Spandau Phoenix

by Iles, Greg

  Kosov slammed down the phone and charged into the communications room. “Close off the Western embassies!” he shouted. “Use our own people—no East Germans!”

  Several astonished young faces appeared at the doors. “The fugitive is an American army major,” he said more slowly, his voice barely under control. “He’s out of uniform and he speaks perfect Russian. Probably perfect German too. If he’s apprehended, I want him brought here immediately.”

  Kosov ground his teeth furiously. “Any East German who attempts to get close to him is to be shot. That is a direct order. Shoot any East German who interferes. I want the full staff here in twenty minutes. And get me the chief of the Stasi on the phone! Now!”

  Sagging against a desk, Kosov tried to ignore the pounding in his head. It seemed inconceivable that Axel Goltz had been working for the Americans. The man was practically a Nazi. Why would he turn on his Russian masters? Especially since he could have no doubt that his action would be suicidal. Kosov sighed hopelessly. He could do little else until his department heads arrived. Slowly he walked back into his office, closed the door, and sat at his desk. Borodin will throw me to the dogs for this, he lamented. But not before I strain Axel Goltz through a razor-wire sieve. Shoving the grainy photograph of Zinoviev out of his way, he swallowed four aspirin without water, pressed his forehead to the cold desktop, and waited for the phone to ring.

  4:35 AM The Natterman Cabin: near Wolfsburg, FRG

  The forger arrived two hours after Hauer’s call. Professor Natterman’s explosion occurred two hours after that. Hauer and Hans had buried the dead caretaker and his Afrikaner killer in the snow behind the cabin, while Natterman stripped the bloody bedclothes and scrubbed away the blood from the cabin’s interior. The only remaining signs of trouble were the shattered windows and door, and the Jaguar wrapped around the plane tree out front.

  Hauer’s forger was astute enough to ignore all these signs. Immensely fat and normally jovial, Hermann Rascher appeared to be in mortal dread of Hauer. He lost no time in setting up his equipment. A white screen and chair placed in front of the shattered window and an assortment of chemicals laid out in the bathroom quickly converted the bedroom into a small photographic studio.

  Consistent with his plan of keeping Natterman in the dark until the last minute, Hauer instructed the forger to shoot a passport picture of the professor as if he too were to be given false papers. But this ruse went for nothing. Despite Hauer’s injunction against discussing their plans, Natterman badgered him every moment that the forger spent in his temporary darkroom. Before Rascher had arrived Hauer had probed the professor for his speculations on what the vital secret of the Spandau papers might be, but Natterman had refused to be drawn out. Now, though, Natterman was vigorously attempting to convince Hauer it would be foolish to bait a rescue trap with the authentic papers.

  “The kidnappers have obviously never seen the papers,” he insisted, “so it would be impossible for them to know they were being fooled. Captain, I simply cannot agree to any plan which needlessly risks losing such an important artifact.”

  Hauer had had enough. He walked to the bedroom door to make sure the forger was closed inside the bathroom; then he turned back to Natterman. “You don’t have to agree, Professor,” he said evenly. “Because you’re not coming to South Africa.”

  Natterman looked as if someone had emptied a bedpan in his face. Too stunned to speak, he looked to Hans for support, but found none.

  Hauer kept the initiative. “You’re wounded, you can’t move faster than a slow walk, and you’re over seventy, for God’s sake.”

  Too angry to marshal logical arguments, Natterman raged like a thwarted child. “You can’t keep me out of this, you … you fascist!”

  While he ranted on, Hans walked to the window and tried to shut out the argument. The snow was falling again. He shivered, realizing that somewhere out there beyond the trees, beyond the road and the pristine German fields, beyond the Alps, beyond a great sea and a vast, dark continent, Ilse waited, frightened and alone. With a hollow coldness in his chest, he wondered again about her last, anguished cry. Could she really be pregnant at last? Or had the kidnappers somehow twisted that desperate maternal hope out of her to use as extra leverage against him? He banished the thought from his mind. That snake could eat its tail forever, and his sanity with it. It had no bearing at all on the rescue plan. He would keep that secret to himself. Whatever had passed between him and his father in the last few hours, Hauer had no claim on that knowledge yet.

  “Hans, listen to this,” the professor shrieked. “Hauer said it himself. The police only get ten percent of hostages back alive! Remember Munich, Hans? The ‘seventy-two Olympics? It was Hauer and his storm troopers who opened up on the Arabs while the hostages were tied inside the helicopters. The Jews were blown to bits! Have you forgotten that? Two days ago you hated this man. He deserted you and your mother! Now you trust him to bring our Ilse back alive?”

  At the mention of Munich a strange stillness came over Hauer. It was as if a ghost had touched him with icy fingers. His gray eyes turned opaque as they fixed on Natterman. His voice went cold and flat. “I didn’t see you on an airfield that day.”

  Natterman started to reply, but when he recognized the glacial coldness in Hauer’s eyes the sound died in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you don’t understand, Captain. The key to this situation isn’t guns and tactics, it’s the Spandau papers. And you can’t even read them! We’re not dealing with Arab terrorists or crazed students here—we’re dealing with the legacy of Adolf Hitler! The key to this whole mystery is in the papers and I am the only man who can unravel it!”

  Hauer sighed. “Professor, why don’t you admit that the reason you want so badly to come is that you can’t bear to let those papers out of your sight for one moment.”

  “Liar!” Natterman exploded.

  “You didn’t argue against forcible rescue until I said I wasn’t including you in the plan. Do you deny that?”

  “How dare you!” Spittle flew from the old man’s lips. “You fool! You’re not qualified to handle this alone! You think you’re chasing a neo-Nazi group called Phoenix? Then how do you explain the tattooed eye? The Phoenix is a bird rising from the flames, not an eye. Phoenix is the Greek name of the Egyptian god Bennu. The tattooed Eye is also Egyptian—it’s the Guarding Eye, the All-Seeing Eye, the Eye of God from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Explain that to me, Captain!”

  Hauer shrugged. “The Nazis used all kinds of rituals and mythology.”

  “Yes! But Teutonic and Arthurian mythology almost exclusively! So, how do you explain the Egyptian symbols?”

  Hauer remained silent while he digested Natterman’s revelations. “Professor,” he said finally, “if you care about your granddaughter you will write down everything you just told me, and you will stay by the telephone so that you can provide us with any other information we need.”

  “But I can go with you!” Natterman insisted. “I can keep up!”

  “Enough!” Hans cried, turning from the window. He stabbed a finger at Natterman. “My decision’s made. We’re taking Ilse back, and my father is in command from this point forward.”

  Natterman opened his mouth to continue, but the corpulent forger flung open the bedroom door and waddled into the room. “All done,” he announced. “Excellent work, if I do say so myself.”

  Natterman stared at Hauer in silent fury, then he stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  The forger held the fruits of his labour beneath the overhead light for Hauer’s inspection. The passport bore two excellent frontal shots of Hans and Hauer, taken against the screen in the bedroom. Both wore fashionable jackets provided by the forger and looked every inch wealthy businessmen. At Hermann’s suggestion Hauer had shaved his mustache; it was the first time he had seen himself without it in twenty years. He looked ten years younger. With an artist’s eye, Hermann had quickly noted
the resemblance between Hans and Hauer and had suggested they travel as father and son. That way, he’d said, they would only have to remember one surname—Weber.

  “They are good,” Hauer agreed.

  “The best you’ll find, east of Brussels,” Hermann assured him. “You’re lucky Germans don’t need visas for South Africa. I didn’t have one to work from.”

  “Start the car, Hans,” Hauer commanded.

  Hans was gone in an instant. Hauer picked up the passports and slipped them into his coat pocket. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said to the forger.

  Hermann made a painful grimace. It was bad enough being forced to work for it, but to be robbed. The mind simply boggled. The consequences of refusal, however, were unthinkable. Eight years ago Hauer had sent the forger to Berlin’s Moabit Prison, where he had endured six years of living hell. Upon release he had resettled in Hamburg to escape Hauer’s prying eyes, but it hadn’t worked. Hauer had kept abreast of his current activities, and he’d made it painfully clear tonight that one phone call to Hamburg could put Hermann right back into prison for another stretch. What the hell? Hermann rationalized. Ten thousand marks isn’t too high a price for freedom. He could make back the money on just four passports. He walked to the sofa, reached into his leather camera bag, and brought out a stuffed manila envelope.

  After counting the banknotes, Hauer slipped them into his pocket. “Nice doing business with you again, Hermann,” he said. “Now I want you to wait for me right here.”

  He slipped into the bedroom and closed the door. Professor Natterman sat fuming on the striped mattress, holding his hand against his bandaged nose. “Professor,” said Hauer, “here is where we make our peace. I’m going to South Africa to bring back your granddaughter. I could simply walk out of here, but I realize that would be stupid. You know things that could help me. The question is, will you?”

  Natterman said nothing; Hauer went on anyway. He needed the professor’s information, but he also wanted to leave the old man some dignity. “I don’t trust that forger,” he said. “I need an hour’s head start on him. I want to make sure he stays here at least that long. Once he’s gone, shut the cabin, take your things, and drive that Jaguar back to Berlin. The car belongs to a man named OCAS. Here’s his card.”

  “That car’s shot to pieces!” Natterman protested.

  “You shot it,” Hauer reminded him. “Just get it back to him. He’s a Jew, he’ll understand. After you’ve delivered the car, stock up on enough food to last a week, then get hold of any research materials you’ll need to answer questions about Prisoner Number Seven, the Egyptian god Bennu, South Africa, and anything else you think might be relevant. Ten hours from now I want you by your office telephone continuously. Sleep by it. I’ve got to know I can count on you.”

  Outside, the borrowed Audi rumbled to life. With a last look at Natterman, Hauer left the old man sitting on the bed. He glared at the forger as he passed through the front room. “Don’t get anxious and try to leave too soon, Hermann.” The forger’s eyes bulged. Hauer turned. Behind him stood Professor Natterman, the double-barrelled Mannlicher in his hands. Hauer offered his hand. “Auf Wiedersehen, Professor. Be careful, eh?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the old historian took Hauer’s hand and squeezed hard. “You bring my granddaughter back, Captain.”

  “You have my word.”

  “And you bring back those papers!”

  Hauer nodded once, then he ducked out of the cabin. Natterman heard a car door slam, then the roar of the Audi as it raced up the access road. Hermann Rascher stared at the old man, mystified by the scene he had just witnessed.

  “You know, Professor,” he said, “there’s really no reason for us to hang around here while—”

  Natterman jabbed the shotgun into the fat man’s belly. “Sit down, swine!”

  Hermann sat.

  5.00 AM US Army Headquarters. West Berlin

  Colonel Rose stared into the expectant faces of Sergeant Clary and Detective Schneider. Clary nodded once, indicating that the tape reels were turning. Rose spoke into the telephone. “This is Colonel Rose. Go ahead.”

  “Colonel, this is Blueblood calling. Repeat, Blueblood.”

  Rose gasped. “It’s Harry! Where the hell are you?”

  “Don’t say anything, sir. Nothing. This call will terminate in fifty seconds. In our office computer you’ll find a file coded ‘East’—that’s Echo-Alpha-Sierra-Tango. In that file is a list of safe locations in the DDR. I am now at location four, repeat, four. I don’t think I can get out on my own, Colonel, it’s too tight. I suggest you threaten your opposite number here, and if that doesn’t work, roll up network seven, repeat, seven, and make a trade. I was dead wrong about Hess. This does have something to do with him. Also with someone or something called Phoenix. But the key name is Zinoviev, repeat, Zulu-India-November-Oscar-Victor-India-Echo-Victor. Find him and we’ll be on track.”

  Harry took a deep breath. “You’ve got to get me out, Colonel. This is big. If I don’t hear from you in twenty-four hours, I’m going to try it on my own. That’s all.”

  “Wait!” Rose shouted.

  “He’s disconnected, sir,” Clary said in a monotone, his eyes on a voltage-measuring device.

  Rose stood and pounded his fist on the desk. “Clary!”

  “Sir!”

  “You get a squad of uniformed MPs down here now! Make sure every one has a rifle!”

  “What are you going to do?” Schneider asked, alarmed by the American’s hair-trigger temper.

  “You heard the man, Detective! I’m rolling up network seven!”

  “But he suggested that you threaten the KGB first— “

  Rose’s face reddened. “Schneider, I don’t make threats unless I can back ‘em up. It’s a friggin’ waste of time. When I tell Ivan Kosov that I’ll arrest one of his precious networks if he doesn’t let my boy out, those slimy bastards will be in a holding cell in my stockade! Clary!”

  “MPs on the way, sir!”

  “Damn straight!” Rose bellowed, reaching into the bottom drawer for his bottle of Wild Turkey. “Damn straight.” He filled his Lennox shot glass and poured the whiskey down his throat, feeling his eyes water when it hit bottom.

  “Friggin’ Rudolf Hess,” he muttered. “And Zinoviev. Who the hell is Zinoviev?”

  “I beg your pardon, Colonel?” Schneider asked. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Nobody,” Rose mumbled. “Some commie sonofabitch.”

  He could not have been further from the truth.

  5.19 AM MI-5 Headquarters, Charles Street, London, England

  The door to Sir Neville Shaw’s office shook with the force of Wilson’s knock.

  “One moment, your lordship,” Shaw said into the telephone. “What is it, Wilson?”

  The deputy director stuck his head into the office. “It’s that woman,” he sniffed, meaning Swallow. “She said she’d wait one more minute and then she’s leaving.”

  “Tell her I won’t be a moment.”

  Wilson sighed with exasperation and withdrew.

  “I’m sorry, your lordship,” Shaw apologized. “Where were we?”

  “Your career,” replied a deep voice with a vintage Oxbridge accent. Shaw was briefly reminded of Alec Guinness. “It is felt, Neville, in some quarters, that you have bungled this whole affair from the beginning. It was nearly a year ago that some of us suggested that you act to prevent just this sort of mess.”

  Sir Neville bridled. “If they’d torn the bloody prison down last year, the very same thing would have happened. I couldn’t control what the man wrote, for God’s sake.”

  This riposte was met with frosty silence. “Yes,” the voice said finally. “Well. What about the African end of the problem?”

  “It’s being taken care of. Two or three days at the most.”

  “A lot could happen in three days, Neville. We want every loose end snipped, every trace erased.”.

 
“It’s being done,” Shaw insisted.

  “Are there any complications we should know about?”

  Shaw thought of Jonas Stern, and of Swallow waiting just outside his door. “No,” he lied.

  “Keep us posted, then.” The caller rang off.

  Shaw exhaled a great blast of air and began to massage his temples with his fingertips. He badly needed sleep. He had spent five of the past six hours on the telephone. Across London, in places like the India Club, the House of Lords, and the All-England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club—across Britain in the ramshackle palaces and crumbling stone castle outposts of the aristocracy—privileged men and women both young and old were gathering in quiet councils. Like ripples spreading outward from the epicentre of Buckingham Palace, waves of apprehension rolled through this most rarefied level of society; and all, Shaw reflected, because one little stone had dropped far away in the atrophied heart of Berlin. Slowly but surely, those frightened men and women were bringing a great deal of pressure to bear on Sir Neville Shaw. For Shaw, like his predecessors before him, was not only the possessor but also the protector of their dark secret. Most of the calls had been like the previous one—a bit of carrot, bags of stick. Shaw was about to rise and go to his liquor cabinet for a medicinal Glenfiddich when his office door opened and Wilson ushered in the woman code-named Swallow.

  Sir Neville was stunned. The woman standing before him looked nothing like the photo in the file he’d been studying.

  “Ah … Miss Gordon, isn’t it?” he stammered as Wilson withdrew from the office.

  Swallow did not respond.

  “I’m told you insisted on, seeing me personally,” he tried again. “Mind telling me why?”

  Still Swallow held her silence. She obviously felt the burden of explanation lay on the man who had called for her services. Thoroughly discomfited, Shaw looked down at the file. The woman in the photo looked like a grandmother, a blue-rinsed club woman who spent her Sundays baking biscuits for the church. The woman who stood before him now looked like … well, Shaw had never quite seen the analogue that would describe her.