Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

speech. Her musical, selfmocking laugh. He gathered up the loose

sheets and stacked them at the center of the table. "I'll turn them in

tonight," he promised. "I'll take them downtown right after supper.

Good enough?"

Ilse smiled. "Good enough." She stood slowly and pulled Hans to her.

He could feel the swell of her breasts through the cotton robe.

She laughed softly. "You see? Doing the right thing sometimes has its

rewards." She stood on tiptoe and nuzzled into his neck, at the same

time pressing her bare thigh into his groin.

Hans laughed into her hair. He wanted her, and his want was obvious,

but he sensed something more than desire behind her sudden affection.

"What are you up to?" he asked, pulling away a little. Ilse's eyes

glowed with happiness. "I've got a secret too," she said. She reached

up and touched her forefinger to his lips-then the telephone rang.

With a curious glance, Hans tugged playfully at her rot)e and walked

into the living room. "Hans Apfel," he said into the phone. He looked

back toward the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, Ilse opened her robe

with a teasing smile. He forced himself to look away. "Yes, Sergeant

Apfel. Yes, I was at Spandau last night. Right, I've seen the

television.

What? What kind of questions?" Sensing Ilse behind him, he motioned

for her to keep quiet. "I see. Formalities, sure."

His face darkened. "You mean now? What's the hurry? Is everyone to be

there? What do you mean, you can't say?

Who is this?" Hans's jaw tightened. "Yes, sir. Yes, I do realize

that, sir. Don't worry, I'll be there. I'm leaving now."

Slightly dazed, he returned the phone to its cradle and turned around.

Ilse had retied her robe. "What is it?" she asked, her eyes troubled@

"I'm not sure." He looked at his watch. "That was the prefect's aide

on the phone, a Lieutenant Luhr. He said the Russians are still in the

station. They're making some kind of trouble, and the prefect wants to

satisfy them before the Allied commandants get too involved. He wants

to ask everyone from the Spandau detail some questions."

Ilse felt a tremor in her chest. "What do you think?"

He swallowed hard. "I think I don't feel so good about that call." He

slipped into the bedroorii to change into a fresh uniform.

"Are you going to take the papers with you?"

"Not with the Russians still there," he called. "I'll pull somebody

aside when I get a chance and explain what happened. Maybe even the

prefect."

"Hans, don't be angry with me," she said. "But I really think you

should talk to your father first. He'd cover for you on this, I know he

would."

"Just let me handle it, okay?" Hans realized he had spoken much louder

than he'd meant to. He buttoned up the jacket of a freshly pressed

uniform and went back into the living room. He was reaching for his

gloves when the telephone rang again.

Ilse practically pounced on it. "Who is this, please?

What? Just a moment." She covered the mouthpiece with her palm.

"It's someone named Heini Weber. He says he's a reporter for Der

Spiegel."

Hans moved toward the phone, then stopped. "I'm not here," he

whispered.

Ilse listened for a few moments, then hung up. Her eyes showed

puzzlement and fear. "He said to tell you he made a mistake before,"

she said slowly. "He wants to meet you as soon as possible. He ... he

said money's no object." Little crimson moons appeared high on Ilse's

cheeks. "Hans?"

she said uncertainly. "He knows, doesn't he?"

She stepped forward hesitantly, her face flushed with fear and anger.

She tried to summon harsh words, but her anger faltered.

"Hans, take the papers with you," she said. "The sooner we're rid of

them, the better."

He shook his head. "If I let the Russians get those papers, I really

could lose my job."

"You could slip them under somebody's door. Nobody would ever have to

know they came from you."

He considered this. "That's not a bad idea," he admitted.

"But not while the Russians are there. Besides, our forensic lab might

still be able to link me to the papers. It's scary what those guys can

do Ilse reached out, hesitated. The tendons in her neck stood out.

"Hans, don't go!" she begged. "There's something we need to talk

about."

He kissed the top of her head. Ilse's hair smelled of flowers, a scent

he would remember for a long time. "I don't have any choice," he said

tenderly. "Everything will be fine, I promise. We're just jumpy

because of the papers. Don't worry. I'll be back in an hour." Before

Ilse could say anything else, he slipped through the door and was gone.

Ilse sagged against the wood, holding back tears. Hans, I'm pregnant.

The words had been right on her tongue, yet she'd been unable to force

them out. The lie had done it.

First Hans's crazy idea about selling the papers-then the lie.

She wanted badly to call her grandfather, yet she hesitated . He would

probably take an "I told you so" attitude when Ilse admitted that Hans's

behavior had shaken even her. He had been against her marrying Hans to

begin with.

Ilse's doubts made her think back to when she had first met Hans.

Three years ago, at a traffic accident. An old Opel had broadsided a

gleaming Jaguar right before her eyes on the Leibnizstrasse, smashing

the Jaguar's door and trapping its driver.

There'd been a police patrol car behind the Opel.

Two officers had jumped out to help, but as they tried to free the

trapped driver, the Jaguar had burst into flame. All they could do was

hold back the crowd and wait for the fire police to arrive. Suddenly a

young foot patrolman had hulled his way through the crowd-right past

Ilse-and dashed to the Jaguar. Shouting at the driver to get down in

the seat, he drew his Walther, fired several shots through the stuck

window and kicked out what was left of the glass. He dragged the

stunned driver to safety only moments before the gas tank exploded.

The handsome young officer with singed eyebrows had taken Ilse's

slightly awestruck statement, then accepted her invitation to go for

coffee afterward. Their romance, like the newspaper accounts of Hans's

heroism, had been brief and fiery. He was promoted to sergeant, and

they were married as his splash of celebrity faded from the picture

magazines.

Ilse had always believed she made a good choice, no matter what her

snobby friends or her grandfather said. But this madness from Spandau

was no traffic accident. Hans couldn't summon a burst of physical

courage to stop the danger she felt tightening around them now. The

papers lying on her kitchen table were like a magnet drawing death

toward them-she knew it. She did not believe in premonitions, but as

she thought of Hans driving anxiously toward a situation he knew nothing

about, her heart began to race.

A wave of nausea rolled inside her. The pregnancy ... ?

Afraid she might throw up, she hurried into the kitchen and leaned over

the sink. She managed to choke down the nausea, but not her terror.

With tears blurring her eyes, Ilse lifted the phone and dialed her

grandfather's apartment.

CHAPTER FIVE

7.30 Pm. Polizei Abschniff 53

A stubborn group of reporters huddled on the sidewalk in the freezing

wind, hoping for a break in the Spandau Prison story or the weather. As

Hans idled his Volkswagen past the front steps of the police station, he

saw klieg lights and cameras leaning against a remote-broadcast truck,