The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

  Frustrated, he walked into the bedroom, folded the pages, and stuffed

  them underneath the mattress at the foot of his bed. He switched on the

  television from habit, then kicked his mud-caked boots into an empty

  corner and dropped his coat on top of them. Ilse would scold him for

  being lazy, he knew, but after two straight shifts he was simply too

  exhausted to care.

  He ate his breakfast on the bed. As much as the Spandau papers, the

  thought of his father weighed on his mind. Captain Hauer had asked him

  why he'd come to Berlin. Hans often wondered that himself Three years

  it had been now. He hardly thought of Munich anymore. He'd married

  ilse after just five months here in Berlin. Christ, what a wedding it

  had been. His mother-still furious at him for becoming a policeman-had

  refused to attend, and Hauer had not been included in the plans. But

  he'd shown up anyway, Hans remembered. Hans had spied his rigid,

  uniformed figure outside the church, standing alone at the end of the

  block. Hans had pretended not to notice, but Ilse had waved quite

  deliberately to him as they climbed into the wedding car.

  Angry again, Hans wolfed down another sausage and tried to concentrate

  on the television. A silver-haired windbag of a Frankfurt banker was

  dispensing financial advice to viewers saddled with the burden of

  surplus cash. Hans snorted in disgust. At fifteen hundred

  Deutschemarks per month, a Berlin policeman made barely enough money to

  pay rent and buy groceries. Without Ilse's income, they would be

  shivering in a cold-water flat in Kreuzberg. He wanted to switch

  channels, but the old Siemens black-and-white had been built in the dark

  ages before remote control. He stayed where he was.

  He took another bite of sausage and stared blankly at the screen.

  Beneath his stockinged feet, the wrinkled sheaf of papers waited, a

  tantalizing mystery beckoning him to explore. Yet he had already hit a

  dead end. The strange, staring eye hovered in his mind, taunting him.

  After breakfast, he decided, he would take a shower and then have

  another go at the papers.

  He never made it off the bed. Exhaustion and the warm air overcame him

  even before he finished the sausage. He slid down the duvet, the

  unfinished plate balanced precariously on his lap, the Spandau papers

  hidden just beneath his feet.

  10.15 A.m. French Sector. West Berlin

  Ilse hated these visits. No matter how many times she saw her

  Gynakologe, she never got used to it. Ever. The astringent smell of

  alcohol, the gleaming stainless steel, the cold table, palpating

  fingers, the overly solicitous voice of the physician, who sometimes

  peered directly into her eyes from between her upraised legs: all these

  combined to produce a primal anxiety that solidified like ice in the

  hollow of her chest. Ilse knew about the necessity of annual checkups,

  but until she and Hans had begun trying to have a child, she'd skipped

  more exams than she would care to admit.

  All that had changed eighteen months ago. She had been up in the

  stirrups so many times now that the stress of the ordeal had almost

  diminished to that of a visit to the dentist-but not quite. Unlike many

  German women, Ilse possessed an extreme sense of modesty about her body.

  She suspected it was because she had never known her mother, but

  whatever the reason, being forced to expose herself to a stranger,

  albeit a doctor, for her required a considerable act of will. Only her

  strong desire to have children allowed her to endure the interminable

  series of examinations and therapies designed to enhance fertility.

  "All done, Frau Apfel," Doctor Grauber said. He handed a slide to his

  waiting nurse. Ilse heard that hard snap as he stripped off his

  surgical gloves and raised the lid of the waste bin with his foot. It

  crashed down, sending gooseflesh racing across her neck and shoulders.

  "I'll see you in my office after you've dressed."

  Ilse heard the door open and close. The nurse started to help her out

  of the stirrups, but she quickly raised herself and reached for her

  clothes.

  Dr. Grauber's office was messy but well-appointed, full of books and

  old medical instruments and framed degrees and the smell of cigars.

  Ilse noticed none of this. She was here for one thing-an answer.

  Was she pregnant or was she sick? The two possibilities wrestled in her

  mind. Her instinct said pregnant. She and Hans had been trying for so

  long now, and the other option was too unnatural to think about.

  Her body was strong and supple, lean and hard. Like the flanks of a

  lioness, Hans said once (as if he knew what a lioness felt like).

  How could she be sick? She felt so well.

  But she knew. Exterior health was no guarantee of immunity. Ilse had

  seen two friends younger than she stricken with cancer. One had died,

  the other had lost a breast. She wondered how Hans would react to

  something like that. Disfigurement. He would never admit to revulsion,

  of course, but it would matter. Hans loved her body-worshipped it,

  really. Ever since their first night together, he had slowly encouraged

  her until she felt comfortable before him naked.

  Now she could turn gracefully about the room like a ballerina, or

  sometimes just stand silently, still as alabaster.

  "That was quick!" Dr. Grauber boomed, striding in and taking a seat

  behind his chaotic desk.

  Ilse pressed her back into the tufted leather sofa. She wanted to be

  ready, no matter what the diagnosis. As she met the doctor's eyes, a

  nurse stepped into the office.

  She handed him a slip of paper and went out. Grauber glanced at it,

  sighed, then looked up.

  What he saw startled him. The poise and concentration with which Ilse

  watched him made him forget the slip of paper in his hand. Her blue

  eyes shone with frank and disarming curiosity, her skin with luminous

  vitality. She wore little or no makeup-the luxury of youth, Grauber

  thought-and her hair had that transparent blondness that makes the hands

  tingle to touch it. But it wasn't all that, he decided.

  Ilse Apfel was no film star. He knew a dozen women as striking as she.

  It was something other than fine features, deeper than the glow of

  youth. Not elegance, or earthiness, or even a hint of that intangible

  scent Grauber called availability.

  No, it was, quite simply, grace. Ilse possessed that rare beauty made

  rarer still by apparent unconsciousness of itself.

  When Grauber caught himself admiring her breasts-high and round, more

  Gallic than Teutonic, he thought-he flushed and looked quickly back at

  the slip of paper in his hand.

  "Well," he coughed. "That's that."

  Ilse waited expectantly, too anxious to ask for the verdict.

  "Your urine indicates pregnancy," Grauber announced.

  "I'd like to draw some blood, of course,'confirm the urine with a

  beta-subunit test, but I'd say that's just a formality.

  Would you like to bring Hans in? I know he'll be excited."

  Ilse colored. "Hans didn't come this time."

  Grauber raised his eyebrows in s
urprise. "That's a first.

  He's got to be the most concerned husband I've ever met."

  The smile faded. "Are you all right, Ilse? You look as though I'd just

  given you three months to live."

  Ilse felt wings beating within her chest. After all her anxiety, she

  found it hard to accept fulfillment of her deepest hope. "I really

  didn't expect this," she murmured. "I was afraid to hope for it. My

  mother died when I was born, you know, and it's ... it's just very

  important, to me to have a child of my own."

  "Well, you've got one started," said Grauber. "Now our job is to see

  that he-or she-arrives as ordered. I've got a copy of the standard

  visiting schedule, and there's the matter of . . ."

  Ilse heard nothing else. The doctor's news had lifted her spirit to a

  plane where no mundane detail could intrude.

  When the lab technician drew her blood, she felt no needle prick, and on

  her way out of the office the receptionist had to call her name three

  times to prevent her leaving without scheduling her next visit.

  At the age of twenty-six, her happiness was complete.

  11:27 A.M. Pretoria, The Republic of South Africa

  Five thousand miles to the south of Germany, two thousand of those below

  the equator, an old man sentenced to spend half his waking hours in a

  wheelchair spoke acidly into the intercom recessed into his oaken office

  desk.

  "This is not the time to bother me with business, Pieter."

  The man's name was Alfred Horn, and though it was not his native

  language, he spoke Afrikaans.

  "I'm sorry, sir," the intercom replied, "but I believe you might prefer

  to take this call. It's from Berlin."

  Berlin. Horn reached for the intercom button. "Ah ... I believe you're

  right, Pieter." The old man let his finger fall from the button, then

  pressed it again. "Is this call scrambled?"

  "Sir, this end as always. I can't say for certain about the other. I

  doubt it."

  "And the room?"

  "Swept last night, sir."

  "I'm picking up now."

  The connection was excellent, almost noiseless. The first voice Horn

  heard was that of his security chief, Pieter Smuts.

  "Are you still on the line, caller?"

  "Ja, " hissed a male voice, obviously under stress. "And I haven't much

  time."

  "Are you calling from a secure location?"

  "Nein. "

  "Can you move to such a location?"

  "Nein! Someone may have missed me already!"

  "Calm yourself," Smuts ordered. "You will identify yourself again in

  five seconds. Answer any questions Put to You-"

  "You may remain on the line, Guardian," Horn interrupted in perfect

  German.

  "Go ahead, caller," Smuts said.

  "This is Berlin-One," said the quavering voice. "There are developments

  here of which I feel you should be apprised.

  Two men were arrested this morning at Spandau Prison.

  West Berliners."

  "On what charge?" Horn asked, his voice neutral.

  "Trespassing."

  "For that you call this number?"

  "There are special circumstances. Russian troops guarding the prison

  last night have insisted that these men be charged with espionage, or

  else transferred to East Berlin for such action."

  "Surely you are joking."

  "Does a man risk his career for a joke?"

  Horn paused. "Elaborate."

  "I don't know much, but there is still Russian activity at the prison.

  They're conducting searches or tests of some sort. That's all I-"

  "Searches at Spandau?" Horn cut in. "Has this to do with the death of

  Hess?"

  "I don't know. I simply felt you should be made aware."

  "Yes," Horn said at length. "Of course. Tell me, why weren't our own

  men guarding Spandau?"

  "The captain of the unit was one of us. It was he who prevented the

  Russians from taking the prisoners into East Berlin. He doesn't think,

  the trespassers know anything, though."

  "He's not supposed to think at all!"

  "He-he's very independent," said the timid voice. "A real pain in the

  neck. His name is Hauer."

  Horn heard Smuts's pen scratching. "Was there anything else?"

  "Nothing specific, but ...

  "Yes?"

  "The Russians. They're being much more forceful than usual. They seem

  unworried by any diplomatic concerns. As if whatever they seek is worth

  upsetting important people.

  The Americans, for example."

  There was a pause. "You were right to call," Horn said finally.

  "Make sure things do not go too far. Keep us informed. Call this

  number again tonight. There will be a delay as the call is re-routed

  north. Wait for our answer."

  "But I may not have access to a private phone-"

  "That is a direct order!"

  "Jawohl!

  "Caller, disconnect," Smuts commanded.

  The line went dead. Horn hit the intercom and summoned his security

  chief into the office. Smuts seated himself opposite Horn on a spartan

  sofa that typified its owner's martial disdain for excessive comfort.

  With his wheelchair almost out of sight behind the desk, Alfred Horn

  appeared in remarkably good health, despite his advanced years.

  His strong, mobile face and still-broad shoulders projected an energy

  and sense of purpose suited to a man thirty years his junior.

  Only the eyes jarred this impression. They seemed strangely incongruous

  between the high cheekbones and classical forehead. One hardly

  moved-being made of glass-yet the other eye seemed doubly and

  disturbingly alive, as if projecting the entire concentration of the

  powerful brain behind it. But it wasn't really the eyes, Smuts

  remembered, it was the eyebrows. Horn had none. The bullet wound that

  had taken the left eye had been treated late and badly. Despite several

  plastic surgeries, the pronounced ridge that surmounted the surviving

  eye was entirely bare of hair, giving an impression of weakness where in

  fact none existed. The other eyebrow was shaved to prevent an

  asymmetrical appearance.

  "Comments, Pieter?" Horn said.

  "I don't like it, sir, but I don't see what we can do at this point but

  monitor the situation. We're already pushing our timetable to the

  limit." Smuts looked thoughtful. "Perhaps Number Seven's killer left

  some evidence that was overlooked."

  "Or perhaps Number Seven himself left some hidden writings which were

  never found," Horn suggested. "A deathbed confession, perhaps?

  We can take no chances where Spandau is concerned."

  "Do you have any speeific requests?"

  "Handle this as you see fit, but handle it. I'm much more concerned

  about the upcoming meeting." Horn tapped his forefinger nervously on

  the desktop. "Do you feel confident about security, Pieter?"

  "Absolutely, sir. Do you really feel you are in immediate danger?

  Spandau Prison is one thing, but Horn House is five thousand miles from

  Britain."

  "I'm certain," Horn averred. "Something has changed.

  Our English contacts have cooled. Lines of communication are kept open,

  but they are too forced. Inquiries have been made into o
ur activities

  in the South African defense program.

  Ever since the murder of Number Seven."

  "You don't think it could have been suicide?"

  Horn snorted in contempt. "The only mystery is who killed him and why.

  Was it the British, to silence him? Or did the Jews finally kill him,

  for revenge? My money is on the British. They wanted him silenced for

  good. As they want me silenced." Horn scowled. "I'm tired of waiting,

  that's all."

  Smuts smiled coldly. "Only seventy-two hours to go, sir."

  Horn ignored this reassurance. "I want you to call Vorster at the mine.

  Have him bring his men up to the house tonight."

  "But the interim security team doesn't arrive until noon tomorrow,"

  Smuts objected.

  "Then the mine will just have to work naked for eighteen hours!"

  Horn had wounded his security chief's pride, but Smuts kept silent.

  His precautions for the historic meeting three nights hence, though

  unduly rushed, were airtight. He was certain of it. Situated on an

  isolated plateau in the northern Transvaal, Horn House was a veritable

  fortress. No one could get within a mile of it without a tank, and

  Smuts had something that could stop that, too. But Alfred Horn was not

  a man to be argued with. If he wanted extra men, they would be there.

  Smuts made a mental note to retain a contract security team to guard

  Horn's platinum mine during the night.

  "Tell me, Pieter, how is the airstrip extension proceeding?"

  "As well as we could hope, considering the time pressure we're under.

  Six hundred feet to go."

  "I'll see for myself tonight, if we ever get out of this blasted city.

  That helicopter of mine spends more time in the service hangar than it

  does on my rooftop."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I still don't like those aircraft, Pieter. They look and fly like

  clumsy insects. Still, I suppose we can't very well put a runway on the

  roof, can we?"

  "Not yet at least."

  "We should look into something like the British Harrier.

  Wonderfully simple idea, vertical takeoff. There must be a commercial

  variant in development somewhere."

  "Surely you're joking, sir?"

  Horn looked reprovingly at his aide. "You would never have made an

  aviator, Pieter. To fight in the skies you must believe all things are

  possible, bendable to the human will."