Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

Ilse wiped a wet streak of mascara from her cheek. .1

don't know," she said, trying to stop her tears. "But first I've got to

get past those men outside."

As the old barmaid watched Ilse's mascara run, a hot wave of anger

flushed her cheeks. "You dry those tears," she said. "There hasn't

been a man born to woman that Mama Eva can't handle."

10. 10 P. m. Europe Center, Breitscheid Platz. West Berlin

Major Harry Richardson stared curiously at the receding back of Eduard

Lenhardt, his contact in Abschnitt 53. In seconds the policeman

disappeared into the crush of bodies crowding the bar of the imitation

Irish pub in the basement of the Europe Center, West Berlin's answer to

the American megamall. This twenty-two-story tower housed dozens of

glitzy shops, bars, restaurants, banks, travel agencies, and even a

hotel-all of whose goods and services seemed to be priced for the

Japanese tourist. Harry had chosen it for its crowds.

He swallowed the last of an excellent Bushmill's and then began to

gather his thoughts. Eduard Lenhardt was only the third in a chain of

personal contacts Harry had spoken with tonight.

Contrary to Colonel Rose's orders, Harry had kept his racquetball date.

And by so doing, he had learned that Sir Neville Shaw, director of

Britain's mI-5, hid ordered British embassy personnel to burn the

midnight oil in West Berlin.

Shortly after that, Harry had called a State Department contact in Bonn,

an. old college buddy, who had let it slip that the Russian complaint

filed against the U.S. Army specified papers taken from Spandau Prison

as the primary object of Soviet concern. The British and the French had

received the same complaint. Harry could well imagine the British

consternation at such an allegation. After the phone call, Harry had

finally gained an audience with his reluctant contac from Abschnitt

53-Lieutenant Eduard Lenhardt.

Lenhardt had revealed information to Harry in three ways: by what he'd

said, by what he hadn't said, and simply by how he'd looked. In Harry's

professional opinion, the policeman had looked scared shitless.

What he had not said was anything about papers found in Spandau Prison.

What he had said was this: That the prefect of police, Wilhelm Funk, had

moved out of the Police Presidium and set up a command post in Abschnitt

53, after which the station had taken on the demeanor of an SS barracks

after Graf Stauffenberg's briefcase exploded in Hitler's bunker. That

two Berlin policemen had been detained in a basement cell, then had

either escaped or been killed. And that while the Russians had pulled

out of Abschnitt 53 at eight, they had acted as if they might return at

any time with T-72 tanks. All this in breathless gasps from a veteran

policeman whom Harry had never seen get excited about anything other

than the piano quartets of BrahmsHarry dropped ten marks on the table

and hurried out of the pub. Sixty seconds later he was on the Ku'damm,

where he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver an address near the

Tiergarten. The man who occupied the house there was one of Harry's

"private assets," a rather high-strung German trade liaison named Klaus

Seeckt. During Harry's first year in Berlin, he had spotted Klaus at

the Philharinonie, in the company of an arrogant and well-known KGB

agent named Yuri Borodin. It hadn't taken Harry long to establish that

Klaus was using his semi-official cover to funnel restricted technology

to Moscow. That had not interested Harry much; what had interested

him-after a thorough investigation of Seeckt-was that while Klaus dealt

directly with the KGB, he had no ties, voluntary or otherwise, to the

East German secret police, the Stasi. And that was a very rare

combination in Berlin.

Rather than arrest Klaus for the high-tech ripoff, Harry had opted to

use his leverage whenever he needed a direct line into KGB operations.

He never even filed a report on Klaus. Colonel Rose might have insisted

that Hariy push the German too hard, which would only have spooked him

into fleeing the city. Men like Klaus had to be treated delicately.

Harry cultivated the man's ego, pretending to share with him the

fraternal enjoyment of superior intellect, and applied pressure only

when necessaryTonight was different. Eduard Lenhardt's apprehensions

were worming their way into Harry's gut, and the checks he non-nally

kept on his imagination began to erode as his mind raced through the

possible implications of the events at Abschnitt 53. When the taxi

reached the Tiergarten house, Harry tipped its driver enough to satisfy,

but not enough to draw attention. And as he reached Klaus's door, he

decided that his sensitive East German would have to pay the remainder

of his debt tonight.

10.10 Pm. The Bismarekstrasse

"Captain!" Hans warned.-"Motorcycle patrol, three cars back!

"I see him." Hauer swung the Volkswagen smoothly around a corner just

as the traffic signal changed, stranding the police cycle in the line of

vehicles stopped at the light.

"We've got to get off the street."

"Where do we go? My apartment? Your house?"

"Think, Hans. They'll be covering both places."

"You're right. Maybe-" He grabbed Hauer's sleeve. "Jesus, Ilse's at

the apartment alone!"

"Easy, Hans, we'll get her. But we can't walk in there like lambs to

the slaughter."

"But Funk could have men there already!"

"Hold your water. Where are we, Bergstrasse? There should be a hotel

four blocks south of us. The Steglitz. Just what we need."

"A hotel?"

"Get in the backseat," Hauer ordered, and stepped on the accelerator.

"What are you going to do?"

"Do it!"

As Hans climbed into the backseat, Hauer ripped the police insignia from

his collar and spurred the VW into the Steglitz garage.

The violent turn threw Hans against the side door. They squealed down

the curving ramp to the parking sublevels below and into a tiny space

between two large sedans.

"All right, Hans," Hauer said. "Out with it. Everything.

What really happened at Spandau this morning?"

Hans climbed awkwardly through the narrow gap between the seats.

"I'll tell you on the way to my apartment."

Hauer shook his head. "We don't move one meter until you talk."

Hans bridled, but he could see that Hauer would not be swayed.

"Look, I would have reported it if it hadn't been for those damned

Russians."

"Reported what?"

"The papers. The papers I found at Spandau."

"Christ, you mean the Russians were right?"

Hans nodded.

"Where did you find these papers? What did they say?"

Hauer looked strangely hungry. Hans looked out the window. "I found

them in a pile of rubble. In a hollow brick, just like Schmidt asked

me. What does it matter? I started reading them, but one of the

Russians stumbled on me. I hid them without even thinking." He turned

to Hauer. "That's it!

That's all I did! So why has everyone gone crazy?"

"What did the papers say, Hans?"

"I don't know. Gibberish, mostly. Ilse said it was Latin."

"You showed them to your wife?" ' "I didn't intend to, but she found

them. She understood more of it than I did, anyway. She said the

papers had something to do with the Nazis. That they were dangerous."

He looked down at his lap. "God, was she right."

"Tell me everything you remember, Hans."

"Look, I hardly remember any of it. The German part sounded bitter,

like a revenge letter, but ... there was fear in it, too. The writer