Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

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 speeific 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 defense 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.