by Greg Iles
hit him low in the stomach and severed his spinal cord. While Borodin
backpedaled out of the foyer and spun toward the window. Hauer and the
Israelis dropped to the carpet as slugs from his MP-5 peppered the bed
and the wall - and the ceiling. Hauer looked up just as two bright red
flowers blossomed on Borodin's shoulders.
Hauer and Gadi were on their feet by the time Borodin's body hit the
floor. Standing in the doorway, his shoulders stretching from post to
post, was a very large man holding a Walther pistol in his hand. A gray
hat was pressed down over his bloody head, and a brass gorget plate hung
from his neck. On it was a capital K, the emblem of the Berlin
Kriminalpolizei.
"Captain Hauer?" Schneider said.
Hauer stepped forward and nodded.
Schneider put his gun in his pocket. "I need to talk to YOU."
Gadi Abrams crouched over Borodin, who lay pale and shaking on the
carpet. He rifled Borodin's pocket for' Hauer's envelope, found it, and
tossed the negatives to Hauer. Then he leaned down over Borodin's face.
"Where is your sniper?" he shouted. "Where!"
Borodin smiled. "Fuck you, Jew."
Gadi snatched up a pillow, crushed it over Borodin's face and punched
him hard on his wounded shoulder. The muffled howl that followed did
not sound-human. Gadi pulled the pillow away.
"Across ... across the street," Borodin croaked. "Room 528 ...
the Stanley ... House."
Gadi closed his brown hands around Borodin's throat and began to
squeeze. "For Yosef," he said softly.
Detective Schneider crossed the room and shouldered Gadi off of the
Russian. He crouched down beside him.
"Are you Yuri Borodin?" he asked tersely. "Are you the man who killed
Major Harry Richardson?"
Borodin stared up with glassy eyes. He saw little chance of leaving
this room alive. His pale face wrinkled into a sneer. "The Swastika
was a nice touch ... don't you think?"
Schneider sighed heavily. In his mind he saw the dim, overheated
bedroom where he and Colonel Rose had examined Harry's mutilated corpse.
In the close South African heat, it wasn't hard to recall. "I should
let you bleed to death," he growled.
"Fuck you too, you stinking German."
While Hauer and the Israelis watched in disbelief, Schneider closed one
huge hand around Borodin's throat and squeezed with the remorseless
force of a root cracking concrete. Schneider did not see Hauer signal
to Gadi, or the two Israelis approach him from behind.
The moment Borodin's legs stopped thrashing, the Israeli commandos
seized him.
Schneider did not struggle, not even when Gadi took the pistol from his
pocket.
Hauer stepped forward and checked the scalp behind both of Schneider's
ears. Satisfied, he stepped back and motioned for the Israelis to
release him.
"I don't have the damned tattoo," Schneider muttered.
In the awkward silence that followed, Hauer finally noticed the weak
moaning coming from somewhere inside the room. He walked around and
looked on the floor between the beds. Professor Natterman lay there,
deathly white, both hands clutching his side. "Captain ... ?"
he whispered uncertainly.
Hauer knelt and examined the old man. The professor had been lying on
the bed when Schneider burst in, and he had been too, slow to seek
cover. Two bullets from Borodin's final spray had struck him.
One had nicked the flesh above his left hip, the other grazed his left
thigh. Hauer could see that the wounds were superficial, but the
professor obviously believed he was in danger of dying. He raised his
quivering arms to Hauer's collar and pulled him down to his face.
"There really is ... a copy, Captain," he rasped. "A copy of the
Spandau papers."
Hauer pulled himself free of the old man's grasp. "What did you say?"
"Tell Stern to remember the copy I made in Berlin!"
"What?"
Natterman nodded weakly. "Stern ... was following me.
He saw me do it. I made a copy of the Spandau papers before I ever left
Berlin for the cabin. I mailed it to one of my old teaching assistants
for safekeeping. Kurt Rossman. If ...
if you get to Ilse, don't worry about the papers. Just get Ilse out.
Tell Stern to get Ilse out!"
Hauer sat stunned. He couldn't believe that through all the warnings
against photocopying the Spandau papers, Natterman had risked Ilse's
life by not admitting that he had already done so. As he opened his
mouth to rebuke the old man, Aaron Haber appeared at his side with a
canvas overnight bag. The young commando withdrew a kit containing
@yne, Xylocaine, sutures, syringes, gauze bandages, a blood-pressure
indicator, morphine, and a cornucopia of emergency drugs. "We came
prepared for casualties," he said. He propped Natterman's legs on some
pillows to max the flow of blood to his brain.
Hauer stood up and gave his full attention to Schneider.
"What's your story, Detective?"
Schneider produced a handkerchief and wiped some blood from his face.
"I've come here to help you, Captain. You are in a great deal of
trouble in Berlin. Both you and Sergeant Apfel are wanted for murder
there."
"I'm no murderer," Hauer said gruffly.
"I didn't say you were. I know all about the Spandau papers, Captain. I
know about Phoenix. I'm working with the Americans, with Colonel Rose
of the U.S. Army. That's how I traced you."
"I suppose you want the Spandau papers?"
Schneider shrugged. "Only if they can help to crush Phoenix."
Hauer digested this slowly. "Why did you kill that Russian?"
"He killed an American intelligence officer named Richardson.
Richardson was the man who discovered that Phoenix extends into East
Germany as well as West Berlin."
"I've known that for months."
"Then why didn't you report it?"
Hauer snorted. "Report it? Phoenix has men in the police department,
the BND, the West Berlin Senate, the federal - government in Bonn, and
all the states. If I'd reported what I knew to the wrong person, you
and your Kripo friends would have been visiting me at the morgue twelve
hours later."
Schneider nodded slowly. "The Americans can help you, Captain.
Colonel Rose will help."
"You said this Russian here already killed one American officer.
That kind of help I don't need." Hauer studied the big German.
"Why do you think I should trust you?"
"Because I saved your life."
Hauer shrugged. "Anyone from Phoenix would have killed those Russians
just as quickly as. you did. They can't afford to let the Russians
know what Phoenix truly exists for. Not yet."
Schneider met Hauer's eyes. "Come back with me to Berlin, Captain. Help
us root out Funk and his men. Colonel Rose would like nothing better
than to order an assault on Abschnitt 53. But his hands are tied. His
superiors are holding him back because of the Hess business, and he
doesn't.
have nearly enough evidence against Prefect Funk. You could provide
that evidence, Captain. You must trust me.
"I want the same thing you do-to clean those scum out of Berlin."
Schneider turned his broad hands upward. "I know you don't know me, but
you must have known my father.
Max Schneider. He was a Kripo investigator too. Big like me.
Hauer searched Schneider's face for a full minute. Two rivulets of
blood trickled down from the sweatband of Schneider's hat. Behind
Schneider, Gadi was moving the dead Russians into the bathroom, while
Aaron worked on the professor. The professor's revelation that he had
made a copy of the Spandau papers pulsed in the back of Hauer's brain
like a second heartbeat. The situation had changed.
Profoundly. A copy of the Spandau papers, combined with the evidence he
and Steuben had already compiled, meant that direct action in Berlin
might now be possible. Things were moving too quickly here in South
Africa. Hans's betrayal, Stern's sudden appearance, the Russian
assault, Schneider's unexpected rescue. Schneider ...
"Your father wore a hat like yours," Hauer said absently.
"You did know him," said Schneider.
Hauer turned and stared pensively out the window. "You say you're
working with the Americans?", "Yes. Colonel Godfrey Rose, of Military
Intelligence."
"Can you get him on the phone?"
'Yes.
"Do it."
4.00 P.M. The Voortrokker Monument, Pretoria
After forty-five minutes of lying blindfolded in the backseat of the
speeding Range Rover, Jonas Stern had lost all sense of direction.
The Zulu driver who had met him at the Voortrekker Monument drove with
the windowsdown, and Stern could smell rain on the wind. He had peeked
around his blindfold once, and it seemed to him that night had fallen
early. In fact the darkness was caused by the thick ceiling of storm
clouds Hans had earlier seen rolling in from the north. It was part of
a front that had blown in from the Indian Ocean; it stretched southward
from the Mozambique border almost to PretoriaStern tensed as the Range
Rover swerved onto a rocky shoulder and shuddered to a stop.
He heard the driver's door open and close. Stern pulled off the
blindfold and looked around. Down the highway, he saw a small speck of
light. It shone from the direction they had come. Yet as he tried to
focus on the yellow glimmer, it winked out. The Zulu driver turned to
Stern, the whites of his eyes flashing angrily. He jabbed a finger
toward the blindfold. Pulling the black scarf back around his eyes,
Stern heard@r thought he heard-the sound of an automobile engine in the
distance.
The Zulu clambered back into the Range Rover and screeched onto the
highway, accelerating to a ridiculous speed. He raced on that way for
three or four minutes; then he geared down and turned off the highway
again. When the Rover finally stopped, he leaped out and ran away.
Stern moved the blindfold enough to see his surroundings.
The Rover had stopped at some type of roadside park. A knot of brightly
dressed Africans lounged around the single building. Several held
liquor bottles in their hands. Their focus seemed to be a public
telephone mounted on a wall. One of their number was talking into it.
Stern watched as his Zulu driver approached the men. Rather than slow
down, the Zulu swiped the air with a broad sweep of his arm. The
tribesmen scattered like frightened children. They knew the Zulu, Stern
thought.
The Zulu shouted into the telephone for a minute or so, bobbing his head
up and down like a bird. Abruptly he ceased this motion and looked back
down the highway. Stern followed his gaze. The light was there again,
but larger now-and it was no longer one light, but two.
Hauer Stern thought suddenly. Damn him!
As the Zulu came running back to the Rover, Stern stiffened, fearing the
bullet that had been promised if anyone followed the pickup vehicle.
None came. The driver's door slammed shut; then the Rover roared out of
the park and accelerated to 150 kilometers per hour.
Over the edge of his blindfold Stern saw the Zulu checking his rearview
mirror every few seconds. So Hauer's still there, he thought.
How the hell did he get past Gadi?
The engine screamed as the Zulu pushed the Rover to a frightening speed.
Stern wondered if the driver really expected to shake Hauer by this
simple tactic. On a paved highway Hauer's rented Ford could overtake
the Range Rover without much trouble.
Suddenly the Zulu savagely twisted the wheel, dirow the Rover into a
two-wheeled skid that hurled it down a shallow slope onto the hard,
rolling veld. The vehicle decelerated rapidly, but the torturous
terrain more than made up for the reduction in speed. No conventional
automobile could catch them now. Stern tried to keep his head from
slamming into the roof as the Rover vaulted humps, leaped ditches.
When the Rover finally shuddered to a halt, Stern collapsed against the
door and tried to catch his breath.
The Zulu wrenched the door open, jerked Stern out and I ripped off the
blindfold. On all sides Stern saw the seemingly limitless veld, lit by
an eerie blue light filtering through the storm clouds above. The first
heavy drops of African rain smacked against the roof of the Rover. Then
the clouds opened with a crash. Following the Zulu's line of sight,
Stern spotted the fast-approaching headlights, now jinking wildly up and
down as if manipulated by some mad puppeteer. The African raised his
face to the dark clouds as if beseeching some native god to lift him up
and away from his pursuer. While Stern stared through the rain,
hypnotized by the dancing headlights, a new sound rumbled into his,
ears. At first he thought it was rolling thunder.
Then the engine of the pursuing car. But the sound grew nearer much
faster than the headlights. Soon it was a buffeting roar' terrifying in
intensity. When Stern finally looked up, he saw that the roar had
blotted out the sky. He crouched beneath the blast of the rotors and
shielded his eyes against the whipping rain, but the Zulu jerked him up
and into the gaping maw of the helicopter as it hovered briefly-near the
earth.
As they lifted away from the hurricane below, Stern heard another sound
cutting through the din of the rotors-a higher sound, like the rim of a
crystal goblet singing. Then it came to him-the brief whine punctuated
by the dull thwackbullets! Two more slugs punctured the thin aluminum
skin of the chopper but miraculously missed the vitals of the
machine-the cabling, hydraulics, and precious rotors.
The helicopter yawed at a sickening angle as it climbed, but the Zulu
held Stern fast. Far below, Stern saw the pursuer's headlights,
spinning and shrinking to unreality. The chase car had stopped now.
It merged with the Rover, a tiny bright speck against the rain-swept
veld. Stern thought of Hauer, of how angry he must be at this
unexpected tactic. He pictured the furious German kicking the Rover or
even firing a few slugs into it for good measure. He couldn't help but
/>
smile.
But the man below was not kicking the Range Rover, of stupidly firing
his pistol into the lifeless steel hulk. For the man below was not a
man at all, but a woman. An Englishwoman smelling of powder and
expensive perfume. Cia-re de Lune. And if Jonas Stern had known that,
he would not have been smiling.
4:10 Pm. Room 604 The Protea Hof Hotel, Pretoria
Hauer and Schneider sat facing each other across the narrow space
between the two double beds. Hauer held his Walther loosely in his
hand; Schneider's hands were empty. Gadi sat by the window, hands
clenched around his Uzi. After piling the dead Russians in the
bathroom, he had gone over to the Stanley House to try to capture
Borodin's sniper, but the sniper had disappeared. Professor Natterman
lay asleep on the bed, his thigh and his side wrapped in gauze. Aaron
Haber guarded the door. There would be no more surprise entries.
"Do you believe me now?" Schneider asked.
Hauer had spent five minutes on the phone with Colonel Rose. "I believe
you," he said. "But not because of what the American said."
"Why, then?"
"Your father. He was an investigator during the student riots in the
sixties. Back then a lot of police officers would just as soon have
shot a student as talked to one. Your father was different."
Schneider nodded.
"Unless the acorn fell a long way from the tree, you're not part of
Phoenix. Besides, why would Funk need to send you? Phoenix must have
an army here in South Africa."
"Will you come back to Berlin with me?"
Hauer shook his head. "Right now I care about only one thing-saving my
son's life. After that's done, I'll remember that I need to care about
cleaning Funk and his stortntroopers out of Berlin.
But by then it may be too late."
Hauer stood. "I've got a feeling I may not be coming back from this
trip, Detective. So I'm going to trust you to handle, Berlin. I have
to trust you."
Hauer felt every eye in the room upon him.
"Here is the situation as I see it: The British want to suppress the
Spandau diary, and the Hess story with it. The Americans-at least in
the past-have been willing to go ;along with the British. The Russians
want to expose the papers and force the British to accept partial blame
for what the Nazis did in the war. It's political one-upmanship."
