The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

  man's careful tread. He did not hear the stairwell door open again

  behind him, or the whisper of Jonas Stern's stockinged feet descending

  the concrete steps.

  Stern knew the game now. It was a simple one. Follow the papers.

  Strange how the peaceful present could be shattered by a few strokes

  from an old pen, he reflected. Cryptic telegrams from an unquiet past.

  For in the Israeli's pocket nestled another scrap of paper-the sleed Of

  the premonition that had brought him to Germany after so many years.

  One hour before he'd driven out of the Negev desert headed for BenGurion

  Airport, Stern had dug it out of the little chest he'd saved from

  Jerusalem-his unfinished-business chest, an old cherry box containing

  the musty collection of loose ends that would not leave a man in peace.

  On this scrap of paper was a brief note written in Cyrillic script,

  unsigned. A Russian Jew had translated it for Stern on the day it

  arrived in his office, June 3, 1967.

  People of Zion Beware! The Unholy Fire of Armageddon may soon be

  unleashed upon you! I speak not from hatred or from love, butfrom

  conscience. Fear of death stays my hand from revealing the secret of

  your peril, but the key awaits you in Spandau. God is the final judge

  of all peoples!

  Stern's colleagues had not been impressed. In Israel, such warnings

  were common as dust. Each was -routinely investigated, but rarely did

  any prophesy real danger. But Stern had had a feeling about that

  particular note. It was vague, yes.

  Was the author referring to Spandau Prison in West Berlin?

  Or the district of Spandau, which covered over five square miles of the

  city? Stern never found out. Two days after the "Spandau note"

  arrived, the '67 war erupted. Shells were falling on Jerusalem, and the

  note was brushed aside like junk mail. Israel was in peril, but from

  Egyptian tanks and planes, not the "Unholy Fire of Armageddon," whatever

  that meant.

  Later, when the smoke had cleared and the dead were buried, Stern's

  superiors decided the note had merely been a warning of Egypt's imminent

  war plans. After all, the note was in Russian, and it was the Russians

  who had been supplying Egypt with weapons. "A communist with a

  religious conscience," they'd said, "a common enough breed." But Stern

  had never accepted that. Why would the note have mentioned Spandau, of

  all things? And so he'd kept the note.

  At the foot of the stairs, he slipped his shoes back on and glided out

  into the frigid darkness. Forty meters - up the Liitzenstrasse stood

  Professor Natterman, clinging to his briefcase like a diamond courier.

  He flagged down a speeding yellow taxi and climbed inside.

  Stern smiled and climbed into his rental car.

  Four floors above the street, Ilse sat cross-legged on the floor behind

  her triple-bolted door, fixed her eyes on the wall clock, and waited

  with both hands on the telephone.

  9.40 Pm. Polizei AbschniH 53

  The clang of the pipe apparently carried much farther than a human

  voice. Hans had been smashing it against the bars for less than a

  minute when the basement door crashed open and a powerful flashlight

  beam sliced down through the darkness.

  "Stop that goddamn banging!" shouted a guttural voice.

  Rolf again, Hans thought. The profanity was a dead giveaway. The same

  bearded man trailed behind him, but this time the pair stayed well back

  from the cell and aimed the flashlight in.

  "Well?" said Rolf from behind the glare. "What the hell do you want?

  The facilities not up to your high standards?'@ Hans flexed his fists in

  rage. If he could only lure one of them into the cell . . .

  "This man's dead," he said, pointing to the gurney.

  Neither guard responded.

  "Come in here and check his pulse, if you don't believe me.

  "If he's dead, what can we do?" said Rolf, chuckling his logic.

  "Get him out of here!" Hans cried.

  "Sorry," said the other guard, with a trace of sympathy.

  "We can't come in. Orders."

  In desperation Hans shoved the gurney to the front of the cell and

  thrust his friend's lifeless arm through the bars.

  "Feel it, damn you!"

  "Take it easy," said the second man. "I'll do it." He pinched Weiss's

  wrist expertly between his thumb and middle finger and counted to

  thirty. "The man's dead, all right."

  Rolf checked Weiss's pulse himself. "So he is. Well, you just stay

  right here with him, Sergeant. We'll send somebody down for him.

  Eventually."

  Hans turned to the wall in despair. Obviously these two thugs weren't

  going to be lured into the cell. When he finally turned back around,

  they had gone. He picked his way to the rear of the cell and sat down

  on a box of files. I can wait, he told himself. Someone's got to come

  in here eventually, and when they do ...

  Fifteen minutes later the basement door crashed open again. This time

  Hans heard no cursing <)r stumbling from the stairs. The tread of boots

  was loud and regular. Whoever was coming knew his way around down here.

  "This way, idiot," muttered a disembodied voice.

  Nothing could have prepared Hans for the next few seconds. When the

  boots stopped in front of his cell, the flashlight beam arced in and

  blinded him completely. He squinted in pain. Then, out of the

  blackness behind the dazzling light came a voice that froze his heart.

  "Hans? Are you okay.

  Oh God ... Slowly his contracting pupils filtered out the glare.

  He saw the hand gripping the flashlight through the bars. Then, just

  above it, Captain Dieter Hauer's mustached face coalesced in the

  darkness. The leering grin of Rolf floated above and behind him.

  Hans felt a caustic wave of bile rising into his throat.

  Whatever was going on, Hauer was part of it! His mind reeled, fighting

  the realization that his own father had helped murder his friend. He

  felt a knifelike pain in his chest, as if his very heart had cracked.

  Come in here, you bastard! he thought savagely Just come right in ...

  Apparently, Hauer intended to do just that. He turned to Rolf.

  "Give me the key," he said.

  "But we're not supposed to go in," Rolf objected. "Lieutenant Luhr

  said-" Hauer snatched the key from Rolf's hand and opened the cell door.

  "Hans, listen," he said softly, "I need to ask-"

  "Aaaaaarrgh!"

  With every ounce of strength in his body, Hans drove himself off the

  back wall and into Hauer's midsection. The flying tackle crushed Hauer

  against the steel bars, driving the breath from his lungs. He collapsed

  in a heap on the floor, sucking for air. Hans grabbed his neck and

  began throttling him in blind hatred. Here was the man to pay for

  Weiss's life, and so much more ...

  It was a simple matter for Rolf to pick up the lead pipe and knock Hans

  unconscious. Having done so, he viciously kicked the limp body off of

  Hauer and revived the captain by taking hold of his belt and lifting him

  repeatedly off the floor. Slowly Hauer sat up and looked at Hans lying

  motionless on the cell floor.

  "'Thanks,"
he coughed.

  "You owe me for that@" said Rolf. "That prick meant to kill you!"

  "I don't blame him," Hauer muttered.

  "What?" Rolf's eyes narrowed. "What were you trying to say to him,

  anyway?"

  Hans moaned and rolled over. His head banged against the bars.

  "Shit," Rolf grumbled, "why don't we just kill this Klugscheisser?"

  "We need him. Help me get him up on one of these boxes."

  Focusing his eyes slowly, Hans sat up. He'd vomited a little on his

  shirt front. "Fa he moaned. "Father? You can't be part of this-"

  "What did he say?" Rolf asked.

  "He's delirious."

  "Weiss is dead!" Hans screamed suddenly.

  "So are you," Rolf spat. "You pathetic fuck."

  The next four seconds were a blur of motion. Hauer's lips flattened to

  a thin line. Quicker than thought he whirled on Rolf and shattered his

  jaw with a killing blow from his right fist. Almost simultaneously he

  snatched the pipe away with his left hand and brought it down on Rolf's

  skull, fracturing his cranium with a sickening crunch. Rolf died before

  he hit the floor.

  Hans had been stunned by the blow to his head, but even more by this

  sudden reversal. But there was no time to think. Hauer knelt over him.

  "Don't ask me anything!" he snarled. "Don't say anything!

  I don't know how you got involved in this, but you're in way over your

  empty head. I don't know if Weiss was in it, but he paid the price

  tonight.

  You're hiding something-I saw that at Funk's little hearing, and so did

  anyone else who was paying attention. You can't lie for shit, Hans,

  you're too honest for it."

  "Wait-I don't understand," Hans stammered. "Why?"

  "Quiet! We're about to take the most dangerous walk of our lives.

  If someone finds this shitbag before we get out of the station, we're

  dead. Can you move?"

  Hans tried to rise, but his legs buckled.

  "Get up!"

  "I can't. It's my head ... my balance."

  "Christ!" With a sudden violence Hauer shoved Weiss's corpse off the

  gurney and onto the floor.

  "Captain!"

  Listen, Hans, he's gone! We're alive, You just be ready when I get

  back."

  with startling speed Hauer battled the gurney through the dark basement,

  then collapsed its legs and dragged it up the stairs. In two minutes he

  was back in the cell, leaning over Hans.

  "i'm going to carry you up to that gurney and wheel you out the back

  door. Can you hang on?"

  Hans nodded dully.

  "I want you to see something before we go."

  Hauer picked up the flashlight and held it to the right side of Rolf's

  smashed skull. He dug in the blond hair until he found what he wanted,

  then lifted the head slightly and leaned back to make room for Hans.

  "First this," he said.

  "Look."

  Hans looked. At first he saw nothing. Only the bloody roots of Rolf's

  flaxen hair. Then Hauer's thick fingers scratched against the dead

  man's scalp, scraping some of the blood away. Hans saw it now, behind

  the right ear. It was a tattoo. Bloodred ink had @en injected into

  Rolf's scalp by a very talented needle. The design itself was less than

  two centimeters long, but very detailed. It was an eye. A single,

  gracefully curved red eye. With a lid but no lashes. Hans felt his

  stomach turn a slow somersault. The eye was identical to the one

  sketched on the opening page of the Spandau papers!

  You mustfollow the Eye ... The Eye is the key to it all!

  "See it?" Hauer grunted.

  Hans nodded dumbly.

  Rolf's head thudded against the cement floor. Hauer stepped across the

  cell and dragged Weiss's corpse over to where Hans sat against the wall.

  "You won't forget this for a while," he said. He put his hands into

  Weiss'shirt and ripped it open down the front.

  Then he pulled up the undershirt.

  "What are you doing?" Hans asked, offended by this further indignity

  visited upon the dead.

  Hauer picked up the flashlight and shone it onto Weiss's almost hairless

  chest. Hans leaned over, straining his eyes, then he froze.

  Weiss's chest was awash in blood.

  "Take a deep breath," Hauer advised. He wiped away most of the blood

  with Weiss's undershirt. "Now," he said.

  "See it?"

  Hans felt dizzy with horror. Gouged deep into Erhard Weiss's flesh by

  some unspeakable instrument was a large, six-pointed star.

  The Star of David. The edges of the linear wounds looked so ragged that

  whoever had inflicted them must have done it with a screwdriver, or a

  long nail. Hans felt vomit coming up like a geyser.

  He gagged and turned away.

  "No!" Hauer snapped, grabbing his shoulder. "Get up!"

  Choking down bile, Hans tried to stand. With a stifled groan, Hauer

  caught hold of him, slung him over his shoulder like a sack, and plodded

  out of the cell. Tlwice Hauer stumbled as they crossed the cluttered

  basement floor, but both times he regained his balance. The stairs took

  longer.

  Each successive step required increasing amounts of time and energy from

  Hauer's sleep-deprived body.

  "Stop!" Hans begged, fearing they would both fall. "Put me down.

  I can make it."

  Just as he felt Hauer's broad back sag under the strain, he saw a crack

  of light in the darkness. The basement door.

  They had made it. Grunting, Hauer kicked open the door and heaved Hans

  onto the gurney. "Don't even breathe," he said, wheezing like a draft

  horse. "If anyone stops us, I take him out. You stay on this cart! As

  far as anyone knows, you killed Rolf, then I killed you. Period."

  Hauer shoved the gurney into motion and veered right, rolling his human

  contraband toward the rear entrance Hans had used when he arrived. Hans

  opened one eye to orient himself, but Hauer promptly struck him on the

  head. Rounding the last corner, Hauer saw the pinch-faced young

  policeman who had questioned Hans earlier. The guard rose from his desk

  before Hauer reached him.

  "Where are you taking this man?" he challenged. "No one leaves the

  building without written orders from the prefect."

  "This man's dead," Hauer said, slowing to a stop. "He was alive when he

  walked in here. The prefect doesn't write orders that tie him to

  embarrassing corpses. Now, let me pass."

  For a moment the officer looked uncertain. Then he cocked his chin up

  and resumed his arrogant tone. "There's no one back here but us. It

  won't hurt to ring Lieutenant Luhr upstairs."

  He lifted the phone from its cradle, then leaned over Hans's face and

  stared. Hans lay completely still, but it would not have saved them.

  Hauer could see what was comw ing. The policeman's left hand ' as

  moving up to Hans's wrist, searching for a pulse ...

  Hauer brought his right fist down like a hammer on the man's temple.

  Hans's eyes shot open when the body landed on him, but he stayed on the

  gurney. Hauer quickly wrapped the telephone cord several times around

  the stunned guard's wrists, then, spying a cloth napkin on the desk,

  stuffed it into his mouth and let him fall to th
e floor.

  "Hang on!" he bellowed. He slammed the gurney through the heavy door

  that led to the rear parking lot.

  The cold hit them like a wall of ice.

  "Get up!" Hauer said. "We've got to steal a car. Mine's parked in

  front of the station."

  "Mine's back here," Hans groaned, trying to rise.

  "You've still got your keys?"

  "No one took them."

  "Idiots! Give them to me!"

  Hans fished the keys out of his pocket and handed them over.

  Hauer helped him off the gurney and into the car, then climbed into the

  driver's seat and fired the engine. Incredibly, the Volkswagen kicked

  over without grumbling.

  "This is our lucky day," Hans croaked, still a bit silly from the blow

  to his head.

  Hauer drove slowly out of the lot, turning south on the Friedrichstrasse

  to avoid the reporters, then shot down the first side street he came to.

  He had to make some decisions very fast, but he could think of nowhere

  safe to make them.

  Just drive, he thought. Headfor the seedy section of the city and let

  my mind clear Instinct would guide him. It always had. Maybe Hans

  could give him a direction. He reached over and jerked Hans's chin up.

  "Wake up! It's time to talk."

  "My God," Hans mumbled. "Weiss ... what did they do to him?"

  Hauer cruised past the Anhalter Banhof, then wrenched the VW into

  another side street. "That was play time," he growled, "compared to

  what they'll do if they find us. You'd better have some answers, Hans.

  I just threw away my badge, my reputation, my pension, and probably my

  life. If you mention our stupid agreement now, I'll brain you myself.

  Now make yourself useful. Start watching for patrol cars."

  Praying that he would awaken from this nightmare, Hans slid up in his

  seat, put a hand to his throbbing head, and peered out into the icebound

  Berlin darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  9.55 Pm. British Sector.- West Berlin As Captain Hauer wheeled Hans's

  Volkswagen out of Polizei Abschnitt 53, Professor Natterman stepped out

  of a taxi thirty blocks away, paid his cabbie, and hurried into the

  milling throngs of Zoo Station. He tried to walk slowly, but found it

  difficult. Missing his train would mean standing around the station for

  hours with nothing to do but worry about the nine sheets of onionskin

  taped into the small of his back. Sighting a ticket window with a short

  queue, he got into line and set down his heavy suitcase.