gauge their chances of success. Tonight

  would be their first and possibly only chance to turn the tables on the

  men who held Ilse, the men behind Phoenix. And with no backup to rely

  on, every move could be their last. Hauer needed time to think. And

  most critical now, he needed sleep. Maybe worse than he ever had in his

  life. He could feel the sun sapping his energy by the minute.

  He paused in the shade of a purple-blossomed jacaranda tree. He leaned

  against its trunk, folded his arms, and waited for a taxi. None passed.

  He did not know that in South Africa taxis may not legally cruise for

  business, but must wait in ranks at designated locations.

  Struggling to keep his eyes open, he wondered if Hans might be right.

  Would the kidnappers make their main move at the Burgerspark tonight?

  Would they risk showing themselves this early in the game?

  He didn't think so, but this wasn't Berlin. Maybe on their own

  territory the bastards would act with impunity. Maybe he should find a

  place to hide the papers before the rendezvous. Maybe"T i!"

  ax A red Madza driven by an enterprising soul made an illegal U-turn and

  screeched up to Hauer's shade tree. For a moment Hauer thought the

  driver was Salil, the talkative Indian, but it was only his exhausted

  mind playing tricks on him. A tanned Afrikaner leaned out of the

  window.

  "Where to, mate?" he asked in English.

  "I need some film developed," Hauer replied. "Fast."

  "How fast?"

  "Yesterday."