Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

and handed it to the old man. "I don't know if you remember me, Herr

Ochs, but you said that if I ever needed a favor-"

"Gott im Himmel!" Ochs cried, his eyes wide. "Sergeant Apfel!"

Hans nodded. "That's right. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, but

there's an emergency. My captain and I need to make some telephone

calls. We can't use the station just now-I, "Say no more, Sergeant.

Come inside. Did I not tell you?

Ben Ochs knows how to return a favor. And what a vor!

Bernice!"

An even tinier gray-haired woman appeared behind Ochs.

She stared at the uniforms with trepidation. "What is it, Benjamin?"

"It's young Hans Apfel! He needs our help. Get your slippers, Bernice.

We'll need some tea and. . ." Ochs trailed off, noticing the large

bruise at the base of Hans's skull, a souvenir of Rolf's lead pipe.

"Something stronger, I think ' "

"Please," said Hans, following the old man inside, "all we need is a

telephone." "Nonsense, you look terrible. You need food, and

something to calm your nerves.

Bernice?"

Frau Ochs bustled into the kitchen, talking all the way.

"There's chicken in the refrigerator, boys, and cabbage too.

It's no feast, but this is very short notice."

The old tailor pulled two chairs from beneath the kitchen table; Hans

immediately collapsed into one. The Ochses' kindness seemed

otherworldly after the events of the past four hours. Hans felt as if

he'd been running for days.

Hauer had been too amazed by the warm rece tion to say anything.

Summoning a smile, he extended his hand to Ochs. "Guten Abend, Herr

Ochs. I'm Captain Dieter Hauer." Ochs nodded respectfully.

"I'm afraid Hans is right. A rather'special situation has arisen.

I myself believe it's just another of the endless exercises they put us

through, but of course we never know for sure. If we could just use

your telephone for a few minutes, we would be gone before you know it."

Ochs nodded again, slower this time. "You are a poor liar, Captain. But

I count that in your favor. Most honest men make poor liars. If you're

anything like your young friend, you are always welcome in my house.

This boy"-Ochs grinned and patted Hans on the shoulder-"this boy saved

my life.

Three years ago I was trapped in a burning car, and Hans was the only

man who had the nerve to get me out."

The light of realization dawned on Hauer's face. Only now did he notice

the old man's left hand; it was withered and covered with scar tissue

from a deep burn.

Ochs shook his head in wonder. "I thought he was trying to kill me! He

blasted out the window right over my head!"

The old man laughed and stepped over to the counter. "Here is the

chicken," he said. Then he held up a dark bottle his wife had pulled

from a high cabinet. "And here is some brvm @ .fn randy-for the nerves.

We'll leave you to your business now. Come along, Bernice."

Taking his wife under his silk-covered arm, Benjamin Ochs left the

kitchen without looking back.

"Unbelievable," said Hauer, shaking his head.

Hans snatched up the telephone and dialed the apartment.

He heard three rings ... four ... then someone picked up.

He waited for Ilse's voice, but heard only silence. "Ilse?" he said

finally. "Liebchen? Are you there?"

A brittle male voice chilled him to the bone. "Guten Abend, Sergeant.

I'm afraid your wife is unable to get to the phone just now."

"Who is this?" Hans shouted. "Let me speak to my wife!"

Hauer signaled him to keep his voice down, but Hans ignored the warning.

"Put my wife on the phone!"

"As I said," the voice continued, "the lovely Frau is occupied just now.

Indisposed, let us say. If you wish to speak to her, it would be much

quicker for you to come here."

"I'm on my way, you bastard! If she's harmed in any way, I'll-" Hans

looked at Hauer in a daze. The line had gone dead. He slammed down the

phone. "They have her! We've got to get to the apartment!"

He was halfway to the foyer when Hauer barked, "Wait!"

Hans whirled. "Wait? Have you lost your mind?"

Hauer's voice went flat. "You won't get far without keys."

Hans groped in his pockets. "Give them to me," he said quietly.

"I can't, Hans. You're making a mistake."

Hans took a step forward. "Give me my keys."

Hauer shook his head. "You don't know they have Ilse.

You didn't actually speak to her."

"Give me my goddamn keys!" Hans sprang forward, ready to thrash Hauer

until he gave up the keys. But when he raised his hands to Hauer's

neck, he felt something hard pressing into his stomach. When he looked

down, he saw a 9mm Walther PI pistol, standard issue for the West Berlin

police.

"Now," said Hauer, "you're going to sit there quietly while I make a

phone call. Then we'll decide what to do about Ilse."

"Don't you understand?" Hans pleaded. "They have my wife! I have to

go! You ... you . . ."-his voice changed suddenly-"you don't

understand, do you? You never had a wife. You ran out on the one woman

who loved you! My mother!"

"That's a lie," Hauer whispered.

Hans's face burned with emotion. "It isn't! You ran out on her when

she was pregnant! Pregnant with me! Give me those keys, you son of a

bitch!"

Hauer had gone very still. His big fists were clenchedone around the

butt of the Walther. "You think you know something about me," he said.

"You don't know anytning. A file isn't a man, Hans. Yes, I know you

went through my personnel file." He worked his left fist angrily. "I

don't know if you deserve the truth, but the truth is that I didn't know

I had a son until you were twelve years old."

"You're lying!" Hans insisted. But something about that age had

sparked a strange light behind his eyes.

"I'm not," Hauer said softly. "Think back. You were twelve years old."

Hans felt his chest tightening. The pain in his eyes told Hauer that he

had remembered. "I knew you couldn't have forgotten that," Hauer said.

"It was bad. Munich, the day after the Olympic massacre.

Did you ever make that connection?"

Hans looked away.

Hauer spoke quickly, as if the words burned his mouth passing through

it. "It was the lowest point in my life. Those Jewish athletes died

for nothing, Hans. Because of German arrogance and stupidity. Just

like in the war. And I was a part of it. I'd been flown into Munich as

a sharpshooter . . ."

Hauer seemed about to continue the story-then he stopped, realizing that

one more telling wouldn't change anything.

"After the slaughter was over," he murmured, "I went crazy.

Went off on my own. I needed something-a human touch, a lifeline. And

there I was in the city my old lover had run off to, totally by chance.

After a dozen schnapps, though, I started thinking maybe it wasn't by

chance. So I went looking for your mother."

"You found her."

"I found you. You were the last thing in the world I expected.

Your mother called the Munich police on me, of course. My showing up

after all those years was her worst nightmare. But the moment I saw

you, Hans, I knew you were mine. I knew it. She didn't even try to

deny it."

Hauer's eyes focused on the kitchen floor. "But she had me over a

barrel, Hans. Somehow they'd fixed it-her and her rich husband@so that

he'd legally adopted you. I paid a lawyer two months' salary to look

into it, but in the end he told me to forget it. Your mother had

already poisoned you against me, anyway-she let me know that before