by Greg Iles
When he heard Captain Rykov eiplain what had happened at the Stasi
safehouse, he felt the blood leave his head in a rush. "My God," he
muttered. "My God! Get back here any way you can, you idiot!"
Kosov slammed down the phone and charged into the communications room.
"Close off the Western embassies!"
he shouted. "Use our own people-no East Germans!"
Several astonished young faces appeared at the doors.
"The fugitive is an American army major," he said more slowly, his voice
barely under control. "He's out of uniform and he speaks perfect
Russian. Probably perfect German too.
If he's apprehended, I want him brought here immediately."
Kosov ground his teeth furiously. "Any East German who attempts to get
close to him is to be shot. That is a direct order. Shoot any East
German who interferes. I want the full staff here in twenty minutes.
And get me the chief of the Stasi on the phone! Now!"
Sagging against a desk, Kosov tried to ignore the pounding in his head.
It seemed inconceivable,that Axel Goltz had been working for the
Americans. The man was practically a Nazi. Why would he turn on his
Russian masters? Especially since he could have no doubt that his
action would be suicidal. Kosov sighed hopelessly. He could do little
else until his department heads arrived. Slowly he walked back into his
office, closed the door, and sat at his desk. Borodin will throw me to
the dogs for this, he lamented. But not before I strain Axel Goltz
through a razor-wire sieve. Shoving the grainy photograph of Zinoviev
out of his way, he swallowed four aspirin without water, pressed his
forehead to the cold desktop, and waited for the phone to ring.
4:35 A.M. The Natterman Cabin: Near WoifsbUrg, FRG
The forger arrived two hours after Hauer's call. Professor Natterman's
explosion occurred two hours after that. Hauer and Hans had buried the
dead caretaker and his Afrikaner killer in the snow behind the cabin,
while Natterman stripped the bloody bedclothes and scrubbed away the
blood from the cabin's interior. The only remaining signs of trouble
were the shattered windows and door, and the Jaguar wrapped around the
plane tree out front.
Hauer's forger was astute enough to ignore all these signs.
Immensely fat and normally jovial, Hermann Rascher aPpeered to be in
mortal dread of Hauer. He lost no time in setting up his equipment.
A white screen and chair placed in front of the shattered window and an
assortment of chemicals laid out in the bathroom quickly converted the
bedroom into a small photographic studio.
Consistent with his plan of keeping Natterman in the dark until the last
minute, Hauer instructed the forger to shoot a passport picture of the
professor as if he too were to be given false papers.
But this ruse went for nothing. Despite Hauer's injunction against
discussing their plans, Natterman badgered him every moment that the
forger spent in his temporary darkroom. Before Rascher arrived Hauer
had probed the professor for his speculations on what the vital secret
of the Spandau papers might be, but Natterman had refused to be drawn
out. Now, though, Natterman was vigorously attempting to convince Hauer
it would be foolish to bait a rescue trap with the authentic papers.
"The kidnappers have obviously never seen the papers," he insisted, "so
it would be impossible for them to know they were being fooled. Captain,
I simply cannot agree to any plan which needlessly risks losing such an
important artifact."
Hauer had had enough. He walked to the bedroom door to make sure the
forger was closed inside the bathroom; then he turned back to Natterman.
"You don't have to agree, Professor," he said evenly.
"Because you're not coming to South Africa."
Natterman looked as if someone had emptied a bedpan in his face.
Too stunned to speak, he looked to Hans for support, but found none.
Hauer kept the initiative. "You're wounded, you can't move faster than
a slow walk, and you're over seventy, for God's sake."
Too angry to marshal logical arguments, Natterman raged like a thwarted
child. "You can't keep me out of this, you ... you fascist!"
While he ranted on, Hans walked to the window and tried to shut out the
argument. The snow was falling again. He shivered, realizing that
somewhere out there beyond the trees, beyond the road and the pristine
German fields, beyond the Alps, beyond a great sea and a vast, dark
continent, ]Ilse waited, frightened and alone. With a hollow coldness
in his chest, he wondered again about her last, anguished cry.
Could she really be pregnant at last? Or had the kidnappers somehow
twisted that desperate maternal hope out of her to use as extra LEVERAGE
I e? He banished the thought from his mind. That snake could eat its
tail forever, and his sanity with it. It had no bearing at all on the
rescue plan. He would keep that secret to himself. Whatever had passed
between him and his father in the last few hours, Hauer had no claim on
that knowledge yet "Hans, listen to thisi" the professor shrieked.
"Hauer said it himself.- The police only get ten percent of hostages
back alive! Remember Munich, Hans? The 'seventy-two Olympics? It was
Hauer and his stortntwpers who opened up on the Arabs while the hostages
were tied inside the helicopters. The Jews were blown to bits! Have
you forgotten that?
TWO days ago you hated this man. He deserted you and your mother! Now
you trust him to bring our Ilse back alivet' At the mention of Munich a
strange stillness came over Hauer. It was as if a ghost had touched him
with icy fingers.
His gray eyes turned opaque as they fixed on Natterman. His voice went
cold and flat. "I didn't see you on @ airfield that day."
Natteman started to reply, but when he recognized the glacial coldness
in Hauer's eyes the sound died in his throat.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I shouldn't have said that. But you don't
understand, Captain. The key to this situation isn't guns and tactics,
it's the Spandau papers. And you can't even read them! We're not
dealing with Arab terrorists or crazed students here-we're dealing with
the legacy of Adolf Hitler! The key to this whole mystery is in the and
I am the only man who can unravel it!"
Hauer sighed. "Professor, why don't you admit that the reason you want
so badly to come is that you can't bear to let those papers out of your
sight for one moment."
"Liar!" Natterman exploded.
"You didn't argue against forcible rescue until I said I wasn't
including you in the plan. Do you deny that?"
"How dare you!" Spittle flew from the old man's lips.
"You fool! You're not qualified to handle this alone! You think you're
chasing a neo-Nazi group called Phoenix? Then how do you explain the
tattooed eye? The Phoenix is a bird rising from the flames, not an eye.
Phoenix is the Greek name of the Egyptian god Bennu. The tattooed Eye
is also Egyptian-it's the Guarding Eye, the All-Seeing Eye, the Eye of
God from the Egyptian Book of the Dead.
Ex
plain that to me, Captain!"
Hauer shrugged. "The Nazis used all kinds of rituals and mythology."
"Yes! But Teutonic and Arthurian mythology almost exclusively!
So, how do you explain the Egyptian symbols?"
Hauer remained silent while he digested Natterman's revelations.
"Professor," he said finally, "if you care about your granddaughter you
will write down everything you just told me, and you will stay by the
telephone so that you can provide us with any other information we
need."
"But I can go with you!" Natterman insisted. "I can keep UP !"
"Enough!" Hans cried, turning from the window. He stabbed a finger at
Natterman. "My decision's made. We're taking Ilse back, and my father
is in command from this point forward."
Natterman opened his mouth to continue, but the corpulent forger flung
open the bedroom door and waddled into the room. "All done," he
announced. "Excellent work, if I do say so myself" Natterman stared at
Hauer in silent fury, then he stormed into the bedroom and slammed the
door.
The forger held the fruits of his labor beneath the overhead light for
Hauer's inspection. The passport bore two excellent frontal shots of
Hans and Hauer, taken against the screen in the bedroom. Both wore
fashionable jackets provided by the forger and looked every inch wealthy
business M GREG ILE'S men. At Hermann's suggestion Hauer had shaved
his mustache; it was the first time he had seen himself without it in
twenty years. He looked ten years younger. With an artist's eye,
Hermann had quickly noted the resemblance between Hans and Hauer and had
suggested they travel as father and son. That way, he'd said, they
would only have to remember one surname-Weber.
"They are good," Hauer agreed.
"The best you'll find, east of Brussels," Hermann assured him.
"You're lucky Germans don't need visas for South Africa. I didn't have
one to work from."
"Start the car, Hans," Hauer commanded.
Hans was gone in an instant. Hauer picked up the passports and slipped
them into his coat pocket. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
he said to the forger.
Hermann made a painful grimace. It was bad enough being forced to work
for it-ee, but to be robbed. The mind simply boggled. The consequences
of refusal, however, were unthinkable. Eight years ago Hauer had sent
the forger to Berlin's Moabit Prison, where he had endured six years of
living hell. Upon release he had resettled in Hamburg to escape Hauer's
prying eyes, but it hadn't worked. Hauer had kept abreast of his
current activities, and he'd made it painfully clear tonight that one
phone call to Hamburg could put Hermann right back into prison for
another stretch. What the hell? Hermann rationalized. Ten thousand
marks isn't too high a price forfreedom.
He could make back the money on just four passports. He walked to the
sofa, reached into his leather camera bag, and brought out a stuffed
manila envelope.
After counting the banknotes, Hauer slipped them into his pocket.
"Nice doing business with you again, Hermann," he said. "Now I want you
to wait for me right here."
He slipped into the bedroom and closed the door. Professor Natterman
sat fuming on the strip@ mattress, holding his hand against his bandaged
nose. "Professor," said Hauer, "here is where we make our peace. I'm
going to South Africa to bring back your granddaughter. I could simply
walk out of here, but I realize that would be stupid. You know things
that could help me. The question is, will you?"
Natterman said nothing; Hauer went on anyway. He needed the professor's
information, but he also wanted to leave the old man some dignity. "I
don't trust that forger," he said. "I need an hour's head start on him.
I want yo, make sure he stays here at least that long. Once he's gone,
shut the cabin, take your things, and drive that Jaguar back to Berlin.
The car belongs to a man nwned Ochs. Here's his card.
"That car's shot to pieces!" Natterman protested.
-You shot it," Hauer reminded him. "Just get it back to him.
He's a Jew, he'll understand. After you've delivered the car, stock up
on enough food to last a week, then get hold of any research materials
you'll need to answer questions about Prisoner Number Seventhe Egyptian
god Bennu, South Africa, and anything else you think might be relevant.
Ten hours from now I want you by your office telephone continuously.
Sleep by it. I've got to know I can count on you. 19
Outside, the borrowed Audi rumbled to life. With a last look at
Natterman, Hauer left the old man sitting on the bed.
He glared at the forger as he passed through the front room.
"Don't get anxious and try to leave too soon, Hermann."
The forger's eyes bulged. Hauer turned. Behind him stood Professor
Natterman, the double-barreled Mannlicher in his hands.
Hauer offered his hand. "Auf Wiederse@n, Professor. Be careful, eh?"
After a moment's hesitation, the old historian took Hauer's hand and
squeezed hard. "You bring my granddaughter back, Captain."
"You have my word."
"And you bring back those papers!"
Hauer nodded once, then he ducked out of the cabin.
Natterman heard a car door slam, then the roar of the Audi as it raced
up the access road. Hermann Rascher stared at the old man, mystified by
the scene he had just witnessed.
"You know, Professor," he said, "there's really no reason for us to hang
around here while@' Natterman jabbed the shotgun into the fat man's
belly.
"Sit down, swine!"
Hermann sat.
5.00 A.Al. U.S. Army Headquarters. West Berlin Colonel Rose stared
into the expectant faces of Sergeant Clary and Detective Schneider.
Clary nodded once, indicating that the tape reels were turning. Rose
spoke into the telephone.
"This is Colonel Rose. Go ahead."
"Colonel, this is Blueblood calling. Repeat, Blueblood."
Rose gasped. "It's Harry! Where the hell are you?"
"Don't say anything, sir. Nothing. This call will terminate in fifty
seconds. In our office,computer you'll find a file coded 'East'-that's
Echo-Alpha-Sierra-Tango. In that file is a list of safe locations in
the DDR. I am now at location four, repeat, four. I don't think I can
get out on my own, Colonel, it's too tight. I suggest you threaten your
opposite number here, and if that doesn't work, roll up network seven,
repeat, seven, and make a trade. I was dead wrong about Hess. This
does have something to do with him. Also with someone or something
called Phoenix. But the key name is Zinoviev, repeat,
Zulu-India-November-OscarVictor-India-Echo-Victor.
Find him and we'll be on track."
Harry took a deep breath. "You've got to get me out, Colonel.
This is big. If I don't hear from you in twenty-four hours, I'm going
to try it on my own. That's all."
"Wait!" Rose shouted.
"He's disconnected, sir," Clary said in a monotone, his eyes on a
voltage-measuring device.
Rose stood and pounded his fist on the desk. "Clary
!"
"Sir!"
"You get a squad of uniformed MPs down here now!
Make sure every one has a rifle!"
"What are you going to do?" Schneider asked, alarmed by the American's
hair-trigger temper.
"You heard the man, Detective! I'm rolling up network seven!"
"But he suggested that you threaten the KGB first@ Rose's face reddened.
"Schneider, I don't make threats unless I can back 'em up.
It's a ftiggin' waste of time. When I tell Ivan Kosov that I'll arrest
one of his precious networks if he doesn't let my boy out, those slimy
bastards will be in a holding cell in my stockade! Clary!"
"MPs on the way, sir!"
"Damn straight!" Rose bellowed, reaching into the bottom drawer for his
bottle of Wild Turkey. "Damn straight."
He filled his Lenox shot glass and poured the whiskey down his throat,
feeling his eyes water when it hit bottom.
"Friggin' Rudolf Hess," he muttered. "And Zinoviev. Who the hell is
Zinoviev?"
"I beg your pardon, Colonel?" Schneider asked. "Who are you talking
about?"
"Nobody," Rose mumbled. "Some commie sonofabitch."
He could not have been further from the truth.
5. 19 A. m. mI-5 Headquarters Charles Street, London, England The door
to Sir Neville Shaw's office shook with the force of Wilson's knock.
"One moment, your lordship," Shaw said into the telephone. "What is it,
Wilson?"
The deputy director stuck his head into the office. "It's that woman,"
he sniffed, meaning Swallow. "She said she'd wait one more minute and
then she's leavin
I 9
"Tell her I won't be a moment."
Wilson sighed with exasperation and withdrew.
I'm sorry, your lordship," Shaw apologized. "Where were we?9?
"Your career," replied a deep voice with a vintage Oxbridge accent. Shaw
was briefly reminded of Alec Guinness"It is felt, Neville, in some
quarters, that you have bungled this whole affair from the beginning. It
was nearly a year ago that some of us suggested that you act to prevent
just this sort of mess."
Sir Neville bridled. "If they'd torn the bloody prison down last year,
the very same thing would have happened. I couldn't control what the
man wrote, for God's sake."
This riposte was met with ri-osty silence. "Yes," the voice said
finally. "Well. What about the African end of the problemT' "It's
