by Greg Iles
hour.
Misha?"
The black-clad killer whipped open the door. Kosov hurried through and
crunched down the snowy drive, his silent footpad on his heels. The
door banged shut.
Harry sat completely still. He couldn't quite believe that his
desperate ploy had worked. One brief glance through the open door had
told him what he wanted to know-that the room they now occupied stood at
ground level, not on the tenth floor of some human warehouse in Pankow-
Quickly he mapped the room in his mind: Andrei and Goltz by the deal
table; a sofa with a broken spine against the far wall; a large
curtained window at right angles to the sofa; Kosov's empty chair,
facing him; one door leading to the room where he had been held earlier,
and another-guarded by Rykovleading outside.
The three agents glowered at each other as if they had been arguing in
the other room.
"You fellows find a lot to talk about back there?" Harry asked in
Russian, his tone insulting.
Andrei scowled, but Rykov only smiled and leaned against the outside
door, resting his injured leg.
Suddenly Axel Goltz spoke up. "What is Kosov doing, Comrades?"
When the Russians didn't respond, Goltz scratched thoughtfully behind
his right ear. "What did the major tell him that weakened his resolve?"
"Relax," said Rykov. "We have everything under control."
Goltz's nostrils flared. "Under control? You don't even know what's
going on! I know this man Richardson, he's a skilled agent. I can't
believe Kosov fell for his tricks."
"The colonel knows what he's doing," Rykov said evenly.
He curled his lip in distaste. "Stop scratching your head, Goltz.
You look like a mangy old hound."
The East German flushed. "It's a wound," he said. He cocked his head
to the side, exposing a small white bandage behind his ear. "A skinhead
threw a brick in a riot. Four stitches to close it."
Rykov snorted with contempt. "Probably a Jew! They'll revenge
themselves on you Germans yet!"
Goltz ground his teeth furiously.
"What tricks of mine were you referring,to?" Harry cut in.
"Perhaps you, like Kosov, are unaware of certain important facts."
"Find another fool, Major," Goltz snapped. "Be glad I'm not in charge
of you."
Harry kept smiling, but inside he shivered. He had always believed the
Stasi far superior to the KGB in all areas of intelligence work, and he
was glad to see Goltz in the minority tonight. Rykov tacitly admined
this with his next question.
"What would you do with him, Goltz, if you were in command?"
"Kill him. Simplest for all parties concerned."
Harry felt a tremor of fear.
"You're a cold one," Rykov observed.
Goltz shrugged.
"What about his intelligence value?"
The Stasi man pulled a wry face. "I don't think he knows a damned thing
about Spandau."
"He might."
"Drug him senseless, then. But he's got to disappear."
"Goltz is right," Harry agreed. "]Leave it to the Germans to come up
with the most efficient solution."
"What the hell does that mean?" Andrei asked from the table.
Now we're getting somewhere, Harry thought. "Just what it seems to
mean, Corporal. That ever since the Second World War, the East Germans
have run rings around their Russian masters."
Goltz bowed his head slightly, acknowledging a selfevident truth.
Andrei flushed axid rose from the table.
"Pay no attention to him, Andrei," R@kov said. "He's only trying to
provoke us."
"That's right, Corporal," Harry taunted. "Follow your captain's
example. I insult him, and what does he do? Lies back and takes it,
like a good Russian."
Andrei charged from the table. Harry darted out of the chair and
sidestepped him. "Now, now, Corporal, I advise you to treat me with
discretion. When Kosov returns, he'll enlighten you as to my privileged
status within your organization."
"My God!" Goltz cried. "He's insufferable! He insults your homeland
to your face, then tells,you that he secretly serves it? Are you
complete fools?"
"It's Kosov's responsibility," Rykov said slowly. "He'll be back soon."
The Russian captain squinted at Harry. "And while we wait, Major
Richardson is going to tell us exactly what was found at Spandau last
night."
Harry caught a sudden, furtive alertness in Axel Goltz's eyes. "I just
might do that, Captain," he @d lightly, his eye on the But German.
Goltz stiffet".
"Tell you what," Harry went on, "get me something to drink, and I'll
tell you boys part of a very interesting story."
Axel Goltz had compressed his muscles like steel springs.
Harry sensed it like a hunter senses his dog straining to break cover.
He rechecked everyone's position: Goltz stood by the table, Rykov still
blocked the door. But Andrei stood only a single step from Harry's
chair, his eyes smoldering.
He had to be moved.
"I'll take Scotch, if you have it," Harry said.
"Get him a vodka, Andrei," Rykov ordered.
Thank you God! Harry flexed his calf muscles. s th Andrei started to
obey his captain, but after two step , e resentment he'd been nursing
since the argument at Klaus's house finally surfaced. He stopped and
turned back to his commander. "Get it yourself," he said deflandyRykov
went pale at this public challenge to his authority.
He stood erect and laid a hand on the machine pistol in his belt.
"You mutinous bastard!" he said, stepping forward.
Harry's heart pounded. Jesus, this is it ... Andrei now stood five feet
away from him, facing Rykov in fury. It's now or neverThen Harry saw
something so unexpected that it froze him in his chair. Axel Goltz
silently brought a Heckler & Koch PSP pistol out of his jacket and aimed
it not at Harry, but at Dmitri Rykov's astonished face.
"Back against the wall, you Russian bastard!" he shouted.
"Throw your gun on the floor!"
Andrei whirled, then froze. Rykov dropped his Skorpion on the floor.
"Have you gone mad?" he asked, an incredulous smile on his face.
Goltz grinned scornfully. "Are you surprised, my little Russian
puppies? Surprised that a German is about to blow your puny brains
out?"
"You crazy fucking German," said Rykov, still unbelieving.
"You're a dead man. No matter what you do now, Kosov will hunt you
down. That demon Misha will slice your throat like a bratwurst."
Goltz spoke over his shoulder. "Stand up, Major. You and I are going
to take a short ride together. You're about to find out what a real
interrogation is like. AGe.nnan interrogation."
"You won't get away with this," Rykov said uselessly.
Goltz laughed coldly. "Of course I will. Corporal Ivanov has already
reasoned out my alibi. I left here to attend to other business, you two
quarreled, and Major Richardson managed to kill you both and escape.
With two idiots like you, Kosov will be the first to believe it."
"But why?" asked Rykov, fascinated by Goltz's apparently suicidal<
br />
impulse. "Do you work for the Americans?"
I'm afraid he doesn't, Harry thought with a sinking head.
Raising his chin proudly, Goltz spoke his next words in German.
"If I die," he said softly, "I die for Germany. For Phoenix."
His voice dropped still lower. "Der tag kommt. "
"The day approaches," Harry echoed softly. What the hell?
At that moment Corporal Andrei Ivanov chose to die a soldier's death.
With no weapon but his hands he charged a man who was pointing a
semi-automatic pistol at him.
Stunned by this display of courage, Goltz hesitated for a split-instant,
then fired. Andrei took a round in the chest, but he kept coming.
Rooted to his chair, Harry watched the doomed charge with hypnotic
fascination. Goltz's third bullet killed the Russian, but the
corporal's furious momentum bowled the Stasi agent over backward.
Shaken to the core, Harry wrenched his mind back to reality. He knew he
couldn't beat a bullet to the door; with a cry he hurled himself from
the chair and crashed headlong through the window, trailing the curtains
after him into the darkness.
Axel Goltz heaved Andrei's bleeding body off him and wmmbled to his
feet. Rykov was nowhere to be seen. Cursing, Goltz darted to the
window and hit a switch that flooded the courtyard with light. He saw
only a sparkling jigsaw.of shattered glass. Taking three steps back, he
rushed the jagged window and leaped through. He tumbled across the
glass-covered bricks in an expert parachutist's roll and came to his
feet at a run. The glass cut him badly, but he uttered no sound as he
disappeared into the darkness after Harry.
226 A.M. The NaHerman Cabin Near Wollsbiirg, FRG
"Stop tying to change my mind!" Hans shouted. He lashed out with his
cuffed hands, missing Hauer's face by inches.
Hauer didn't flinch. They sat opposite each other on the cabin floor,
Hans with his back set against the wan, the foil packet containing the
Spandau papers in his lap. Behind Hans's eyes swirled a thousand
currents of rage and tension.
"Listen," Hauer pressed, "you're reacting just like every relative of
every kidnap victim I've ever seen. No one wants police
involved-they'll try anything to get their loved one back. Anything but
the right thing. You know better, Hans.
You know how many kidnap victims we get back alive: ninety percent of
hostages are dead before the ransom call ever comes. You've already
been lucicy- You can get Ilse back, but you're going to have to take
her."
Hans glowered at the floor. Statistics meant nothing to him now.
All he could see was the nightmare image of the girl dredged from the
Havel, leached gray by the oily river ...
Hauer watched him silently. For the fifteen minutes since Hans regained
consciousness, Hauer had tried in vain to convince him that Ilse's only
chance lay in rescue. In his mind there was no other option. Bitter
experience had taught him that the real hostages in a kidnapping were
the family members left behind, not the victim In @ years Hauer had seen
them all: the shattered mothers who served coffee to the police in
zombie-like traces of sedation; the raging fathers who refused to sleep
until they collapsed from exhaustion; the wives who could not stop
crying, or who could not cry at all; and the husbands, like Hans, who
toughed it out in stoic silence until helplessness and despair finally
unmanned them. Hans had to be saved from himself.
Hauer watched as, despite the handcuffs, Hans worked open the foil
packet containing the Spandau papers. Hans examined the first page-the
scrawled German that switched to carefully blocked Latin-md then,
apparently satisfied that Natterman had not tried to steal the precious
ransom, tie closed the packet and stuffed it into his trouser pocket.
He refused to meet Hauer's eyes, keeping his own focused on the
handcuffs.
Hauer stood up. He st@ to speak again, to marshal the reasons Hans
should set aside his fear and do what he himself would do. But as he
stared, he began to see with different eyes. He saw that his son,
though like himself in many ways, was profoundly different in others.
Hans was not yet thirty, still young enough that he defined himself more
by his job and his friends than by his inner self. And with the family
situation he had-a mother he despised and a father he had hated until
tonight-Hans probably drew more emotional sustenance from his wife than
he would ever understand. In the span of eight hours, he had seen his
job unmasked as a travesty, his friend brutally murdered, and his wife
torn from his side.
Little wonder, Hauer reflected, that he lacked the resolve to punch
through the blinding red wall of emotion and act.
Hauer had seen this type of paralysis before, and inexperience was not
always the root of it. Hans's internal compass, Ww that of so many
Germans, gravitated toward a magnetic north-the gilded scaffolding of
official authority. With that mffolding shattered and himself branded a
fugitive, he was a man adrift. Hauer felt no such confusion. His
internal compass pointed to the true nordi of his spirit. He had lost
his illusions very young, and through the trials of finding his way in
the world alone, he had learned to exalt the essence, not the trappings,
of his work. He took a most un-German approach to his skill as a
marksman: in unexpected moments he found himself viewing the world
through his rifle scope-not in a limited, but a profoundly focused way.
All existence compressed into the tube- of polished lenses, the smallest
movement magnified a hundredfold, melding him with the target a thousand
yards away: the six-inch red paper circle, the tawny fur beneath the
stag's shoulder, the pale forehead of a man. When he led men-in the
army, on the GSG-9 firing range, in the streets'of Berlin-he led not by
virtue of his rank, but by example. In situations like this one, cut
off from command, the fire inside Hauer burned all the brighter,
spurring him to action, driving him toward resolution.
As he watched Hans now, he felt an awful powerlessness.
What Hans needed was a new allegiance, a fixed star that the spinning
needle in his soul could lock bnto. If Hauer could not provide that, if
he could not ' lead the son who had returned to him like a prodigal,
then he would truly have failed as a father, as all that he had believed
himself to be.
He started suddenly. Professor Natterman was speaking.
"Your father is right," the old man was saying. "Give in to Nazis and
they crush you. Exterminate you. We can't surrender the papers, we've
got to take Ilse back."
"Nazis?" Hans groaned. "You're both crazy! Crazy old men! What does
that have to do with getting Ilse back? With today? It's ancient
history!"
You're right," Hauer said quickly. He squatted dow his haunches, his
face a foot from Hans's own. "Forget all that crap. What matters is
Ilse. But unless you force yourself to look at this objectively, Hans,
your emotion is going
to kill her. You have never faced this thing you
are facing now.
You've seen brutality, and you've seen death. But you have never faced
pure evil. That is what you are facing now. Call it Nazism or Phoenix
or whatever you want, it's all the same. It is a thing as mindless and
as ravenous as a cancer.
It perceives only what it wants, obstacles to getting what it wants, and
threats to its existence. Right now it wants those papers.
The papers are a dream. You have them, Ilse has read them, so both of
you are also threats. Killing her, killing you-this is less than
nothing. Remember Weiss, Hans, think of Steuben. I tried to kid myself
about it, but Steuben was a dead man the moment I saved your life."
Hans flinched at that. Already he blamed himself for Weiss, and for so
much more. He looked up into his father's face, pleading silently for
him to stop, but Hauer would not.
"If you get on that plane with those papers, you will never return to
Germany. Phoenix's men can kill you on the plane, in the airport,
anywhere. The South African police can murder you in jail. They do it
all the time. If we have Der Bonderschaft in our department, what do
they have diere?
The moment Phoenix has the papers, you will die. You'll die.
You'll, never see your wife again. You'll never see me again. 19
Hans scrambled to his feet. He slipped past Hauer to the shattered
bedroom window and rested his cuffed hands on a knife-edge of glass.
Even in the bitter cold he was sweating.
Haner's words had pierced the fog of dread that surrounded him, yet the
rush of nightmare images would not stop. They rifpped through him like
a ragged strip of film, unspoofing from his heart, catching in his @
flashing behind his eyes. He tried to speak, to express the confusion
he felt, but his voice broke. Tears pooled in his eyes as he stared out
into the frozen forest.
Hauer couldn't see Hans's face, but he heard the sob and imew that his
words had had their effect. He stood up slowly and took something from
his pocket. A key. He walked to the window, removed the cuffs from
Hans's wrists, and put them in his pocket.
"I don't think you understand," he said. "I want you to take the papers
to South Africa."
Natterman cleared his throat. "Surely you can't mean that, Captain?"
Hauer snapped his head around and gave the old man a withering glare. "I
