Greg Iles - Spandau Phoenix

“Do you really think this woman might pose a danger to him?”

Shaw shook his head. “I doubt Stern’s in England. Or even in Europe, for that matter. He’s probably sunning himself on Mykonos, or something similar. Which reminds me—did you find that freighter for me?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Lloyd’s puts her off Durban; she rounded the cape three days ago.”

Shaw rummaged through the stack of papers on his desk until he found a map of southern Africa. “Durban,” he murmured, running his finger across the paper. “Twenty knots, twenty-five … two days … yes. Well.”

Shaw brushed the map aside and thumped the stack of papers before him. “This is the Hess file, Wilson. No one’s cleared to read it but me—did you know that? I tell you, there’s enough rotted meat between these covers to make you ashamed of being an Englishman.”

Wilson waited for an explanation, but Shaw provided none. “About the Israeli letter, sir?” he prompted. “It’s basically a polite request to leave this Stern alone. How should I reply?”

“What? Oh. The Israeli prime minister is an old terrorist himself, you know.” Sir Neville chuckled. “And still looking after his own, after all these years.” His smile turned icy. “No reply. Let him sweat for a while, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And hurry those hard boys along, would you? I thought I had it tough with the P.M. climbing my back. An hour ago I got a call from the bloody Queen-Mother herself. She makes the Iron Lady sound like a French nanny!”

As Wilson slipped out, Sir Neville huffed and went back to the Hess file. On top lay a very old eight-by-ten glossy photograph. Scarred and faded, it showed a man in his late forties with dark hair, a strong jaw, and a black oval patch tied rakishly across his left eye. Shaw jabbed his heavy forefinger down on the eye patch.

“You started it all, you sneaking bastard,” he muttered. He slammed the file closed and leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes I wonder if the damned knighthood’s worth the strain,” he said. “Protecting skeletons in the royal bloody chest.”

Outside the apartment another car rattled down the street without slowing. Number twelve. Ilse was counting. Wait until midnight , her grandfather had told her. If Hans isn’t home by then, get out. Sound advice, perhaps, but Ilse couldn’t imagine running for safety while Hans remained in danger. She fumed at her own obstinacy. How could she have let a stupid argument keep her from telling Hans about the baby? She had to find him. Find him and bring him to his senses.

But where to start? The police station? The nightclub district? Hans might meet a reporter anywhere. Rising from her telephone vigil, she went to the bedroom to put on some outdoor clothes. Outside, a long low groan built slowly to a rattling roar as a train passed on the elevated S-Bahn tracks up the street. During the day trains passed every ten minutes or so; at night, thank God, the intervals were longer. As Ilse tied a scarf around her hair, yet another automobile clattered down the Lützenstrasse, coughing and wheezing in the cold. Unlike the others, however, this one sputtered to a stop near the front entrance of the building. Please , she prayed, rushing to the window, please let it be Hans .

It wasn’t. Looking down, she saw a shiny black BMW sedan, not Hans’s Volkswagen. She let her forehead fall against the freezing pane. The cold eased the throb of the headache that had begun an hour earlier. She half-watched as the four doors of the BMW opened simultaneously and four men in dark business suits emerged. They grouped together near the front of the car. One man pointed toward the apartment building and waved in a circle. Another detached himself from the group and disappeared around the corner. Curious, Ilse watched the first man turn his face toward the upper floors and begin counting windows. His bobbing arm moved slowly closer to her window. How odd , she thought. Who would be out counting apartment windows at midnight in—?

She jumped back from the window. The men below were looking for her . Or for Hans—for what he’d found. She groped for the light switch to turn it off, then thought better of it. Instead she ran into the living room, opened the door, and peered cautiously down the hall. Empty. She dashed down the corridor and around the corner to a window that overlooked the building’s rear entrance. Three men huddled there, speaking animatedly. Ilse wondered if they might be plainclothes police. Suddenly two of them entered the building, while the third took up station in the shadow of some garbage bins near the exit.

The metallic groan of the ancient elevator jolted Ilse from the window. Too late to run . They would reach her floor in seconds. With her back to the corridor wall, she inched toward the corner that led back to her apartment. She felt a tingling numbness in her hands as she peeked around it. A tall young man in a dark suit stood outside her door. Remembering the fire stairs, she started in the other direction, but the echo of ascending steps made her thought redundant.

Hopelessly trapped, she decided to try to bluff her way out. Feeling adrenaline suffuse her body, she stepped around the corner as if she owned the building and marched toward the man outside her apartment. She cocked her chin arrogantly upward, intending to walk right past him and into the lift that would take her to the lobby. After all, she had appeared from another part of the floor—she might be anybody. If she could only reach the lobby …

The man looked up. He began to stare. First at Ilse’s legs, then at her breasts, then her face.

I can’t do it! she thought. I’ll never make it past him —

In a millisecond she saw her chance. Stay calm , she told herself. Steady … Fifteen feet away from her apartment she stopped and withdrew her apartment key from her purse. She smiled coolly at the guard, then turned her back to him and bent over the door handle of apartment 43. Be here, Eva! she screamed silently. For God’s sake, be here! Ilse scratched her key against the knob to imitate the sound of an unlocking door, then she said one last prayer and turned the knob.

It opened! Like a reprieved prisoner, she backed into her friend’s apartment, smiling once at the guard before she shut and locked the door. After shooting home the bolt, she sagged against the door, her entire body quivering in terror. For an unsteady moment she thought she might actually collapse, but she forced down her fear and padded up the narrow hall to her friend’s bedroom door. A crack of light shone faintly beneath it. Ilse knocked, but heard no answer.

“Eva?” she called softly. “Eva, it’s Ilse.”

Too anxious to wait, she opened the door and stepped into the room. From behind the door a hand shot out and caught her hair, then jerked her to the floor. She started to struggle, but froze when she felt a cold blade press into the soft flesh of her throat. “Eva!” she rasped. “Eva, it’s me —Ilse!”

The hand jerked harder on her hair, drawing her head back. The blade did not relent. Then, suddenly, she was free.

“Ilse!” Eva hissed. “What the hell are you doing here? I might have killed you. I would have. I thought you were a rapist. Or worse.”

The remark threw Ilse off balance. “What’s worse than a rapist?”

“A faggot, dearie,” Eva answered, bursting into laughter. She folded the straight razor back into its handle.

Ilse’s panic finally overcame her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sobbed as her middle-aged friend hugged her wet face to a considerable bosom and stroked her hair like a mother comforting her child.