The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

  Horn made a dismissive gesture with his skeletal arm.

  "Don't worry. I'm relying on Arab impatience, not stupidity.

  Hussein, Assad, these men might have the self-control to wait and try to

  develop a cohesive plan. N-of our friend. He will strike swiftly.

  Consider how quickly he agreed to our meeting. He won't purposefully

  hit Jerusalem-there are too many sacred Muslim sites there. And the

  security around Dimona is airtight. We needn't worry on that score.

  The target will beTel Aviv."

  Horn's one living eye focused on the Afrikaner. "What of the Spandau

  matter, Pieter? Have they captured the traitor?

  Have they found the papers?"

  "Not yet, sir. Berlin-One assures me it is only a matter of time.

  However, I received a call from his immediate subordinate, Berlin-Two.

  He's a lieutenant, I believe. Jiirgen Luhr."

  "And?"

  "Lieutenant Luhr doesn't feel the prefect is up to the job.

  He's moved some of our German assets into play without the prefect's

  knowledge. He checked the files on the two missing officers and

  dispatched men to all locations they might possibly run to. I approved

  his action. Who knows what those Bruderschaft clowns are really doing.

  A little competition might speed up the capture."

  "I'm surprised that these policemen were able to escape at all," Horn

  remarked.

  Smuts shifted uncomfortably. "I did a little checking on my own, sir.

  The man who betrayed us-Hauer-he's quite an officer, it seems.

  An ex-soldier. Even the young man with him was decorated for bravery."

  Horn raised a long, crooked finger in Smuts's tanned face.

  "Never underestimate the German soldier, Pieter. He is the toughest in

  the world. Let this be a lesson to you."

  Smuts colored. "Yes, sir."

  "Keep me posted hourly. I'm anxious to see how this exsoldier does."

  "You almost sound as if you want them to escape."

  "Nonsense, Pieter. By getting hold of the Spandau papers, we might well

  buy ourselves extra time. At least we can keep the Russians and the

  Jews out of our business, if not the British. But that's it, you see.

  At this moment mI-5, the KGB, and the Mossad must be scouring Berlin for

  our two German policemen, yet so far they have failed to capture them.

  If these men live up to their racial heritage, I suspect they will

  manage to evade their pursuers. In the end we will have to find them

  ourselves."

  The Afrikaner nodded. "I'll find them."

  Horn smiled coldly. "I know you will, Pieter. If this Hauer but knew

  you as I do, he would already have given himself up."

  CHAPTER NINE

  10.35 Pm. Goethestrasse: West Berlin "There, " Hauer grunted. He had

  wedged Hans's Volkswagen so tightly between two parked cars that the one

  behind would have to be moved to reveal the license plate.

  "All right, where's the house?"

  "I'm not sure," Hans replied, peering through his window.

  "I've never been here before."

  "Are you joking?"

  Hauer stared in disbelief "So why are we here?"' "Because it's just what

  you asked for-a place we can't be traced to."

  Hans climbed out of the VW and started up the deserted street, skirting

  the pools of light from the street lamps.

  "That's it," he said, glancing back over his shoulder. Hauer followed a

  few paces behind. "See it? Eleven-fifty."

  "Quiet!" said Hauer. "You'll wake the whole block."

  Hans was already halfway up the walk. He rapped loudly on the front

  door, waited half a minute, then knocked again.

  Finally, a muffled voice came from behind the wood.

  "I'm coming already!"

  Someone fumbled with the latch, theri, the door opened wide.

  Standing in a pair of blue silk pajamas, a tiny man with silver hair and

  a tuft of beard squinted through the darkness. He reached for a light

  switch.

  "Please leave the light off, Herr Ochs," Hans said.

  "What? Who are you?" Finally the uniform registered in the old man's

  brain. "Polizei," he murmured. "Is there some problem?"

  Hans stepped closer. He took the tattered business card from his pocket

  and handed it to the old man. "I don't know if you remember me, Herr

  Ochs, but you said that if I ever needed a favor-"

  "Gott im Himmel!" Ochs cried, his eyes wide. "Sergeant Apfel!"

  Hans nodded. "That's right. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, but

  there's an emergency. My captain and I need to make some telephone

  calls. We can't use the station just now-I, "Say no more, Sergeant.

  Come inside. Did I not tell you?

  Ben Ochs knows how to return a favor. And what a vor!

  Bernice!"

  An even tinier gray-haired woman appeared behind Ochs.

  She stared at the uniforms with trepidation. "What is it, Benjamin?"

  "It's young Hans Apfel! He needs our help. Get your slippers, Bernice.

  We'll need some tea and. . ." Ochs trailed off, noticing the large

  bruise at the base of Hans's skull, a souvenir of Rolf's lead pipe.

  "Something stronger, I think ' "

  "Please," said Hans, following the old man inside, "all we need is a

  telephone." "Nonsense, you look terrible. You need food, and

  something to calm your nerves.

  Bernice?"

  Frau Ochs bustled into the kitchen, talking all the way.

  "There's chicken in the refrigerator, boys, and cabbage too.

  It's no feast, but this is very short notice."

  The old tailor pulled two chairs from beneath the kitchen table; Hans

  immediately collapsed into one. The Ochses' kindness seemed

  otherworldly after the events of the past four hours. Hans felt as if

  he'd been running for days.

  Hauer had been too amazed by the warm rece tion to say anything.

  Summoning a smile, he extended his hand to Ochs. "Guten Abend, Herr

  Ochs. I'm Captain Dieter Hauer." Ochs nodded respectfully.

  "I'm afraid Hans is right. A rather'special situation has arisen.

  I myself believe it's just another of the endless exercises they put us

  through, but of course we never know for sure. If we could just use

  your telephone for a few minutes, we would be gone before you know it."

  Ochs nodded again, slower this time. "You are a poor liar, Captain. But

  I count that in your favor. Most honest men make poor liars. If you're

  anything like your young friend, you are always welcome in my house.

  This boy"-Ochs grinned and patted Hans on the shoulder-"this boy saved

  my life.

  Three years ago I was trapped in a burning car, and Hans was the only

  man who had the nerve to get me out."

  The light of realization dawned on Hauer's face. Only now did he notice

  the old man's left hand; it was withered and covered with scar tissue

  from a deep burn.

  Ochs shook his head in wonder. "I thought he was trying to kill me! He

  blasted out the window right over my head!"

  The old man laughed and stepped over to the counter. "Here is the

  chicken," he said. Then he held up a dark bottle his wife had pulled

  from a high cabinet. "And here is some brvm @ .fn randy-for the nerves.

  We'll leave you to your business now. Come along, Bernice."

  Taking his wife u
nder his silk-covered arm, Benjamin Ochs left the

  kitchen without looking back.

  "Unbelievable," said Hauer, shaking his head.

  Hans snatched up the telephone and dialed the apartment.

  He heard three rings ... four ... then someone picked up.

  He waited for Ilse's voice, but heard only silence. "Ilse?" he said

  finally. "Liebchen? Are you there?"

  A brittle male voice chilled him to the bone. "Guten Abend, Sergeant.

  I'm afraid your wife is unable to get to the phone just now."

  "Who is this?" Hans shouted. "Let me speak to my wife!"

  Hauer signaled him to keep his voice down, but Hans ignored the warning.

  "Put my wife on the phone!"

  "As I said," the voice continued, "the lovely Frau is occupied just now.

  Indisposed, let us say. If you wish to speak to her, it would be much

  quicker for you to come here."

  "I'm on my way, you bastard! If she's harmed in any way, I'll-" Hans

  looked at Hauer in a daze. The line had gone dead. He slammed down the

  phone. "They have her! We've got to get to the apartment!"

  He was halfway to the foyer when Hauer barked, "Wait!"

  Hans whirled. "Wait? Have you lost your mind?"

  Hauer's voice went flat. "You won't get far without keys."

  Hans groped in his pockets. "Give them to me," he said quietly.

  "I can't, Hans. You're making a mistake."

  Hans took a step forward. "Give me my keys."

  Hauer shook his head. "You don't know they have Ilse.

  You didn't actually speak to her."

  "Give me my goddamn keys!" Hans sprang forward, ready to thrash Hauer

  until he gave up the keys. But when he raised his hands to Hauer's

  neck, he felt something hard pressing into his stomach. When he looked

  down, he saw a 9mm Walther PI pistol, standard issue for the West Berlin

  police.

  "Now," said Hauer, "you're going to sit there quietly while I make a

  phone call. Then we'll decide what to do about Ilse."

  "Don't you understand?" Hans pleaded. "They have my wife! I have to

  go! You ... you . . ."-his voice changed suddenly-"you don't

  understand, do you? You never had a wife. You ran out on the one woman

  who loved you! My mother!"

  "That's a lie," Hauer whispered.

  Hans's face burned with emotion. "It isn't! You ran out on her when

  she was pregnant! Pregnant with me! Give me those keys, you son of a

  bitch!"

  Hauer had gone very still. His big fists were clenchedone around the

  butt of the Walther. "You think you know something about me," he said.

  "You don't know anytning. A file isn't a man, Hans. Yes, I know you

  went through my personnel file." He worked his left fist angrily. "I

  don't know if you deserve the truth, but the truth is that I didn't know

  I had a son until you were twelve years old."

  "You're lying!" Hans insisted. But something about that age had

  sparked a strange light behind his eyes.

  "I'm not," Hauer said softly. "Think back. You were twelve years old."

  Hans felt his chest tightening. The pain in his eyes told Hauer that he

  had remembered. "I knew you couldn't have forgotten that," Hauer said.

  "It was bad. Munich, the day after the Olympic massacre.

  Did you ever make that connection?"

  Hans looked away.

  Hauer spoke quickly, as if the words burned his mouth passing through

  it. "It was the lowest point in my life. Those Jewish athletes died

  for nothing, Hans. Because of German arrogance and stupidity. Just

  like in the war. And I was a part of it. I'd been flown into Munich as

  a sharpshooter . . ."

  Hauer seemed about to continue the story-then he stopped, realizing that

  one more telling wouldn't change anything.

  "After the slaughter was over," he murmured, "I went crazy.

  Went off on my own. I needed something-a human touch, a lifeline. And

  there I was in the city my old lover had run off to, totally by chance.

  After a dozen schnapps, though, I started thinking maybe it wasn't by

  chance. So I went looking for your mother."

  "You found her."

  "I found you. You were the last thing in the world I expected.

  Your mother called the Munich police on me, of course. My showing up

  after all those years was her worst nightmare. But the moment I saw

  you, Hans, I knew you were mine. I knew it. She didn't even try to

  deny it."

  Hauer's eyes focused on the kitchen floor. "But she had me over a

  barrel, Hans. Somehow they'd fixed it-her and her rich husband@so that

  he'd legally adopted you. I paid a lawyer two months' salary to look

  into it, but in the end he told me to forget it. Your mother had

  already poisoned you against me, anyway-she let me know that before

  anything else." Hauer looked up into Hans's eyes. "What did she tell

  you about that day?"

  Hans shrugged. "She told me who you were. That you were my real

  father. But she said you'd only come back to ask for money. To beg for

  a loan."

  Hauer looked stunned.

  "I don't think I believed her, though," Hans said softly, "even then.

  Not deep down. You know what I remember about that day?"

  Hauer shook his head.

  "Your uniform. A perfect green uniform with medals on the chest.

  I never forgot that. And when the police showed up to take you away,

  you showed them your badge and they went away instead."

  Hauer swallowed hard. "Is that why you became a policeman?"

  "Partly, I guess. I really became a cop because it was absolutely the

  worst thing I could do in Mother's eyes. She'd spent twenty years

  trying to mold me into,a banker, like her first husband. And I guess he

  wasn't so bad, really, looking back, But when she married that goddamn

  lawyer, I started to hate her. She was so transparent ...

  always trying to buy respect. And I hated her more because I knew that

  in some twisted way she was doing it all for me. After she married the

  lawyer, I wanted to hurt her as much as she'd hurt me.

  And the best way to do that was to become everything she had run away

  from when she was young. To become a working-class slave, just like

  you." Hans laughed. "Then I found out I liked the job. What would

  Freud say about that, I wonder?"

  Hauer forced a smile.

  "I believe what you've told me," Hans said. "But when I showed up in

  Berlin wearing this uniform, why didn't you tell me your side of it?"

  "That was ten years after Munich," Hauer explained.

  "Long before then I'd resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to live

  the rest of my life without you, or any family.

  When you came marching up to me outside that police station, with a

  hundred-pound chip on your shoulder and reciting that stupid agreement

  you'd worked out, I didn't know what to think. You'd already come that

  far back to me on your own ... I wasn't going to rush anything."

  Hans nodded. "I wanted to make it on my own. I didn't want an help

  from you. And no matter how much I hated Mother then, I wasn't ready to

  find out the truth about you.

  Not if the truth was that you really had run out on us."

  "She never told me she was pregnant, Hans. It's an old story. I was

  good enough to f
all in love with, but not to marry. It's sad, really.

  She hadn't grown up any better than I had, but she'd set her sights on

  marrying rich. Fear of poverty, I guess. She did love me, I still

  believe that. But there was no way her kid was going to be raised by a

  cop. She wanted it all for you, Hans, gymnasium, university-I, "You

  don't have to tell me," Hans cut in. "I know it all by heart."

  "But what I can't forgive is her putting it all on me. Making me out to

  be ... Christ, I don't know."

  "It's okay. It is. How could she tell me it was her fault I didn't

  have a father?" Hans's eyes fell on the face of his watch. He looked

  up quickly. Hauer was still pointing the Walther at him.

  "I know what you're thinking," Hauer said. "Don't try it.

  Look, if whoever was in your apartment really had Ilse, they would have

  put her on the phone. They'd have made her draw you. It's you they

  want@r what you found."

  "But you can't know that. What if she's hurt? What if she couldn't

  speak? What if she's deaal?"

  Hauer lowered the pistol a few centimeters. "I concede those

  possibilities. But we're not going to charge into a situation we know

  nothing about to die like romantic fools.

  First we must know if we are being hunted officially." He picked up the

  telephone with his left hand and punched in a number. "I want you to

  think of any possible places Ilse might have run to, or even gone

  innocently. And Hansthink like a policeman, not a husband. That, if

  anything, will save your wife." With a last look at Hans, he stuck the

  Walther into his belt.

  Hans felt his fists quivering. A wild voice told him to bash Hauer's

  skull and take the car keys, that quick action was Ilse's only chance.

  But his police experience told him that Hauer-that his father-was right.

  "Communications desk," Hauer said curtly.

  "Who's calling?"

  "Telefon. There's a line problem."

  "Hold, bitte."

  Hauer put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Pray Steuben's still on duty,"

  he whispered.

  "This is Sergeant Steuben," said a deep voice. "We have no line

  problem."

  "Steuben-"

  "Dieter? My God! Where are you?"

  "Let's just say I'm still under my own.recognizance."

  Steuben's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're damned lucky. Funk has

  an army out looking for you and that young sergeant. They're watching

  all the checkpointseverywhere."