Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

said he had written because he could never speak about what he knew.

That others would pay the price for his words."

Hauer hung on every syllable. "What else?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

"It was Latin, I told you! I couldn't read it!"

"Latin," Hauer mused, leaning back into his seat. "Who wrote the

papers? Were they signed?"

Hans shrugged uncomfortably. "There wasn't any name.

Just a number."

"A number?" Hauer's eyes grew wide. "What number, Hans?"

"Seven, goddamnit! The lucky number. What a fucking joke. Now can we

get out of here?"

Hauer shook his head slowly. "Hess," he murmured. "It's impossible.

The restriction&, the endless searches. It can't Hans ground his teeth

angrily. "Captain, I know what you're talking about, but right now I

don't care! I just want to know my wife is safe!"

Hauer laid a hand on his shoulder. "Where are these papers now?"

"At the apartment."

"No! You made copies?"

"No, damn it! I don't care about the papers anymore!

We're going to get Ilse now!"

Hauer pinned him against the seat with an arm of iron.

"You saw Weiss, didn't you? If you go charging into your apartment, the

same thing could happen to you. And to Ilse."

The memory of Weiss's mutilated corpse brought a strange stillness over

Hans. "What did happen to Weiss?"

Hauer sighed. "Someone got too impatient, pushed the doctor too far.

Probably Luhr, Funk's personal stormtrooper." He shook his head.

"Later tonight they'll shoot his body full of cocaine and dump him in

the Havel."

"My God," Hans breathed. "You saw it. You were there."

He balled his hands into fists.

"Hans! Get hold of yourself! I did not see Weiss tortured."

"You knew about his chest!"

Hauer grimaced. "I overheard someone talking about it.

It's ... it's sort of a specialty of theirs. With certain Jews.

Why did that boy join the- department at all? You'd think a Jew would

know better."

Hans's mouth fell open. "You're saying it was Weiss's fault someone

mutilated him?"

"I'm saying if you're a lamb you don't run with the wolf pack!"

The memory of Weiss brought back the mark on Rolf's head, the haunting

eye from the Spandau papers. "What about the tattoo?" Hans asked

quietly. "What does that mean?"

Hauer shook his head. "It's complicated, Hans. The eye is a mark some

people use-some very dangerous people. I'm not one of them. I just

wanted you to remember the design."

He leaned his head across the seat. "Look behind my right ear.

In the hair. If I had the tattoo, it would be there."

Hans studied Hauer's close-cropped scalp, but he saw no tattoo.

"I'm not one of them," said Hauer, straightening up. "But until five

minutes ago, they thought I was. We've Fot to find somewhere safe to

hide, Hans, somewhere with a phone. Before we can get your wife, we've

got to know what Funk and Luhr are up to. I've got a man inside the

station I can call- "

"So let's go upstairst There are probably a dozen phones up in the

lobby. I can call Ilse, warn her to get out!"

Hans reached for.the door handle, but Hauer stopped him again.

"We can't, Hans. We're in uniform. Everyone will be staring at the two

beat-up cops using the pay phones. Funk's men would find us in no

time."

Hans jerked his arm free. "Where, then? A friend's house?"

"No. No friends, no family. It's got to be untraceable. An empty

house or ... something."

Slowly, almost mechanically, Hans removed his wallet from his pants

pocket and took out a tattered white business card. He stared at it a

moment, then handed it to Hauer.

"What's this?" Hauer read aloud: " 'Benjamin Ochs, The Best Tailor in

Berlin.' You want to go to your tailor shop?"

"He's not my tailor," Hans said tersely.

"Eleven-fifty Goethestrasse. No one can trace you to this place?"

"Trust me."

Hauer looked skeptical.

Hans turned away. The stress of being treated like an animal, caged and

hunted, was congealing into something cold and hard in the pit of his

stomach. With a guttural groan he slammed his open hand against the

dashboard. "Get this fucking car moving!"

Hauer looked hard into Hans's eyes, gauging the mettle there.

"Right," he said finally. He fired the engine and roared out of the

hotel garage with tires squealing, making for the Goethestrasse.

CHAPTER EIGHT

lL725 pm. Liitzenstrasse: West Berlin The men waiting within and

without Ilse's apartment building were not police. They were KGB agents

sent to the Liitzenstrasse by Colonel Ivan Kosov. Kosov himself waited

impatiently in a second BMW parked at the end of the block.

Kosov hated stakeouts. Long ago he had foolishly thought that once he

attained sufficient rank he would be spared the monotony of these

endless vigils. And perhaps one day he would. But tonight was one more

in an endless series of proofs to the contrary. Exasperated, he reached

for the radio microphone mounted on the auto's dash.

"Report, One," he said.

"The lobby's clear," crackled a metallic voice.

"Two?"

"Nothing in the hall. The door's locked, no sound from inside."

"Four?"

"Three's with me. No sign of Apfel or the wife."

"Stay awake," Kosov said gruffly. "Out."

Shit, he thought, how long will it take? Sitting in this ballfreezing

cold, chattering over the short-,range radios as if simply alternating

frequencies could mask the russian-accented commands ricocheting through

the Berlin audio net like lines from a bad movie.

He wished there were another way. But he knew there wasn't.

Three floors above Kosov, the door to apartment 43

opened and two garishly made-up redheads stepped into the hallway.

One locked the door while her young companion stared invitingly at the

man standing at attention outside apartment 40. The young woman nudged

her middle-aged com anion, who chuckled and led the wa over to the

silent manNa , mein Siisser, " Eva flirted in a husky voice. "All alone

up here tonight?"

Taken aback by her directness, the Russian stared back in silence.

She's at least fifty, he thought, much too old for my taste. But you're

something else altogether he thought, hungrily eyeing the younger

woman's cleavage. With a flash of surprise, he realized that she was

the demure blonde he had seen enter apartment 43 twenty minutes earlier.

He barely recognized her beneath the heavy makeup and wig, She can't be

more than twenty-five, he guessed, and breasts like a Georgian goddess .

..

"Guten Abend, Frdulein," he said to the younger woman.

I think you looked much better before."

Ilse felt her throat tighten.

"I think he's set on you, Helga," Eva said, laughing. She patted the

Russian on his rear. "Too bad, dearie,'Iittle Helga's booked for

tonight. But you're in luck. I know a dozen tricks this child's never

even heard of. What do you say?" .

Abashed by the old tart's boldness, the Russian went temporarily blank.

"Oh, forget it," Eva said, pulling Ilse down the hall. "If you don't

know what you want, we don't have time to wait."

Kosov's young agent watched the middle-aged redhead follow her shapely

companion into the elevator cage. Eva yanked the lever that started the

slow descent and then, still holding eye contact with the guard, pumped

her fist lewdly up and down the iron rod. When the Russian colored in

embarrassment, she hiked her bright skirt over a well-preserved thigh

and burst into laughter.