Spandau Phoenix

by Greg Iles

  06.25 a.m. British Sector. West Berlin

  The warm apartment air hit Hans in a wave, flushing his skin, enfolding him like a cocoon. Ilse had already left, he knew it instinctively. There was no movement in the kitchen, no sound of appliances, no running shower, nothing. Still jumpy, and half-starved, he walked hopefully into the kitchen. He found a note on the refrigerator door, written in Ilse’s hurried hand: Wurst in the oven. I love you. Back by 18:00.

  Thank you, Liebchen, he thought, catching the pungent aroma of Weisswurst. Using one of his gloves as a potholder, he removed the hot dish from the oven and placed it on the counter to cool. Then he took a deep breath, bent over, rolled up his pants leg and dug the sheaf of onionskin out of his boot. His pulse quickened as he unfolded the pages in the light. He backed against the stove for heat, plopped a chunk of white sausage into his mouth, and picked up reading where the Russian soldier had surprised him.

  … I only hope that long after these events cease to have immediate consequences in our insane world, someone will find these words and learn the obscene truth not only of Himmler, Heydrich, and the rest, but of England@f those who would have sold her honour and ultimately her existence for a chance to sit at Hitler’s blood-drenched table. The facts are few, but I have had more time to ponder them than most men would in ten lifetimes. I know how this mission was accomplished, but I do not know why. That is for someone else to learn. I can only point the way. You must follow the Eye. The Eye is the key to it all!

  Hans stopped chewing and held the paper closer to his face. Sketched below this exhortation was a single, stylized eye. Gracefully curved, with a lid but no lashes, it stared out from the paper with a strange intensity. It seemed neither masculine nor feminine. It looked mystical somehow. Even a little creepy. He read on:

  What follows is my story, as best I can remember it.

  Hans blinked his eyes. At the beginning of the next paragraph, the narrative suddenly switched to a language he could not understand. He didn’t even recognize it. He stared in puzzlement at the painstakingly blocked characters. Portuguese? he wondered. Italian maybe? He couldn’t tell. A few words of German were sprinkled through the gibberish—names mostly—but not enough to get any meaning from. Frustrated, he walked into the bedroom, folded the pages, and stuffed them underneath the mattress at the foot of his bed. He switched on the television from habit, then kicked his mud-caked boots into an empty corner and dropped his coat on top of them. Ilse would scold him for being lazy, he knew, but after two straight shifts he was simply too exhausted to care.

  He ate his breakfast on the bed. As much as the Spandau papers, the thought of his father weighed on his mind. Captain Hauer had asked him why he’d come to Berlin. Hans often wondered that himself. Three years it had been now. He hardly thought of Munich anymore. He’d married Ilse after just five months here in Berlin. Christ, what a wedding it had been. His mother—still furious at him for becoming a policeman—had refused to attend, and Hauer had not been included in the plans. But he’d shown up anyway, Hans remembered. Hans had spied his rigid, uniformed figure outside the church, standing alone at the end of the block. Hans had pretended not to notice, but Ilse had waved quite deliberately to him as they climbed into the wedding car.

  Angry again, Hans wolfed down another sausage and tried to concentrate on the television. A silver-haired windbag of a Frankfurt banker was dispensing financial advice to viewers saddled with the burden of surplus cash. Hans snorted in disgust. At fifteen hundred Deutschemarks per month, a Berlin policeman made barely enough money to pay rent and buy groceries. Without Ilse’s income, they would be shivering in a cold-water flat in Kreuzberg. He wanted to switch channels, but the old Siemens black-and-white had been built in the dark ages before remote control. He stayed where he was.

  He took another bite of sausage and stared blankly at the screen. Beneath his stockinged feet, the wrinkled sheaf of papers waited, a tantalizing mystery beckoning him to explore. Yet he had already hit a dead end. The strange, staring eye hovered in his mind, taunting him. After breakfast, he decided, he would take a shower and then have another go at the papers.

  He never made it off the bed. Exhaustion and the warm air overcame him even before he finished the sausage. He slid down the duvet, the unfinished plate balanced precariously on his lap, the Spandau papers hidden just beneath his feet.

  10.15 A.m. French Sector. West Berlin

  Ilse hated these visits. No matter how many times she saw her Gynakologe, she never got used to it. Ever. The astringent smell of alcohol, the gleaming stainless steel, the cold table, palpating fingers, the overly solicitous voice of the physician, who sometimes peered directly into her eyes from between her upraised legs: all these combined to produce a primal anxiety that solidified like ice in the hollow of her chest. Ilse knew about the necessity of annual checkups, but until she and Hans had begun trying to have a child, she’d skipped more exams than she would care to admit.

  All that had changed eighteen months ago. She had been up in the stirrups so many times now that the stress of the ordeal had almost diminished to that of a visit to the dentist—but not quite. Unlike many German women, Ilse possessed an extreme sense of modesty about her body. She suspected it was because she had never known her mother, but whatever the reason, being forced to expose herself to a stranger, albeit a doctor, for her required a considerable act of will. Only her strong desire to have children allowed her to endure the interminable series of examinations and therapies designed to enhance fertility.

  “All done, Frau Apfel,” Doctor Grauber said. He handed a slide to his waiting nurse. Ilse heard that hard snap as he stripped off his surgical gloves and raised the lid of the waste bin with his foot. It crashed down, sending gooseflesh racing across her neck and shoulders. “I’ll see you in my office after you’ve dressed.”

  Ilse heard the door open and close. The nurse started to help her out of the stirrups, but she quickly raised herself and reached for her clothes.

  Dr Grauber’s office was messy but well-appointed, full of books and old medical instruments and framed degrees and the smell of cigars. Ilse noticed none of this. She was here for one thing—an answer. Was she pregnant or was she sick? The two possibilities wrestled in her mind. Her instinct said pregnant. She and Hans had been trying for so long now, and the other option was too unnatural to think about. Her body was strong and supple, lean and hard. Like the flanks of a lioness, Hans said once (as if he knew what a lioness felt like).

  How could she be sick? She felt so well. But she knew. Exterior health was no guarantee of immunity. Ilse had seen two friends younger than she stricken with cancer. One had died, the other had lost a breast. She wondered how Hans would react to something like that. Disfigurement. He would never admit to revulsion, of course, but it would matter. Hans loved her body—worshipped it, really. Ever since their first night together, he had slowly encouraged her until she felt comfortable before him naked. Now she could turn gracefully about the room like a ballerina, or

  sometimes just stand silently, still as alabaster.

  “That was quick!” Dr Grauber boomed, striding in and taking a seat behind his chaotic desk.

  Ilse pressed her back into the tufted leather sofa. She wanted to be ready, no matter what the diagnosis. As she met the doctor’s eyes, a nurse stepped into the office. She handed him a slip of paper and went out. Grauber glanced at it, sighed, then looked up. What he saw startled him. The poise and concentration with which Ilse watched him made him forget the slip of paper in his hand. Her blue eyes shone with frank and disarming curiosity, her skin with luminous vitality. She wore little or no makeup—the luxury of youth, Grauber thought—and her hair had that transparent blondness that makes the hands tingle to touch it. But it wasn’t all that, he decided. Ilse Apfel was no film star. He knew a dozen women as striking as she. It was something other than fine features, deeper than the glow of youth. Not elegance, or earthiness, or even a hint of that intangible scent Grauber call
ed availability. No, it was, quite simply, grace. Ilse possessed that rare beauty made rarer still by apparent unconsciousness of itself.

  When Grauber caught himself admiring her breasts—high and round, more Gallic than Teutonic, he thought—he flushed and looked quickly back at the slip of paper in his hand. “Well,” he coughed. “That’s that.”

  Ilse waited expectantly, too anxious to ask for the verdict.

  “Your urine indicates pregnancy,” Grauber announced. “I’d like to draw some blood, of course,‘confirm the urine with a beta-subunit test, but I’d say that’s just a formality. Would you like to bring Hans in? I know he’ll be excited.”

  Ilse coloured. “Hans didn’t come this time.”

  Grauber raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a first. He’s got to be the most concerned husband I’ve ever met.”

  The smile faded. “Are you all right, Ilse? You look as though I’d just

  given you three months to live.”

  Ilse felt wings beating within her chest. After all her anxiety, she found it hard to accept fulfilment of her deepest hope. “I really didn’t expect this,” she murmured. “I was afraid to hope for it. My mother died when I was born, you know, and it’s … it’s just very important, to me to have a child of my own.”

  “Well, you’ve got one started,” said Grauber. “Now our job is to see that he—or she—arrives as ordered. I’ve got a copy of the standard visiting schedule, and there’s the matter of …”

  Ilse heard nothing else. The doctor’s news had lifted her spirit to a plane where no mundane detail could intrude. When the lab technician drew her blood, she felt no needle prick, and on her way out of the office the receptionist had to call her name three times to prevent her leaving without scheduling her next visit. At the age of twenty-six, her happiness was complete.

  11:27 a.m. Pretoria, The Republic of South Africa

  Five thousand miles to the south of Germany, two thousand of those below the equator, an old man sentenced to spend half his waking hours in a wheelchair spoke acidly into the intercom recessed into his oaken office desk.

  “This is not the time to bother me with business, Pieter.”

  The man’s name was Alfred Horn, and though it was not his native language, he spoke Afrikaans.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the intercom replied, “but I believe you might prefer to take this call. It’s from Berlin.”

  Berlin. Horn reached for the intercom button. “Ah … I believe you’re right, Pieter.” The old man let his finger fall from the button, then pressed it again. “Is this call scrambled?”

  “Sir, this end as always. I can’t say for certain about the other. I doubt it.”

  “And the room?”

  “Swept last night, sir.”

  “I’m picking up now.”

  The connection was excellent, almost noiseless. The first voice Horn heard was that of his security chief, Pieter Smuts.

  “Are you still on the line, caller?”

  “Ja,” hissed a male voice, obviously under stress. “And I haven’t much time.”

  “Are you calling from a secure location?”

  “Nein.”

  “Can you move to such a location?”

  “Nein! Someone may have missed me already!”

  “Calm yourself,” Smuts ordered. “You will identify yourself again in five seconds. Answer any questions Put to You—”

  “You may remain on the line, Guardian,” Horn interrupted in perfect German.

  “Go ahead, caller,” Smuts said.

  “This is Berlin-One,” said the quavering voice. “There are developments here of which I feel you should be apprised. Two men were arrested this morning at Spandau Prison. West Berliners.”

  “On what charge?” Horn asked, his voice neutral.

  “Trespassing.”

  “For that you call this number?”

  “There are special circumstances. Russian troops guarding the prison last night have insisted that these men be charged with espionage, or else transferred to East Berlin for such action.”

  “Surely you are joking.”

  “Does a man risk his career for a joke?”

  Horn paused. “Elaborate.”

  “I don’t know much, but there is still Russian activity at the prison. They’re conducting searches or tests of some sort. That’s all I—”

  “Searches at Spandau?” Horn cut in. “Has this to do with the death of Hess?”

  “I don’t know. I simply felt you should be made aware.”

  “Yes,” Horn said at length. “Of course. Tell me, why weren’t our own men guarding Spandau?”

  “The captain of the unit was one of us. It was he who prevented the Russians from taking the prisoners into East Berlin. He doesn’t think, the trespassers know anything, though.”

  “He’s not supposed to think at all!”

  “He—he’s very independent,” said the timid voice. “A real pain in the neck. His name is Hauer.”

  Horn heard Smuts’s pen scratching. “Was there anything else?”

  “Nothing specific, but …”

  “Yes?”

  “The Russians. They’re being much more forceful than usual. They seem unworried by any diplomatic concerns. As if whatever they seek is worth upsetting important people. The Americans, for example.”

  There was a pause. “You were right to call,” Horn said finally.

  “Make sure things do not go too far. Keep us informed. Call this number again tonight. There will be a delay as the call is re-routed north. Wait for our answer.”

  “But I may not have access to a private phone—”

  “That is a direct order!”

  “Jawohl!

  “Caller, disconnect,” Smuts commanded.

  The line went dead. Horn hit the intercom and summoned his security chief into the office. Smuts seated himself opposite Horn on a Spartan sofa that typified its owner’s martial disdain for excessive comfort. With his wheelchair almost out of sight behind the desk, Alfred Horn appeared in remarkably good health, despite his advanced years. His strong, mobile face and still-broad shoulders projected an energy and sense of purpose suited to a man thirty years his junior. Only the eyes jarred this impression. They seemed strangely incongruous between the high cheekbones and classical forehead. One hardly moved—being made of glass—yet the other eye seemed doubly and disturbingly alive, as if projecting the entire concentration of the powerful brain behind it. But it wasn’t really the eyes, Smuts remembered, it was the eyebrows. Horn had none. The bullet wound that had taken the left eye had been treated late and badly. Despite several plastic surgeries, the pronounced ridge that surmounted the surviving eye was entirely bare of hair, giving an impression of weakness where in fact none existed. The other eyebrow was shaved to prevent an asymmetrical appearance.

  “Comments, Pieter?” Horn said.

  “I don’t like it, sir, but I don’t see what we can do at this point but monitor the situation. We’re already pushing our timetable to the limit.” Smuts looked thoughtful. “Perhaps Number Seven’s killer left some evidence that was overlooked.”

  “Or perhaps Number Seven himself left some hidden writings which were never found,” Horn suggested. “A deathbed confession, perhaps? We can take no chances where Spandau is concerned.”

  “Do you have any specific requests?”

  “Handle this as you see fit, but handle it. I’m much more concerned about the upcoming meeting.” Horn tapped his forefinger nervously on the desktop. “Do you feel confident about security, Pieter?”

  “Absolutely, sir. Do you really feel you are in immediate danger? Spandau Prison is one thing, but Horn House is five thousand miles from Britain.”

  “I’m certain,” Horn averred. “Something has changed. Our English contacts have cooled. Lines of communication are kept open, but they are too forced. Inquiries have been made into our activities in the South African defence program. Ever since the murder of Number Seven.”
>
  “You don’t think it could have been suicide?”

  Horn snorted in contempt. “The only mystery is who killed him and why. Was it the British, to silence him? Or did the Jews finally kill him, for revenge? My money is on the British. They wanted him silenced for good. As they want me silenced.” Horn scowled. “I’m tired of waiting, that’s all.”

  Smuts smiled coldly. “Only seventy-two hours to go, sir.”

  Horn ignored this reassurance. “I want you to call Vorster at the mine. Have him bring his men up to the house tonight.”

  “But the interim security team doesn’t arrive until noon tomorrow,” Smuts objected.

  “Then the mine will just have to work naked for eighteen hours!”

  Horn had wounded his security chief’s pride, but Smuts kept silent. His precautions for the historic meeting three nights hence, though unduly rushed, were airtight. He was certain of it. Situated on an isolated plateau in the northern Transvaal, Horn House was a veritable fortress. No one could get within a mile of it without a tank, and Smuts had something that could stop that, too. But Alfred Horn was not a man to be argued with. If he wanted extra men, they would be there. Smuts made a mental note to retain a contract security team to guard Horn’s platinum mine during the night.

  “Tell me, Pieter, how is the airstrip extension proceeding?”

  “As well as we could hope, considering the time pressure we’re under. Six hundred feet to go.”

  “I’ll see for myself tonight, if we ever get out of this blasted city. That helicopter of mine spends more time in the service hangar than it does on my rooftop.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I still don’t like those aircraft, Pieter. They look and fly like clumsy insects. Still, I suppose we can’t very well put a runway on the roof, can we?”