Greg Iles - Spandau Phoenix

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 called 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 colored. “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 fulfillment 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.

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 eye brows . 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.