Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

one he now faced was one he had long prayed would remain buried in the

ashes of history.

"This, cock-up started almost twelve hours ago!" he snapped.

"Yes, Sir Neville," admitted his deputy. "The unit on the scene

reported it to General Bishop in Berlin. Bishop informed mI-6 but saw

no reason to apprise us. The Russian complaint went to the Foreign

Office, and the F.O. apparently felt as the general did. We've got one

contact on the West Berlin police force; he's the only reason we got

onto this at all. He can't tell us much, though, because he's stationed

in our sector. These German trespassers were taken to a police station

in the American sector. The thing's been on the telly over there since

this afternoon."

"Good God," Sir Neville groaned. "One more bloody week and this would

have been nothing but a minor flap."

"How do you mean, sir?"

Shaw rubbed his forehead to ease a migraine. "Forget it.

This was bound to happen sooner or later. Damned journalists and

curiosity hounds poking at the story for years. Matter of time, that's

all."

"Yes, sir," the deputy director commiserated.

"Who did we have at Spandau, anyway?"

"Regular military detail. The sergeant in charge said he knew nothing

about any papers. He didn't have the foggiest idea of the

implications."

"What monumental stupidity!" Shaw got to his feet, still staring at the

report in his hands. "Can this Russian forensic report be relied upon?"

"Our technical section says the Soviets are quite good at that sort of

thing, sir."

Sir Neville snorted indignantly. "Papers at Spandau- Good Christ.

Whatever has turned up over there, ten to one it's got something to do

with Hess. We've got to get hold of it, Wilson, fast. Who else was at

Spandau?"

"The Americans, the Frogs, and the Russians. Plus a contingent of West

Berlin police."

Sir Neville wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I could hang

for this one, that's sure. What do we have in Berlin?"

"Not much. What we do have is mostly on the commercial side. No one

who's cleared for this."

"I didn't think anyone was cleared for this rot," Shaw murmured.

"All right, you get me four men who are cleared for it-men who can quote

me the bloody Official Secrets Act-and get them here fast.

Arrange air transport to West Berlin straightaway. I want those lads

airborne as soon as I've briefed them."

"Yes, sir."

After an almost interminable silence, Shaw said, "there is a ship,

Wilson. I want you to locate her for me."

"A ship, sir?"

"Yes. A freighter, actually. MV Casilda, out of Panama.

Get on to Lloyd's, or whoever keeps up with those things.

Talk to the satellite people if you have to, just find out where she

is."

Perplexed, the deputy director said, "All right, sir," and turned to go.

At the door he paused. "Sir Neville," he said hesitantly. "is there

anything I should know about this Hess business? A small brief,

perhaps?"

Shaw's face reddened. "If there was, you'd know it already, wouldn't

you?" he snapped.

Wilson displayed his irritation by clipping out a regimental "Sir!"

before shutting the door.

Shaw didn't even notice. He walked to his well-earned window above the

city and pondered the disturbing news.

Spandau, he thought bitterly. Hess may stab us in the back yet.

In spite of the ticklishness of his own position, Sir Neville Shaw

smiled coldly. There'll be some royal arses shaking in their beds

tonight, he thought with satisfaction.

Right along with mine.

He reached for the telephone.

625 pm. #39 Liitzenstrasse, West Berlin

Hans reached the apartment building too winded to use the stairs.

He wriggled into the elevator, yanked the lever that set the clattering

cage in motion, then slumped against the wrought-iron grillwork.

Despite his frayed nerves, he was smiling. Heini Weber could joke all

he wanted, but in the end the joke would be on him. Because Hans knew

something Weber didn't: where he had found the papers. And that single

fact would make him rich, he was certain of it. He jerked back the

metal grille and trotted to the apartment door.

"Ilse!" he called, letting himself in. "I'm home!"

In the kitchen doorway he stopped cold. Wearing a white cotton robe,

Ilse sat at the table holding the papers Hans had found at Spandau.

"Where did these come from?" she asked coolly.

Hans searched for words. This was not the way he'd planned to explain

the papers.

"Your night duty was at Spandau Prison, wasn't it?' "Yes, but Liebchen,

give me a chance to explain. It was a secret detail. That's why I

couldn't call you."

She studied him silently. "You haven't told anyone about this, have

you?"

Hans remembered his conversation with Heini Weber, but decided that

would be best kept private for now. "No," he lied, "I didn't have time

to say anything to anyone."

"Hans, you've got to turn these papers in."

"I know."

She nodded slowly. "Then why am I so worried about you?"

He took a deep breath, exhaled. "We have a chance here, Ilse. If you

looked at those papers, you know that as well as I do. Finding those

papers ... it's like winning the lottery or something. Do you realize

what they might be worth?"

Ilse closed her eyes. "Hans, what is going on? You could lose your job

for this."

"I'm not going to lose my job. So I found some old papers. What was I

supposed to do?"

"Turn them in to the proper authorities."

"The proper authorities?" Hans snorted. "And who are the proper

authorities? The Americans? The British? The French? This is Berlin,

Ilse. Every person, every company, every nation here is looking after

its own interests-nobody else's. Why shouldn't I look after ours for

once?"

Ilse rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips.

"Liebchen, " Hans insisted, "no one even knows these papers exist.

If you'd just listen for five minutes-if you heard how I found

them-you'd see that they're a godsend."

She sighed hopelessly. "All right, tell me."

Four floors below the apartment, in the cold wind of the Liitzenstrasse,

Jonas Stern accepted a thick stack of files from a young man wearing a

West Berlin police uniform.

"Thank you, Baum," he said. "This is everyone?"

"Everyone from the Spandau patrol, yes sir. I couldn't get the file on

the prefect. It's classified."

Stern sighed. "I think we know enough about dear Herr Funk, don't we?"

Shivering from the wind, the young policeman nodded and looked up at the

suntanned old man with something near to awe in his eyes.

"You've done well, Baum." Stern flipped through the computer printouts.

He stopped at Apfel, Hans but saw little of interest.

Hauer, Dieter, however, told a different story.

Stern read softly to himself: "Attached to Federal Border Police 1959.

Promoted sergeant 1964, captain in 1969. Sharpshooter qualification

1963. National Match Champion 1965, '66 ... Decorated for conspicuous

bravery in '64, '66, '70 and '74. All kidnapping cases. Transferred

with rank to the West Berlin civil police January 1, 1973. Hmm," Stern

mused. "I'd say that's a demotion." He picked up further down.

"Sharpshooting coach and hostage recovery adviser to GSG-9 since 1973@'

Stern paused again, memorizing silently. Credentials like those made

Dieter Hauer a match for any man. Stern read on.

"Member of International fraternal Order of Police since 1960 ...