Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

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?"

"Not yet at least."

"We should look into something like the British Harrier.

Wonderfully simple idea, vertical takeoff. There must be a commercial

variant in development somewhere."

"Surely you're joking, sir?"

Horn looked reprovingly at his aide. "You would never have made an

aviator, Pieter. To fight in the skies you must believe all things are

possible, bendable to the human will."

suppose you're right."

"But you are excellent at what you do, my friend. I am living proof of

your skill and dedication. I am the only one left who knows the secret.

The only one. And that is due in no small part to you."

"You exaggerate, Herr Horn."

"No. Though I have-great wealth, my power rests not in money but in

fear. And one instrument of the fear I generate is you. Your loyalty

is beyond price."

"And beyond doubt, you know that."

Horn's single living eye pierced Smuts's soul. "We can know nothing for

certain, Pieter. Least of all about ourselves. But I have to trust

someone, don't I?"

"I shall never fail you," Smuts said softly, almost reverendy.

"Your goal is greater than any temptation."

"Yes," the old man answered. "Yes it is."

Horn backed the wheelchair away from the desk and turned to face the

window. The skyline of Pretoria, for the most part beneath him,

stretched away across the suburbs to the soot-covered townships, to the

great plateau of the northern Transvaal, where three days hence Horn

would host a meeting calculated to alter the balance of world power

forever. As Smuts closed the door softly, Horn's mind drifted back to

the days of his youth ... the days of power. Gingerly, he touched his

glass eye.

"Der Tag kommt, he said aloud. "The day approaches."

CHAPTER THREE

3.-31 Pm. British Sector West Berlin Hans awoke in a sweat. He still

cowered inside a dark cave, watching in terror as a Russian soldier came

for him with a Kalashnikov rifle. The illusion gripped his mind,

difficult to break. He sat upright in bed and rubbed the sleep from his

eyes. Still the wrecked compound hovered before him.

His soiled uniform still chafed, still smelled of the dank prison yard.

He shook his head violently, but the image would not disappear.

It was real ...

On the screen of the small Siemens television two meters in front of

Hans, a tall reporter clad in the type of topcoat favored by West Berlin

pimps stood before a wide shot of the wasteland that yesterday had been

Spandau Prison. Hans clambered over the footboard of the bed and turned

up the volume on the set.

"... Deutsche Welled broadcasting live from the Wilhelmstrasse.

As you can see, the main structure of Spandau Prison was destroyed with

little fanfare yesterday by the British military authorities. it was

here early this morning that Soviet troops in conjunction with West

Berlin police arrested the two West German citizens whom the Russians

are now attempting to extradite into East Berlin.. There is virtually

no precedent for this attempt. The Russians are following no recognized

legal procedure, and the story that began here in the predawn hours is

rapidly becoming an incident of international proportions. To the best

of Deutsche Welle's knowledge, the two Berliners are being held inside

Polizei Abschnitt 53, where our own Peter Muller is following

developments as they occur. Peter?"

Before switching to the second live feed, the producer stayed with the

Spandau shot for a few silent seconds. What Hans saw brought a sour

lump to his throat. A hundred meters behind the reporter, dozens of

uniformed men slowly picked their way across the ruined grounds of

Spandau.

They moved over the icy rubble like ants in search of food, some not far

from the very mound where Hans had made his discovery. A few wore white

lab coats, but others-Hans's throat tightened-others wore the

distinctive red-patched brown uniforms of the Soviet infantry.

Hans scoured the screen for clues that might explain the Soviet

presence, but the scene vaporized. Now a slightly better-dressed

commentator stood before the great threearched doorway of the police

station where Hans reported to work every morning. He shifted his

weight excitedly from one foot to the other as he spoke.

"Thank you, Karl," he said. "Other than the earlier statement by the

police press officer that a joint investigation with the USSR is under

way, no details are forthcoming. We know that an undetermined number of

Soviet soldiers remain inside Abschnitt 53, but we do not know if they

are guests here, as is claimed, or if-as has been rumored-they control

the station by force of arms.

"While the Spandau incident occurred in the British sector of the city,

the German prisoners were taken by a needlessly lengthy route to

Abschnitt 53, here in the American sector, just one block from

Checkpoint Charlie. Informed sources have speculated that a

quick-witted police officer may have realized that the Soviets would be

less likely to resort to violence in the American-controlled part of the

city. We have received no statements from either the American or the

British milimq commands. However, if Soviet troops are in fact inside

this police station without the official sanction of the U.S.

Army, the Allied occupational boundaries we have all by familiarity come

to ignore may suddenly assume a critical importance.

This small incident could well escalate into one of the most volatile

crises of the post-glasnost era. We will update this story at 18:00

this evening, so please stay tuned to this channel. This is Peter

Muller, Deutsche Welle, live . .

While the reporter solemnly wrapped his segment, he failed to notice the

huge station door open behind him. Haggard but erect, Captain Dieter

Hauer strode out into the afternoon light. He looked as though he

hadn't slept in hours. He surveyed the sidewalk like a drill sergeant

inspecting a barracks yard; then, apparently satisfied, he gave the

reporter a black look, turned back toward the station door, and

dissolved into a BMW commercial.

Hans fell back against the footboard of the bed, his mind reeling.

Russian troops still in his home station? Who had leaked the Spandau

story to the press? And who were the men in the white lab coats? What

were they searching for?

Was it the papers he'd found? It almost had to be. No one cared about

a couple of homosexuals who happened to trespass public property in

their search for a love nest. The realization of what he had done by

keeping the papers hit Hans like a wave of fever. But what else could

he have done? Surely the police brass would not have wanted the

Russians to get hold of the papers. He could have driven straight to

Polizei headquarters at Platz der Luftbriicke, of course, but he didn't

know a soul there. No, when he turned in the papers, he wanted to do it

at his home station. And he couldn't do that yet because the Russians

were still inside it!

He would simply have to wait.

But he didn't want to wait. He felt like a boy who has stumbled over a

locked chest in a basement. He wanted to know what the devil he'd

found! Anxiou@ly, he snapped his fingers. Ilse, he thought suddenly.