Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

it opened right up."

"Your key fit?"

"It went in. Who knows? They always use the oldest trains on the

Berlin run. One key probably opens half the doors on the train." Stern

laughed. "Sorry again."

For an instant the tanned stranger's face came alive with urgent

purpose, so that it matched his eyes, which were bright and intense.

It was as if a party mask had accidentally slipped before midnight.

Stern seemed on the verge of saying something; then his lips broadened

into a sheepish grin and he backed out of the compartment and shut the

door.

Puzzled, and more than a little uncomfortable, Natterman sat down again.

An accident? That fellow didn't seem like the type to mix up his

sleeping arrangements. Not one bit.

And something about him looked familiar. Not his face ...

but his carriage. The loose, ready stance. He'd been unseasonably

tanned for Berlin. Impossibly tanned, in fact.

Retrieving Dr. Rees's book from beneath the seat cushion, the professor

tapped it nervously against his leg. A soldier, he thought suddenly.

Natterman would have bet a year's salary that the man who had stumbled

into his compartment was an ex-soldier. And an Englishman, he thought,

feeling his heart race. Or at least a man who had lived among the

English long enough to imitate their accent to per c n. Na

.fe tio tterman

didn't like the arithmetic of that "accident" at all if he was right.

Not at all.

10.04 Pm. mI-5 Headquarters: Charles Street, London, England Deputy

Director Wilson knocked softly at Sir Neville Shaw's door, then opened

it and padded onto the deep carpet of the director general's office.

Shaw sat at his desk beneath the green glow of a banker's lamp. He took

no notice of the intrusion; he continued to pore over a thick, dog-eared

file on the desk before him.

"Sir Neville?" Wilson said.

Shaw did not look up. "What is it? Your hard boys arrived?" "

"No, sir. It's something else. A bit rum, actually.

Sir Neville looked up at last. "Well?"

"It's Israeli Intelligence, sir. The head of the Mossad, as a matter of

fact. He's sent us a letter."

Shaw blinked. "So?"

"Well, it's rather extraordinary, sir."

"Damn it, Wilson, how so?"

"The letter is countersigned by the Israeli prime minister.

It was hand-delivered by courier."

"What?" Sir Neville sat up. "What in God's name is it about?"

His ruddy face slowly tightened in dread. "Not Hess?"

Wilson quickly shook his head. "No, sir. It's about an old

intelligence hand of theirs. Chap named Stern. Seems he's been holed

up in the Negev for the past dozen years, but a couple of days ago he

quietly slipped his leash."

Shaw looked exasperated. "I don't see what the devil that's got to do

with us."

"The Israelis-their prime minister, lather-seem to think we might still

hold a grudge against this fellow. That there might be a standing order

of some type on him. A liquidation order."

"That's preposterous!" Shaw bellowed. "After all this time?"

The deputy director smiled with forbearance. "It's not so preposterous,

Sir Neville. Our own Special Forces Clubwhich the Queen still visits

occasionally, I'm proud to say still refuses to accept Israeli members.

They welcome elite troops from almost every democratic nation in the

world, even the bloody Germans. Everyone but the Israelis, and they're

probably the best of the lot. And all because the older agents still

hold a grudge for the murder of an SAS man by Zionists during the

mandate." "Just a minute," Shaw interrupted.

"Stern, you said?"

"Yes, sir. Jonas Stern. I pulled his file."

"Jonas Stern," Shaw murmured. "By God, the Israelis ought to be

concerned. One of our people has been after that old guerilla for

better than thirty years."

Wilson looked surprised. "One of our agents, sir?"

"Retired," Shaw explained. "A woman, actually. Code name Swallow. A

real harpy. You'd better pull her file, in fact. Just in case she's

still got her eye on this fellow." Shaw nodded thoughtfully. "I

remember Stern. He was a terrorist during the Mandate, not even twenty

at the time, I'll bet. He swallowed his vinegar and fought for us

during the war. It was the only way he could get at Hitler, I suppose.

Did a spot of sticky business for us in Germany, as I recall."

Wilson looked at Shaw in wonder. "That's exactly what it says in the

file!"

"Yes," Shaw remembered, "he worked for LAKAM during the 'sixties and

'seventies, didn't he? Safeguarding Israel's nuclear development

program." Shaw smiled at his deputy's astonishment. "No strings or

mirrors, Wilson. Stern was a talented agent, but the reason I remember

him so clearly is because of this Swallow business. I think she

actually tried to assassinate him a couple of times. That's why the

Mossad sent that letter."

"Do you really think this woman might pose a danger to him?"

Shaw shook his head. "I doubt Stern's in England. Or even in Europe,

for that matter. He's probably sunning himself on Mykonos, or something

similar. 'Which reminds me-did you find that freighter for me?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Lloyd's puts her off Durban; she rounded the cape three

days ago."

Shaw rummaged through the stack of papers on his desk until he found a

map of southern Africa. "Durban," he murmured, running his finger

across the paper. "Twenty knots, twenty-five ... two days ...

yes. Well."

Shaw brushed the map aside and thumped the stack of papers before him.

"This is the Hess file, Wilson. iNo one's cleared to read it but me-did

you know that? I tell you, there's enough rotted meat between these

covers to make you ashamed of being an Englishman."

Wilson waited for an explanation, but Shaw provided none. "About the

Israeli letter, sir?" he prompted. "It's basically a.polite request to

leave this Stern alone. How should I reply?"

"What? Oh. The Israeli prime minister is an old terrorist himself, you

know." Sir Neville chuckled. "And still looking after his own, after

all these years." His smile turned icy.

"No reply. Let him sweat for a while, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"And him-y those hard boys along, would you? I thought I had it tough

with the P.M. climbing my back. An hour ago I got a call from the

bloody Queen-Mother herself She makes the Iron Lady sound like a French

nanny!"

As Wilson slipped out, Sir Neville butted and went back to the Hess

file. On top lay a very old eight-by-ten glossy photograph.

Scarred and faded, it showed a man in his late forties with dark hair, a

strong jaw, and a black oval patch tied rakishly across his left eye.

Shaw jabbed his heavy forefinger down on the eye patch.

"You started it all, you sneaking bastard," he muttered. He slammed the

file closed and leaned back in his chair. "Sometimes I wonder if the

damned knighthood's worth the strain," he said.

"Protecting skeletons in the royal bloody chest."

10.-07 Pm. #30 Lfitzenstrasse

Outside the apartment another car rattled down the street without

slowing. Number twelve. Ilse was counting. Wait until midnight, her

grandfather had told her. If Hans isn't home by then, get out. Sound

advice, perhaps, but Ilse couldn't imagine running for safety while Hans

remained in danger. She fumed at her own obstinacy. How could she have

let a stupid argument keep her from telling Hans about the baby? She

had to find him. Find him and bring him to his senses.

But where to start? The police station? The nightclub district?