by Greg Iles
"At the apartment."
"No! You made copies?"
"No, damn it! I don't care about the papers anymore!
We're going to get Ilse now!"
Hauer pinned him against the seat with an arm of iron.
"You saw Weiss, didn't you? If you go charging into your apartment, the
same thing could happen to you. And to Ilse."
The memory of Weiss's mutilated corpse brought a strange stillness over
Hans. "What did happen to Weiss?"
Hauer sighed. "Someone got too impatient, pushed the doctor too far.
Probably Luhr, Funk's personal stormtrooper." He shook his head.
"Later tonight they'll shoot his body full of cocaine and dump him in
the Havel."
"My God," Hans breathed. "You saw it. You were there."
He balled his hands into fists.
"Hans! Get hold of yourself! I did not see Weiss tortured."
"You knew about his chest!"
Hauer grimaced. "I overheard someone talking about it.
It's ... it's sort of a specialty of theirs. With certain Jews.
Why did that boy join the- department at all? You'd think a Jew would
know better."
Hans's mouth fell open. "You're saying it was Weiss's fault someone
mutilated him?"
"I'm saying if you're a lamb you don't run with the wolf pack!"
The memory of Weiss brought back the mark on Rolf's head, the haunting
eye from the Spandau papers. "What about the tattoo?" Hans asked
quietly. "What does that mean?"
Hauer shook his head. "It's complicated, Hans. The eye is a mark some
people use-some very dangerous people. I'm not one of them. I just
wanted you to remember the design."
He leaned his head across the seat. "Look behind my right ear.
In the hair. If I had the tattoo, it would be there."
Hans studied Hauer's close-cropped scalp, but he saw no tattoo.
"I'm not one of them," said Hauer, straightening up. "But until five
minutes ago, they thought I was. We've Fot to find somewhere safe to
hide, Hans, somewhere with a phone. Before we can get your wife, we've
got to know what Funk and Luhr are up to. I've got a man inside the
station I can call- "
"So let's go upstairst There are probably a dozen phones up in the
lobby. I can call Ilse, warn her to get out!"
Hans reached for.the door handle, but Hauer stopped him again.
"We can't, Hans. We're in uniform. Everyone will be staring at the two
beat-up cops using the pay phones. Funk's men would find us in no
time."
Hans jerked his arm free. "Where, then? A friend's house?"
"No. No friends, no family. It's got to be untraceable. An empty
house or ... something."
Slowly, almost mechanically, Hans removed his wallet from his pants
pocket and took out a tattered white business card. He stared at it a
moment, then handed it to Hauer.
"What's this?" Hauer read aloud: " 'Benjamin Ochs, The Best Tailor in
Berlin.' You want to go to your tailor shop?"
"He's not my tailor," Hans said tersely.
"Eleven-fifty Goethestrasse. No one can trace you to this place?"
"Trust me."
Hauer looked skeptical.
Hans turned away. The stress of being treated like an animal, caged and
hunted, was congealing into something cold and hard in the pit of his
stomach. With a guttural groan he slammed his open hand against the
dashboard. "Get this fucking car moving!"
Hauer looked hard into Hans's eyes, gauging the mettle there.
"Right," he said finally. He fired the engine and roared out of the
hotel garage with tires squealing, making for the Goethestrasse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
lL725 pm. Liitzenstrasse: West Berlin The men waiting within and
without Ilse's apartment building were not police. They were KGB agents
sent to the Liitzenstrasse by Colonel Ivan Kosov. Kosov himself waited
impatiently in a second BMW parked at the end of the block.
Kosov hated stakeouts. Long ago he had foolishly thought that once he
attained sufficient rank he would be spared the monotony of these
endless vigils. And perhaps one day he would. But tonight was one more
in an endless series of proofs to the contrary. Exasperated, he reached
for the radio microphone mounted on the auto's dash.
"Report, One," he said.
"The lobby's clear," crackled a metallic voice.
"Two?"
"Nothing in the hall. The door's locked, no sound from inside."
"Four?"
"Three's with me. No sign of Apfel or the wife."
"Stay awake," Kosov said gruffly. "Out."
Shit, he thought, how long will it take? Sitting in this ballfreezing
cold, chattering over the short-,range radios as if simply alternating
frequencies could mask the russian-accented commands ricocheting through
the Berlin audio net like lines from a bad movie.
He wished there were another way. But he knew there wasn't.
Three floors above Kosov, the door to apartment 43
opened and two garishly made-up redheads stepped into the hallway.
One locked the door while her young companion stared invitingly at the
man standing at attention outside apartment 40. The young woman nudged
her middle-aged com anion, who chuckled and led the wa over to the
silent manNa , mein Siisser, " Eva flirted in a husky voice. "All alone
up here tonight?"
Taken aback by her directness, the Russian stared back in silence.
She's at least fifty, he thought, much too old for my taste. But you're
something else altogether he thought, hungrily eyeing the younger
woman's cleavage. With a flash of surprise, he realized that she was
the demure blonde he had seen enter apartment 43 twenty minutes earlier.
He barely recognized her beneath the heavy makeup and wig, She can't be
more than twenty-five, he guessed, and breasts like a Georgian goddess .
..
"Guten Abend, Frdulein," he said to the younger woman.
I think you looked much better before."
Ilse felt her throat tighten.
"I think he's set on you, Helga," Eva said, laughing. She patted the
Russian on his rear. "Too bad, dearie,'Iittle Helga's booked for
tonight. But you're in luck. I know a dozen tricks this child's never
even heard of. What do you say?" .
Abashed by the old tart's boldness, the Russian went temporarily blank.
"Oh, forget it," Eva said, pulling Ilse down the hall. "If you don't
know what you want, we don't have time to wait."
Kosov's young agent watched the middle-aged redhead follow her shapely
companion into the elevator cage. Eva yanked the lever that started the
slow descent and then, still holding eye contact with the guard, pumped
her fist lewdly up and down the iron rod. When the Russian colored in
embarrassment, she hiked her bright skirt over a well-preserved thigh
and burst into laughter.
As soon as the cage sank below the line of the floor, Eva cut her voice
to a whisper. "Here comes the hard part. We were lucky that time. The
odds just went-'down."
Ilse clutched her friend's arm. "You shouldn't have come with me!"
"You'd never have made it by yourself, darling.' "But you're in danger
too!"
Eva plucked a
gob of mascara out of her eye. "I'm glad to do it.
If I hadn't had you to talk to for the last three years, I'd have gone
mad in that tiny apartment."
"But all your men friends-" 146 n le in isgust. "Don't even mention
those bums. Don't act like you don't know what I do.
You and Hans have always known, and you've never treated me any
different than family. So shut up and take some help. We're not out of
this yet."
The elevator screeched to an uncertain stop. Eva yanked open the screen
and stormed through the lobby, cursing the elevator and every other
mechanical device ever invented.
With Ilse struggling along behind on a pair of Eva's four-inch heels, the
old barmaid clacked past the two Russians at the building's entrance as
if they did not exist.
"Halt!" yelled one of Kosov's men as Ilse hurried past.
Ilse's heart thudded in her chest.
The Russian caught hold of her elbow. "Hey, Frdulein," he said, leaning
close to her. "Why the hurry?"
Eva paused impatiently at the curb. She looked up and down the street,
then walked back to the door. "Next time, sweetie," she snapped,
stepping protectively in front of Ilse.
"We've got a party to go to."
"It can wait," said the young man, leering at his companion.
"Stay here and keep us warm for a while. It's cold out."
"Colder by the minute, Arschloch," Eva spat. "If we don't get out of
this wind in thirty seconds our tits will snap off."
The Russian shed his smile like a snakeskin. His eyes glazed with a
reptilian sheen. He took a step toward Eva.
"Forget it, Misha," urged his companion. "They're just whores."
"Fucking filth," the Russian muttered.
"Misha, " said his partner anxiously. "Remember Colonel Kosov."
Misha took a long look at Eva as if to mark her for future
retribution, then snorted and walked into the lobby. When he next
looked outside, the two women were already across the street and halfway
down the block, moving toward Colonel Kosov's BMW.
Kosov had just lifted the microphone from the dash when he spied two
prostitutes walking quickly up the Liitzenstrasse.
"Report, One," he said, half-watching them.
"Lobby still clear."
"Two?"
"No movement inside the apartment."
"Damn. Three and Four?"
r
"All clear here. No sign of him."
The prostitutes reached the hood of the BMW, passed it.
"All positions," said Kosov, "I have two women passing me from your
direction. Anyone see where they entered the street?"
The radio squawked as three signals competed for reproduction.
"Four here, sir. They came from the apartment building. Looked like
two whores to us."
Kosov felt a tic in his cheek. He turned away as the headlights of a
passing car shone through the BMW. When he looked again he saw one of
the women raise an arm and flag the car to a stop. That's odd, he
thought, a taxi here at this hour And picking up a couple of
streetwalkers ...
"Two here," crackled the radio. "Those prostitutes came from number
forty-three, this floor. Opposite my position.
One of them even propositioned me."
Kosov struck the dash with his fist. "One of them is the wife!
Misha, to the car! Two, enter number forty and proceed!" Kosov looked
frantically for an alley in which to turn the BMW around. With cars
parked both sides of the street he had no room to make a U.
Inside the taxi, Eva spoke rapidly. "Perfect timing, Ernst darling. Now
zoom around the corner and stop as fast as you can." She looked back
over her shoulder. "Ilse, when he stops, you jump right out and get
into the alley there. If they keep after me, you've made it. If they
don't@' "Who were those men, Eva? Police?"
"Stinking Russians, sweetie. Didn't you catch the name Misha?"
The taxi jounced onto the curb. "Eva, how can I thank@' "Go!"
Eva cried, squeezing Ilse's hand. "Jump! Go!"
The screech of tires drowned Ilse's reply as the taxi sped down the
Gervinusstrasse. Ilse ducked into the alley just as Kosov's BMW
careened around the corner and surged after Eva and her cabbie friend.
She collapsed,against the cold concrete wall of an office building, her
heart beating wildly.
Ten seconds later a second BMW raced after the first.
Turning her back to the icy wind, Ilse doffed the sluttish clothes Eva
had given her and tossed the wig into an overflowing garbage bin.
Now she wore the conservative casuals she'd had on when she first
spotted the BMW. Habit made her hang on to one costume accessory Eva
had thrust into her hand-a large plastic purse. As she debated whether
to keep Eva's flashy coat, Ilse heard the rumble of a heavy automobile
engine. Seconds later a pair of headlights nosed into the far end of
the alley.
Ilse snatched up the discarded clothes and climbed into the only hiding
place she could see-the garbage bin. The smell was terrible, cloyingly
sweet. She held her nose with one hand and covered her eyes with the
other. The powerful purr of the BMW edged closer, a tiger trying to
spook its prey. Ilse knotted herself into a tight ball and prayed. It
took little imagination to guess how @thless the men in the black autos
must be. The young man who had propositioned her at the front door-the
one called Misha-his eyes had glazed almost to sightlessness when Eva
insulted him. Like fish eyes, Ilse thought.
She shuddered.
The BMW picked up speed as it approached the garbage bin, weaving
occasionally to probe every inch of the alley with its halogen eyes.
The walls of the trash bin vibrated from the noise. Ilse shivered from
terror and bitter cold. She h.ad no doubt that if the car engine were
shut off, the Russians would find her by the chattering of her teeth.
Suddenly, with a scream of protesting rubber, the big black sedan roared
out of the alley. Ilse scrambled up out of the garbage and dug into
Eva's purse for her shoes. Her hand closed over something soft and
familiar. She peered into the bag. Folded into a thick wad at its
bottom were three hundred Deutschemarks in small bills. Scrawled across
the top banknote in red lipstick were the words: ILSE, USE rr!
Stuffing the bills back into the purse, Ilse climbed out of the bin and
edged a little way down the alley. Damn all of this, she thought
angrily. If Eva can get me this far, I can do the rest. In less than
fifteen seconds she had analyzed her options and made a decision. She
kicked off the stiletto heels Eva had loaned her, pulled on her own
flats, and started running toward the hazy glow at the opposite end of
the alley.
1030 Pm. Tiorgartan District.- West Berlin
The moment Harry Richardson raised his hand to knock on Klaus Seeckt's
door, the door jerked open to the length of the chain latch.
"Go away, Major!" said a voice from the dark crack.
The door slammed shut. Harry moved to the side of the door, out of the
light. "Open the door, Klaus."
"Please go away, Harry!"
More
puzzled than angry, Harry flattened himself against the wall.
Normally he telephoned Klaus before coming over, but tonight he hadn't
wanted to give the East German a chance to postpone the meeting.
Feeling exposed on the lighted stoop, he pounded his fist against the
heavy oak.
"I'm not in uniform, for God's sake! Open up! Now!"
The bolt shot back with a bang. Klaus pulled the door open but remained
out of sight in the dark foyer.
"Take it easy," Harry said. "We'll play it as an official visit.
However you want."
Klaus's voice dropped in volume but doubled in urgency.
"Harry, get out of here! They're watching us!"
As Harry's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognized the stubby barrel
of a Makarov pistol in Klaus's hand. The East German wore only his
bathrobe, but his ashen face and the quivering pistol gave him a
frighteningly lethal aspect.
Harry glanced back at the street to try to spot watchers. He saw none,
but he knew that didn't mean anything.
"I tried to keep you out," Klaus said resignedly. "Remember that."
Writing off Klaus's pistol to paranoia, Harry slipped past the East
German and started toward the living room. With a hopeless sigh Klaus
shut the door and locked it behind them.
When Harry reached the living room, he saw that Klaus was indeed being
watched-but from inside the house, not out. Five men wearing dark
business suits sat leisurely on sofas and chairs arranged around a
glass-topped coffee table.
Harry looked back over his shoulder at Klaus. The German hovered
ghostlike in the shadows of the foyer, the Makarov slack against his
leg. Harry considered bolting, but Klaus hadn't tried it, so perhaps
things weren't so bad. Orperhaps, Harry thought uneasily, Klaus didn't
run because he knows the front door is covered from the outside.
Harry turned back to the living room. None of the men around the table
looked older than thirty, and no one had said anything yet. Was that
good or bad? Suddenly the oldest-looking of the group stood.
"Good evening, Major," he said in heavily accented English. "What can
we do for you?"
The young man's accent was unmistakably Russian. There would be no
attempt to pass these men off as other than what they were, Harry
realized. A very bad sign. He cleared his throat. "And by what rank
do I address you, Comrade?"
he asked in flawless Russian.
The Russian smiled, seeming to relish the idea of a catand-mouse game.
