Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

was.

In the early 1970s, Abschnitt 53 had been partially renovated during a

city wide wave of reform that lasted about eighteen months.

There had been enough money to refurbish the reception area and overhaul

the main cellblock, but the third floor, the basement, and the rear of

the building went largely untouched. Hans was sure he'd been locked in

the basement.

But why? No one had accused him of anything. Not openly, at least. Who

were the policemen who had attacked him? Funk's men? Were they even

police officers at all?

They had said he would soon be dead weight. It was crazy.

Maybe they were protecting him from the Russians. Maybe this was the

only way the prefect could keep him safe from them. That's it! he

thought with relief. It has to be.

A door slammed somewhere in the darkness above. Someone was

coming-several people by the sound-and making no effort to hide it.

Hans heard clattering and cursing on the stairs; then he saw who was

making the noise. Outlined in the fluorescent light streaming down from

the basement door, two husky uniformed men were wrestling a gurney off

the stairs. Slowly they cleared a path to the cell through the heaps of

junk covering the basement floor. Hans closed his eyes and lay

motionless on the holes where he'd been thrown.

"Looks like he's still out," said one mdn.

"I hope I killed the son of a bitch," growled the other.

"That wouldn't go over too well upstairs, ROIL"

"Who gives a shit?

The bastard broke my ribs."

Hans heard a low chuckle. "Be more careful the next time. Come on,

we've got to clear a space in there for this thing.

"Fuck it. Just throw this filthy Jew in on top of that one.

Not much left of him, anyway."

"Apfel isn't a Jew."

"Jew-lover, then."

"The doctor said leave this one on the gurney."

"Make him clear a space," said Rolf, pointing in at Hans.

"Sure. If you can wake him up."

Rolf picked up a rusted joint of pipe from the floor and rankled the

bars with it. "Wake up, asshole!"

Hans ignored him.

"Get up or we'll kill you."

Hans heard the metallic click of a pistol slide being jerked back.

Christ ... Slowly he rose to his feet.

"See," said Rolf, "he's not dead. Clear out a space in there, you. And

be quick about it."

Hans tried to see who lay on the gurney, but Rolf smashed the pipe

against the bars near his face. It took him forty seconds to clear a

space wide enough to accept the gurney.

"Get back against the wall," Rolf ordered. "Go on!"

Hans watched the strange policemen roll the man on the gurney feet-first

into the cleared space, then slam the door behind him.

"You stay away from this Jew-boy, Sergeant," @olf warned.

"Anything happens to him, it's on your head.

The pair hurried up the stairs, taking the shaft of light with them.

Hans couldn't make out the face of his new cellmate. He felt in his

pocket for a match, then remembered he'd given them to Kurt in the

waitin room upstairs. He put his hands on the unconscious man's

shoulders and stared downward, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the

blackness, but they didn't. Moving his hand tentatively, he felt

something familiar. Shoulder patches. Surprised and a little afraid,

Hans felt his way across the man's chest like a blind man. Brass

buttons ... patch ... collar pins ... Hans felt his left hand brush an

empty leather holster. A police officer!

Shutting his eyes tight, he put his right hand on the man's face and

waited. When he opened his eyes again, he could just make out the lines

of the face.

My God, he thought, feeling a lump in his throat. Weiss!

Erhard Weiss! For the second time tonight Hans felt cut loose from

reality. Gripping his friend's body like a life raft, he began trying

to revive him. He spoke into Weiss's ear, but heard no answer.

He slapped the slack face hard several times. No response.

Groping around in desperation, Hans crashed into the back wall of the

cell.

His palms touched something moist and cold. Foundation stones.

Condensation.

Rubbing his hands a@ross the stones until they were sufficiently wet, he

returned to Weiss and laved the cool liquid over his forehead.

Still Weiss lay silent.

Alarmed, Hans pressed both forefingers against Weiss's carotid arteries.

He felt pulse beats, but very faint and unbelievably far apart. Weiss

was alive, but just. The jailers had mentioned a doctor, Hans

remembered. What kind of doctor would send a man to a cell in this

condition? The obscenity of the situation drove him into a rage as he

stood by the cadaverous body of his friend. Someone would answer for

this outrage! Lurching to the front of the cell, Hans began screaming

at the top of his lungs. He screamed until he had no voice left, but no

one came. Slipping to the floor in exhaustion, he realized that the

stacks of boxes in the basement must be deadening the sound of his

voice. He doubted anyone upstairs had heard even a whimper.

Suddenly Hans bolted to his feet in terror. Someone had screamed!

It took him a moment to realize that the scream had come from inside the

cell. He shivered as it came again, an animal shriek of agony and

terror. Erhard Weiss-who had lain like a corpse through all

Hans's.attempts to revive him-now fought the straps that held him as if

the gurney were on fire. As Hans tried to restrain the convulsing body,

the screwning suddenly ceased. It was as if a great stone had been set

upon Weiss's chest. The young policeman's right arm shot up and gripped

Hans's shoulder like a claw, quivered desperately, then, after a long

moment, relaxed.

Hans checked for a pulse. Nothing. He hadn't expected one.

Erhard Weiss was dead. Hans had seen this death before-a heart attack,

almost certainly. He had seen several similar cases during the last few

years-young, apparently healthy men whose hearts had suddenly stopped,

exploded, or fibrillated wildly and fatally out of control.

In each case there had been a common factor-drugs. Cocaine usually, but

other narcotics too. This case appeared no different.

Except that Weiss never used drugs. He was a fitness enthusiast, a

swimmer. On several occasions he and his fiancee had dined with Hans

and Ilse at a restaurant, Hans remembered, and once in their apartment.

In their home. And now Weiss was dead. Dead. The young man who had

argued so tenaciously to keep two fellow Berliners-strangers, at

that-out of the clutches of the Russians.

In one anguished second Hans's exhaustion left him. He sprang to the

front of the cell and stuck his arm through the bars, frantically

searching the floor with his right hand.

There-the iron pipe Rolf had brandished! Steadily Hans began pounding

the pipe against the steel bars. The siimr, ui the blows rattled his

entire body, but he ignored the pain. He would hammer the bars until

they came for Weiss-until they came for his friend or he &opped dead.

At that moment he did not care.

CHAPTER SIX

8.12 pm. #30 Ldtzenstrasse, British Sector.- West Berlin Seated at the

kitchen table in apartment 40, Professor Emeritus of History Georg

Natterrnan hunched over the Spandau papers like a gnome over a treasure

map. His thick reading glasses shone like silver pools in the lamplight

as he ran his hand through his thinning hair and silver beard.

"What is it, Opa?" Ilse asked. "Is it dangerous?"

"Patience, child," the professor mumbled without looking up.