by Greg Iles
Hans's mouth went dry. For a moment he stood speechless, his face a
graven image of horror. Then he howled from the depths of his soul.
"You fucking swine! I'm coming for her! If she's harmed you'll die
like pigs under the knife so help me God!"
Funk grinned, pleased by the suffering of the young man who had caused
him so much trouble. "Tell Hauer," he growled, "tell him to remember
Sippenhaft."
The line went dead.
With shaking hands Hans set the receiver back in its cradle and turned
to Natterman. "They have her," he said hoarsely. "And they want the
Spandau papers. Where are they, Professor?"
"Hans," Natterman said uncomfortably, "you can't make such a decision in
a fit of anger. You must take time to think."
. Hans's eyes had glazed. His mouth worked silently. "Just give me the
papers," he said finally.
With a desolate sigh the old historian dug the foil packet from his
trouser pocket and turned it slowly in his hand.
"They killed another policeman," Hans said in a robotic voice.
"Ilse said they cut his throat right in front of her."
Hauer's big hands were balled into fists.
Hans reached out to Natterman for the papers, but as he did a simple,
terrible realization struck him. The men who had kidnapped Ilse were
the same men who had gouged the Star of David into Erhard Weiss's chest
with a screwdriver.
His stomach clenched in agony. Never until this moment had he known
true fear.
Hauer's lips had begun to tremble. His jaw muscles flexed furiously.
"Wilhelm Funk is a dead man," he vowed. "I swear that by Steuben's
children. "
"I'm afraid that won't solve your problem," Natterman observed, backing
up a little. "Hans, please, you've got to try to think this thing
through rationally. What do these men want you to do?"
Hans stared unseeing at the old man. A single vision floated behind his
eyes, a searing memory of a Berlin dawn, two years before.
A kidnapped girl ... lithe and blond like Ilse ... the daughter of a
Bremerhaven shipping magnate. They'd fished her out of the Havel in the
gray morning light, her naked body bloated and lifeless, her sightless
eyes wide, her pubic hair matted with river slime. The kidnappers had
thrown her alive into the river with her hands tied behind her. The
thought that Ilse could end up like the wretched girl ...
Hans hadn't eaten a full meal for almost twenty hours, but his stomach
came up anyway. He bolted for the door, tripped over the dead
Afrikaner, and fell retching on the floor. Hauer tensed himself against
the smell, hoping Hans would feel better after relieving his nausea. He
didn't. He rose slowly, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and
stepped toward Natterman, his hand outstretched.
Natterman looked down at the foil packet, backed away a little.
Hauer edged closer. He had seen the flash of hysteria behind Hans's
eyes, and he knew that at this moment Hans was capable of anything.
He had moved just in time.
"Give me those papers!" Hans screamed. He lunged at the professor with
both hands extended, his eyes white with fury. Hauer hesitated, timing
his blow. As Hans's head surged past, he fired off a right jab that
caught him on the point of the chin, spinning him round.
Hauer grabbed him as he fell, easing him stomach-down onto the floor.
Before Natterman could speak, Hauer had handcuffed Hans and sat him up
against the bedroom wall.
"He went mad!" cried Natterman, his eyes wide. "He'd have killed me
for those papers!"
"Do you blame him?" Hauer asked, breathing heavily. He touched Hans's
bruised chin softly. Hauer felt a strange tightening in his throat.
"He'll come to in a minute, " he said, and he coughed to cover the catch
in his voice. "Just lay the papers on his lap. You won't have to worry
after that."
Natterman obeyed, but he looked unconvinced. "Where did you get those
handcuffs?"
"I always keep them with me. They're the most underrated tool in the
police arsenal." Hauer looked Natterman dead in the eye. "Now, I'd
like you to leave me alone with my son, please."
The professor retreated into the bedroom without a word.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
2.-07 A.M. Soviet Sector East Berlin, DDR Harry Richardson woke to the
sound of men shouting. His head still throbbed from the Russian's
pistol blow. Most of the duct tape had been removed from his body, but
his hands and mouth were still bound. Unsure of the position of his
captors, he kept his eyes closed. He soon realized that the voices were
coming from an adjacent room. There seemed to be three men arguing,
possibly four. He opened his eyes.
Nothing. Then he discerned a thin horizontal line of dim light-beneath
a door, he supposed. He recognized none of the voices, but they all
spoke Russian. One man seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty
speaking it.
"He can't stay here any longer," said the man with a heavy German
accent. "Not an American. And certainly not this one. I know him.
He's one of Rose's agents."
"Relax, Goltz," said a Russian voice. "This is the East, isn't it?
Ost-the heart of friendly territory. What can happen?"
Goltz. Hariy recognized the name. Axel Goltz, East German Stasi ...
"If you consider East Berlin friendly territory," Goltz said, you should
spend a day on the street here. The people hate us even more than they
hate you."
"You and your Stasi sisters have been letting things slide for too long
over here," Rykov said with contempt. "You don't have the balls for
anything rougher than blackmail."
"You are a fool," Goltz -said with surprising venom. "I command here-in
this house at least-and I say the American goes. Take him to Moscow. if
you wish, just get him out of Berlin. There are too many sharp eyes
here for him to stay invisible."
Rykov, thought Harry, finally making the connection.
Rykov was the Russian captain from Klaus's house. Suddenly the night's
events came rushing back to him. Klaus's suicide, the silenced bullets
thwacking into the wall beside the door, the argument between the young
KGB officers about what to do with himA door hzid slammed in the next
room. The squabble ended instantly. "Where is the American?"
asked a gruff voice.
"In the next room, Comrade Colonel. He's unconscious."
"Bring him in."
Behind the wall, Harry tensed. Colonel, he thought. Which colonel? But
as soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer.
Who but Ivan Kosov-the colonel he'd seen early this morning at Abschnitt
53? A bright vertical bar of light stabbed his eyes.
"Wake up, Major!"
Harry got to his knees, then made an effort to stand.
Rykov helped him.
"You hit me anyway, you bastard," Harry muttered.
"Nothing personal. Just easier."
Rykov seemed to be having difficulty walking. When Harry's eyes sought
the floor for balance, he spied a bloody tear below the knee of Rykov's
trousers, his souve
nir from the checkpoint crossing.
Harry looked up as he passed into the next room, and he immediately
recognized four of the five men who awaited him. The gruff-voiced
colonel was Kosov. He lounged in a comfortable chair opposite a
portable television. Between Kosov and a door that Harry hoped led to
the street stood a hard-looking young man dressed from head to toe in
black.
Axel Goltz, the Stasi agent, sat behind a deal table next to Andrei
Ivanov, the corporal from Klaus's house. Goltz had restless eyes and
dark hair cropped close against his skull.
"The major needs a chair," said Kosov. "Misha?"
The black-clad Russian moved lithely to the table, lifted one of the
armless wooden chairs and placed it opposite Kosov. Rykov shoved Harry
into the chair, then ripped the tape from his mouth. The sudden pain
brought tears to his eyes, but passed quickly. He held out his hands to
Misha, who looked questioningly at Kosov.
"No!" Rykov objected. "He doesn't need his hands."
"One gentleman to another," said Harry, his eyes on Kosov.
Kosov chuckled, then nodded to Misha, who broug it out his stiletto and
cut through the sticky mess like tissue paper.
Rykov laid a hand on the Skorpion machine pistol in his belt.
"Now that you're comfortable," said Kosov in heavily accented English,
"what have you to tell me?"
"What do you want to know?"
"What you were doing at Klaus Seeckt's house."
"Routine debriefing," Harry said offhandedly. "Twice monthly."
"He's lying!" Rykov snapped in Russian. "He almost broke down the door
trying to get in!"
Kosov looked to Corporal Ivanov for corroboration.
"He's right," Andrei admitted grudgingly. "Nothing routine about it.
The major also speaks excellent Russian."
"You see, Major?" Kosov said. "There's no point in trying to deceive
me. I regret that my men brought you here at all, of course.
I asked for a German policeman, I got back an American major. An
unfortunate accident. But now that the mistake has been made, I intend
to use the opportunity to ask you a few questions. You would do the
same, I think."
Harry shrugged.
"I simply wish to know the details of your relationship with Klaus
Seeckt. Then I can make arrangements for your safe return to West
Berlin."
Harry almost laughed. Mistake or not, the Russians had kidnapped him.
To return him now would be admitting it, and they wouldn't do that. Even
if Colonel Rose had known he was going to Klaus's house-which Rose
hadn'the would have no way of knowing Harry had been taken into the DDR.
He might eventually suspect it, but by then the chances of getting Harry
back would be.slim. And if the Russians moved him any father east, the
odds fell to zero.
This situation required desperate measures. Shock tactics.
Looking straight at Kosov, Harry crossed his legs and began to speak
flawless, aristocratic Russian.
"You'd better write this down, Kosov. If you bungle this, Chairman
Zemenek will have you back in the Fifth Chief Directorate so fast you
won't have time to pack your shorts.
You'll be chasing filthy Tatars for the rest of your life."
Kosov started, both at the perfection of Richardson's Russian and the
reference to his old job. "What do you know about me, Major?" he asked
warily.
"Only what's necessary. Which isn't much, I'm afraid.
Ivan Leonidovich Kosov: Born Moscow 1943, entered service 1962, excelled
at repression in the provinces-notably Azerbaijan-for the Second Chief
Directorate. That and your father-in-law's influence got you
transferred to Directorate 'K' in 1971, stationed Yugoslavia. A little
more competent than the average K-man, you obtained a posting to the
East Berlin Rezidentura in 1978, where you've performed @uately for the
past ten years."
"Leave us," Kosov told his men.
Axel Goltz spoke up angrily. "But Colonel@' "Now!" bellowed Kosov.
"Only Misha remains."
When the others had left the room, Kosov said, "Your Russian is
excellent, Major. You have a good memory. So what? You think I don't
know as much about you?"
Harry looked over at the predatory Misha standing motionless in the
shadows. "No, Colonel, I don't. There is a gap in your ...
'consciousness,' shall we say?"
Kosov grunted. "What kind of gap?"
"The fact that we occasionally work for the same team.
Broadly speaking. I went to Klaus Seeckt's house tonight to deliver a
message."
"Come now, Major, I would know if you had any connection with KGB."
Harry snorted. "You think you're made aware of everything that happens
in Berlin? Perhaps you are a fool, Kosov."
The Russian paled as he held up a hand to restrain Misha.
'You speak confidently for a man facing death," he said softly.
"I thought you were sending me bapk to West Berlin."
Kosov grimaced. "Tell me, do you have any proof of this fantastic
story? The rich American who secretly serves the worker's paradise?"
Harry played out a little more bait. "I assume you, fare miliar with
the Twelfth Department of your Directorate?"
Kosov nodded almost imperceptibly.
"My contact is Yuri Borodin. Klaus Seeckt was one of our conduits."
Kosov blinked. "What can this fiction profit you, Major?
An extra hour of confusion? You are going to Moscow regardless of what
you say here, and it's there your fate will be decided."
Kosov sounded confident, but Harry had seen the doubt flicker into his
eyes at the mention of the Twelfth Department. The Twelfth Department
was an elite branch of the KGB-an all-star team recruited from veterans
of other KGB departments who had proved themselves expert at moving in
international society. Developed under Yuri Andropov, the Twelfth
Department had more autonomy than any other branch of the service; its
agents were allowed to pursue their chosen quarry anywhere in the world.
Harry's personal history of wealth and privilege made him an excellent
target for a man like Yuri Borodin; plus he had seen Borodin in the
company of Klaus Seeckt. He thought his desperate story might stand up
to perhaps an hour's scrutiny.
"Tell me about this mysterious message, Major," said Kosov.
My God, thought Harry. He's buying it. "Sorry, Colonel," he said
gravely. "The message is for Borodin alone."
"You had better tell me something," Kosov warned. "Or I may see fit to
let Misha persuade you. He's most eager to do so."
Harry gave a sardonic smile. "That's about what I'd expect from an old
Second Directorate thug."
Kosov came up out of his chair. He moved very fast for a big man.
For a moment Harry thought he had carried things too far, but the
Russian sat down again, albeit slowly.
Harry didn't want to push Kosov over the edge@nly up to it.
"I'm waiting," Kosov rasped.
Here goes, Harry thought. In the past two minutes he had pieced
together the most plausible story he could from the meager facts he
possessed about the Spanda
u case. Play out the bait, wait for the
strike . . . "I can tell you this much, Colonel," he said, "U.S.
Military Intelligence is fully aware of the content of the papers found
at Spandau Prison. While your moronic thugs were kidnapping me, our
State Department was considering a request from the British government
to turn over an abstract of those papers to mI-5. My message for
Borodin concerns those papers, and if you don't appreciate the
sensitivity of that issue, it's your misfortune. So, why don't you get
off your fat ass and verify my story before you sabotage what remains of
your less-than-illustrious career."
It was a shot in the dark, but it struck home.
Kosov stood up and studied Harry. "An interesting story, Major.
Tell me, how is our one-eyed friend these. days?"
Harry felt a jolt of confusion. Kosov had blind sighted him.
One-eyed friend? Did Kosov mean Yuri Borodin? As far as Harry knew,
Borodin had two perfectly good eyes. Harry racked his memory for a
one-eyed man, but all he could come up with was a black kid from
Baltimore who'd lost both his eyes to shrapnel in the DMZ. Jesus- "I
don't quite get you, Colonel," he said lamely.
Kosov smiled. "Well, then, Major, how about the Spandau papers?
Did they mention any names?"
"Several. Hess, for one."
"Naturally. Any others?"
"None I'd care to mention," Harry said tersely, feeling the noose
closing around him.
"I'll mention a few, then." The Russian grinned. "Tell me if you
recognize any. Chernov? Frolov?" Kosov waited.
"No? How about Zinoviev?"
Just the house wine, thanks, Harry thought crazily. He felt cold sweat
heading on the back of his neck. Russian names?
What the hell could they have to do with Spandau?
"Well, Major?"
"Zinoviev," Harry whispered.
Kosov blanched. "Rykov!"
The three agents rushed back into the room like hungry Dobermans.
Kosov seized his overcoat from a rack by the door and issued orders
while he pulled it on.
"Hold the major here until I,return from headquarters. I need to call
Moscow and I want a line the Stasi can't tap."
"But Herr Oberst!" Axel Goltz objected, venting his anxiety at last.
"We can't keep an American here! If Rose finds out, the reaction could
be very severe. Why@' "Stop whining!" Kosov snapped.
"Act like a German, for God's sake! You can manage without me for an
