The Spandau Phoenix wwi-2

by Greg Iles

  stared into the vehicle as if searching for someone he knew.

  Hans was getting angry. They had been on the road for hours, and they

  had stopped like this twice@ before. After a quick glance at the Zulu,

  Hans climbed out of the Rover on the shoulder side and looked around.

  Back toward Pretoria, the sun burned down relentlessly, shimmering like

  a layer of oil just above the road. To the north, however, Hans saw a

  vast wall of slate gray clouds. Beneath the leaden ceiling, sheets of

  rain rolled south toward the Rover, seeming to qM the night behind.

  "In," the Zulu commanded, scampering back into the driver's seat.

  When Hans climbed into the backseat, he found a thin black arm dangling

  a long black cloth before his eyes. 'No, he said.

  The Zulu dropped the blindfold in Hans's lap and turned back to the

  windshield. His posture told Hans that unless he obeyed, the vehicle

  would not move one inch further toward his wife.

  Hans cursed and tied the scarf around his eyes. "Now," he muttered,

  "move your ass."

  The next thirty minutes felt like a G-force test. The Zulu swung off of

  the road immediately, and the bone-crashing ride that followed would

  have totaled a vehicle less sturdy than the Range Rover. Hans peeked

  around the blindfold when he could, trying to maintain some rough idea

  of their progress, but taking accurate directional bearings was

  impossible. By the time they finally leveled out, his head had taken

  several vicious knocks and the.Zulu's goal of disorienting him had been

  well and truly achieved.

  The road surface felt like rock scrabble now, but that didn't help Hans.

  All he could do was press himself into the rear seat and wait for

  journey's end. Thirty minutes later the Rover stopped and the Zulu

  ordered him out. When Hans's feet hit the ground, the Zulu pushed him

  against the side of the vehicle and searched him. He immediately

  discovered the knife taped to Hans's ribs, and ripped it away from the

  skin. He told Hans to wait.

  When Hans heard receding footsteps, he pulled off the blindfold.

  He stood before an enormous building unlike any he had ever seen.

  Before he could examine it in any detail, however, a great teak door

  opened and a tall blond man stepped out, his well-tanned arm extended in

  greeting.

  "Sergeant Apfel?" he said. "I'm Pieter Smuts. I hope the ride wasn't

  too rough. Come inside and we'll see about getting you more

  comfortable."

  "My wife," Hans said awkwardly, holding his ground.

  "I've come for my wife."

  "Of course. But inside, please. Everything in good time."

  Hans followed the Afrikaner into a majestic reception hall and down a

  long corridorIn a cul-de-sac full of shadows, they stopped beside two

  doors. Smuts turned to him.

  "The Spandau papers," he said softly.

  "Not until I see my wife," Hans retorted, raising himself to his full

  height-which was about eye level with the Afrikaner.

  "First things first, Sergeant. That was our agreement.

  When we are satisfied that no copies'exist, you will be reunited with

  your wife."

  Hans made no move to comply.

  A brittle edge crept into the Afrikaner's voice. "Do you intend to

  break our agreement?"

  Hans held his breath, struggling to cling to the illusion that he had

  entered Horn House with bargaining power. It was now painfully clear

  that he had not. He had probably.

  made the worst mistake of his life by coming here. He had gone against

  the advice of the one man who might have been able to help him, and now

  Ilse would pay the price for his stupidity.

  Smuts saw Hans's pain as clearly as if he had burst into tears.

  He opened a door and motioned for Hans to enter the small bedroom

  beyond. "The papers," he repeated.

  Like a zombie Hans withdrew the tightly folded pages.

  Smuts did not even look at them. He slipped the wad into his pants like

  pocket change, then nodded curtly. "I'll be back soon," he said. "Get

  some rest."

  "But my wife!" Hans cried. "You've got to take me to her! I've done

  everything you asked!"

  "Not quite everything," Smuts admonished. "But enough, I think."

  He closed the door solicitously, like a well-tipped bellman. , "Wait!"

  Hans shouted, but the Afrikaner's footsteps faded into silence.

  Hans tried the door, but it was locked. It's out of my hands now, he

  thought hopelessly@. Is that what I wanted all along? He wondered how

  long the procedure to detect photocopying would take. He was still

  wondering that when the countless hours without sleep finally

  overpowered him. He collapsed onto the small bed, his mouth moving

  silently as exhaustion shut down his frazzled -brain. For the first

  time since childhood, Hans Apfel fell asleep with a prayer on his lips.

  When the Afrikaner jerked him awake ten minutes later, Hans knew that

  his desperate gamble had failed. Smuts's eyes burned with feral fire,

  and though he spoke even more quiedy than before, violence crackled

  through his every syllable like static electricity.

  "You have made a grave mistake, Sergeant. I will ask you only once.

  Your wife's life depends upon your answer.

  Where are the three missing pages?"

  Hans felt as if he had suddenly been sucked high into the stratosphere.

  His ears seemed to stop up. He couldn't breathe. "I-I don't

  understand," he said stupidly.

  Smuts turned and reached for the doorknob.

  "Wait!" Hans cried. "It's not my fault! I don't have the other

  pages!"

  "Dieter Hauer has them," Smuts said in a flat voice.

  "Doesn't he?"

  Hans gulped in surprise. "Who?" he asked lamely.

  "Polizei Captain Dieter Hauer!" Smuts roared. "The man who helped you

  escape from Berlin! What kind of game is the fool hying to play? Where

  is he now?"

  Hans felt suddenly faint. Phoenix knew everything. They had known from

  the beginning. "Hauer doesn't have the pages, I ' I ' he said. "I

  swear it. The pages were stolen in Germany.

  Smuts grabbed him by the sleeve and jerked him across the room toward

  the window. Hans was amazed by the strength in the wiry arm.

  Pulling back the curtains, Smuts waved his arm back and forth across the

  pane. Satisfied with what he saw, he motioned for Hans to step forward.

  Puzzled, Hans put his face to the glass. When he saw what waited

  beyond, every muscle in his exhausted body went rigid. Thirty meters

  from the window, Ilse Apfel stood facing the house. Her hands were

  bound with wire. Affixed@ to the wire was a long chain, held at the

  other end by Hans'-@ Zulu driver. At the Zulu's feet lay an old black

  tire; beside.

  him stood Lieutenant Jiirgen Luhr of the West Berlin police Luhr wore

  civilian clothes, but his tall black boots gleamed, in the sun.

  seeing Hans in the window, Luhr smiled and pressed a Walther PI against

  Ilse's left temple. Smuts caught Hans in a bear hug and held him still.

  "Ilse!" Hans shouted.

  Ilse moved her head slightly, as if she had sensed the, sound but could

  not locate its s
ource. When Luhr jabbed the' pistol barrel into her

  ear, Hans jumped as if the gun had struck his own head. He sucked in a

  rush of air to shout again, but Smuts cut him off.

  "Scream again, Sergeant, and she dies. I presume you know that man out

  there?"

  Hans had only spoken to Jiirgen Luhr in person once, but he would never

  forget it. Luhr had called him in for the, polygraph session at

  Abschnitt 53, the call that had started, all the madness. Luhr was the

  man who had gouged the Star of David into Erhard Weiss's chest. His

  presence here, five thousand miles from Germany, compounded Hans's sense

  of dislocation.

  Smuts released Hans. "Step back from the window," he, commanded.

  Hans didn't move.

  "Step back!"

  When Hans refused, Smuts gave another hand signal. The Zulu handed the

  leash chain to Luhr, then reached down an lifted the tire high into the

  air. As it hung suspended like a black halo over Ilse's head, amber

  liquid sloshed out of it onto her hair. With a sadistic grin the Zulu

  jerked the tire savagely down around Ilse's torso, pinning her arms to

  her sides.

  Smuts spoke from behind Hans. "Are you familiar with the 'necklace,'

  Sergeant? It's a local native specialty. They fill an old tire with

  gasoline, pin the victim's arms to his sides with the tire-thus the term

  'necklace'-then they set the gasoline afire. The results are quite

  ghastly, even to a , man of my wide experience. A human torch running

  about Blind with rage, Hans hurled himself backward and hammered his

  elbow into Smuts's chest. Then he whirled, lowered his head like a

  bull, and drove the Afrikaner back toward the heavy door. The sudden

  attack startled Smuts, but as the Afrikaner backpedaled toward the wood,

  he bucked his knee into Hans's ribs-an upward blow so sharp and quick

  that Hans did not even realize what had hit him. He went down gasping.

  When he looked up, Smuts was standing across the room, arms folded,

  glaring at him.

  "Let her go!" Hans begged. "What has she done to you?"

  "Where is Captain Hauer, Sergeant?"

  Hans staggered to his feet and went to the window. Ilse's face had

  taken on an ashen pallor. She had recognized the smell of gasoline, and

  with it the terrible danger. She swayed -slightly on her feet. Luhr

  jabbed his pistol at her. Behind Hans, Smuts lifted his hand yet again.

  Grinning, Luhr reached into his pocket, withdrew a cigarette lighter,

  and flicked it alight. He held the flame less than a meter from Ilse,

  his arm stretched to its limit in case the gasoline vapor should

  accidentally ignite.

  "Don't make me do it, Sergeant," Smuts said into Hans's ear.

  "Why give Lieutenant Luhr the enjoyment at your expense?"

  "You fucking animal! Hauer's at the hotel!"

  "Which hotel?"

  "The Bronberrick Motel! Now let her go!"

  Smuts raised his hand once more, and Luhr, his face red with anger and

  disappointment, snapped his cigarette lighter ;hut. The Zulu shoved

  roughly down on the tire until it lropped at Ilse's feet, then he led

  her away.

  like a dying chicken-"

  "Let's go, Sergeant," said Smuts, pulling Hans toward the door.

  "You've got a telephone call to make."

  326 pm. Room 604. The Protea Hot Hotel

  "I ought to shoot you!" Hauer growled. "You senile idiot!"

  "Steady, Captain," Professor Natterman urged. "I told you I meant to

  get here one way or another."

  Hauer's mind reeled. How could he have been so stupid as to leave

  Natterman holding a shotgun on the forger in Wolfsburg? The professor

  had probably gotten the false passport names before he and Hans had

  driven a mile from the cabin!

  "Are you alone?" Hauer asked sharply.

  Natterman's eyes flicked to the door. "Please don't overreact, Captain.

  I was in no position to get here on my own."

  "Who is with you?"

  "Another old man like me. He's a Jew."

  Hauer whirled around toward the foyer and covered the door with his

  pistol. "Where is he?"

  "Is Hans with you?" Natterman asked.

  "Where is this Jew?"

  Hauer's question was answered by a deep, unfamiliar voice. "I am

  standing alone in the washroom," it said.

  Hauer dived into the space between the bed and the bathroom wall,

  clutching his Walther to his chest.

  "I'm unarmed, Captain," said the voice.

  "Shut up! Stay where you are!" Hauer jabbed his pistol at the

  professor. "You too, damn you. Don't move."

  Natterman snorted. "You're being ridiculous, Captain.

  Herr Stern is harmless."

  "You couldn't stay away, could you?" Hauer thought furiously for

  several seconds. "All right!" he called finally.

  "You in the toilet-walk out slowly- with your hands over your head! I

  won't hesitate to shoot!"

  "Can I put on the light?"

  "No!" Hauer lay pr-one in the'space between the beds with only his head

  and his gun hand exposed. When the tall silhouette appeared in the dim

  foyer, Hauer trained his Walther on the man's head. "Start talking," he

  growled. "And keep your hands up."

  "My name is Jonas Stern," said the tall shadow. "I assure you that I

  mean you no hartn, Captain. I suspect that my interest in this case is

  similar to your own, and I would like to discuss it with you."

  "Who do you work for?"

  "For myself. But to give you a frame of reference, my native country is

  Israel." Stern paused. "May I switch on the light now?"

  "The bathroom light. That's enough to talk by."

  Fluorescent light flickered from the small cubicle. The fixture buzzed

  softly. Stern stood squarely in the pool of light so that Hauer would

  feel at ease, but Hauer kept his Walther trained on him anyway.

  As -the silhouette took on human features, Hauer noted the tanned,

  angular face with its quick, piercing eyes.

  "Captain Hauer," said Stern, "would you mind telling me where Sergeant

  Apfel is now?"

  "I'd rather find out how you arrived on my doorstep."

  Stern's eyes met Hauer's with steady assurance. "Frankly, that would be

  a waste of time. Suffice to say that I have been involved in this

  situation since the first night at Spandau. I'm sure the most important

  detail from your perspective is that I have the three missing Spandau

  pages in my possession."

  Hauer felt his heart stutter. So you're the one. You slashed that

  Afrikaner's throat like a suckling pig. "You still haven't explained

  your interest in this matter."

  Stern sighed. "We're all concerned for the girl, Captain, let's have

  that said. But I suspect that your interest, like mine, runs a bit

  deeper than simple kidnapping. To the safety and future of Germany,

  perhaps?"

  Hauer waited.

  "I am a Jew, Captain. An Israeli. I believe that the men who want

  these Spandau papers pose a very serious threat to my country.

  They may pose a different but equally perilous danger to democratic

  Germany- I have come to root these men out."

  "How do you propose to find them?"

  "With your help."


  Hauer shook his head in amazement. "You expect me to drag the two of

  you along with me? Is that what you think?"

  Stern smiled. "I do bring certain assets to the game."

  Hauer raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Such as?"

  "Superior intelligence experience. The professor tells me that you have

  counterterror training, Captain. That is of limited value under the

  circumstances. We're not dealing with the Red Army Faction here. This

  is the 'big league,' as the Americans say. I've fought in the secret

  world for many years. I can keep you from making some very serious

  mistakes."

  Hauer shook his head. "I don't think your experience offsets your age.

  This is a hostage situation. Speed and reflexes will be critical."

  Stern suppressed his anger. "If you see this as rely a hostage

  situation, you are fatally mistaken. We are at the edge of a web of

  intrigue spun fifty years ago, a web that has grown more complex with

  each passing year. Ilse Apfel is but a speck of dust trapped inside

  it." Stern raised his hand and plucked an imaginary mote from the air.

  "Every time you take a step toward her, Captain, the entire web shakes.

  The spider knows where you are at every moment, and when you finally

  make your move, you will find that it is you who are trapped."

  "Interesting metaphor," said Hauer. "What lesson should I draw from

  it?"

  Stern smiled patiently. "Your attention should be fixed upon the spider

  from the start, not the speck of dust. Eliminate the spider, you can

  plunder the web at your leisure."

  Hauer said nothing for a while. "I'll take my chances alone," he

  answered finally. "I've handled a few spiders in my time."

  Stern's jaw muscles tightened. "You'd stand a much better chance with

  my help."

  Hauer raised his Walther. "If information is all you have, Stern, you

  can give that to me right now."

  In the instant Hauer's finger hesitated on the trigger, Stern slipped

  out of the door. He reappeared moments later. Behind him stood three

  very fit young men. Their hard faces and burning eyes told Hauer

  everything he needed to know about their probable areas of expertise.

  "These are my other assets, Captain," Stern said. "Sayaret

  matkal-Israeli commandos. You may have heard of them.

  If you're any judge of men, you will recognize their value vis-A-vis our

  particular situation."

  Hauer instantly revised his estimate of Stern's possible contribution.