Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

he thought would burst his heart. On the bed directly before him, bound

to the brass bedframe with a thick leather belt, Karl Riemeck stared

sightlessly ahead, his face contorted in a mask of rage,

incomprehension, and pain.

A huge freshly clotted stain of blood blossomed on the caretaker's chest

like an obscene flower.

Natterman became as a child. His bowels boiled; urine dribbled into his

trousers. He desperately wanted to run, but he had no idea where safety

lay. He whirled back toward the main room. Empty and pristine as a

magazine photograph.

Unable to focus on Karl, he stumbled to the front door and locked it.

"My God, my God, my God," he muttered, bending over and putting his

hands on his knees. "My God!" His chant was a mantra. An incantation.

A way to begin thinking. A way back to reality.

Forcing down the wave of bile that struggled to erupt from his throat,

the old professor stood erect and strode back into the bedroom to see if

he could do anything for his friend. He ignored the gore that matted

the shirt, and placed his hand directly over Karl's heart.

Still. Natterman had expected nothing. He knew death when he saw it.

Perhaps it was the shock of Karl's death that dulled Natterman's

instincts, blinding him to further danger. Perhaps it was fatigue.

But when the cold hand reached from beneath the bed and locked itself

around his spindly ankle, he froze. He opened his mouth to scream, but

no sound came. Again his brain shut itself off against reality. The

iron claw jerked his feet from under him; he crashed to the floor like a

sack of kindling, certain that his hip was broken.

Moaning in pain and terror, he tried to crawl toward the doorway, but

strong arms caught his shoulders and spun him onto his back. When his

eyes focused, a flashing silver blade filled almost his entire field of

vision. Beyond it he saw only a mane of blond hair. He tried to

breathe, but an anvil seemed to have settled on his chest. When the

pressure eased slightly, then moved higher, he realized the anvil was a

man's knee.

"You have something I want, old man!"

The words were quick and angry, the voice flint against stone.

The knee pressed down so hard into Natterman's chest that he could not

have spoken if he wanted to.

"Answer me!" the man screamed.

That's not a British accent, Natterman thought with relief, his mind on

the safety of the Spandau papers. Thank God!

It's only a robber-a rvbber who has killed Karl. The professor's brain

raced through its knowledge of languages, trying to place the unfamiliar

accent, but to no avail. Dutch maybe?

The blond man flicked the blade back and forth in a lethal dance, then

inserted the point deep into Natterman's left nostril.

"Don't be stubborn like your friend, old man. It cost him -what little

life he had left. Now, talk."

The pressure eased a little. "Take whatever you want!"

Natterman rasped. "My God, poor Karl-"

"Pool Karl? You idiot!

You know what I want! Speak!

Where is it!"

For another moment Nattennan's mind resisted, then he knew. As

impossible as it seemed, this murderer knew his secret. He knew about

the Spandau papers, and he had managed to beat Natterman here-to his

father's house-to steal them!

"Oh God," Natterman whispered. "Oh no."

"No?" the blond man sneered.

"But I don't know what-"

"Liar!" In a rage the killer jerked his knife up and outward, severing

the old man's left nostril in a spray of blood.

Tears filled Natterman's eyes, temporarily blinding him. A warm rush of

blood flooded over his lips and chin. He coughed and gurgled,

struggling for air.

"Listen, you Jew maggot! You're nothing to me!" The killer put his

lips to Natterman's ear and lowered his voice to a deadly whisper.

"If you don't signal your agreement to cooperate in five seconds, I'm

going to' sever your carotid artery. Do you understand? That's the

pipeline to your addled brain."

To validate his threat the killer jabbed the point of his knife into the

soft skin beneath Natterman's left ear. Choking horribly on his own

blood, Natterman tried to nod.

"You'll show me where it's hidden?"

Natterman nodded again, spitting up frothy red foam.

The killer hauled him to his feet as easily as he would a dead branch.

He took out a white handkerchief and thrust it toward the professor's

streaming wound. "Direct pressure," he muttered.

Natterman nodded, stanching the flow, surprised at even this small

gesture of humanity. The man before him looked scarcely thirty. The

long mane of blond hair gave him a starving-student look that the

professor knew well. A handsome face lit by zealot's eyes.

"Now," the killer said softly, "show it to me."

Natterman turned back to the bed where Karl's body lay.

He began to sob as the enormity of what had happened struck him.

"For God's sake, old man, don't fall apart on me! Your friend stuck

himself into this business and wouldn't clear off. He forced me.

Come into the other room."

Like a drone Natterman followed the killer into the front room.

With his face partially masked by the bloody handkerchief, he tried

frantically to think of a way out of his predicament. Chess, he thought

suddenly. It's just like a game of chess. But played to the death.

"Don't think, you idiot! Show me where it is! Now!"

The blond killer stood two meters from Natterman, but when he thrust the

knife forward he halved the distance with fearful effect.

Natterman dropped the blood-soaked handkerchief on the floor and began

to fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

"What are you doing, fool!"

"It's taped to my back," Natterman explained.

For a moment the man looked confused; then his face resumed its tight

grimace. "Well, then," he said uncertainly, "be quick about it."

My God, thought Natterman, he doesn't know what he's looking for He was

sent ... by someone else. Who? How did they connect me with Hans and

the papers? Shaking with terror, the professor stripped the

foil-wrapped bundle from his back. He felt as if three layers of skin

had come up with the tape. I must survive, he told himself Survive to

learn the truth. I must distract him...

"Now," said the killer, "walk forward slowly and hand it to me."

Natterman tossed the taped bundle across the room. It landed on the

floor and slid partially under a heavy cabinet that stood in the corner.

"You cracked bastard! Pick it up and bring it here!"

Natterman hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked to the cabinet,

bent over, retrieved the bundle. Just like chess, he thought.

I move-he moves.

"Hand it to me."

Natterman extended the packet, watching curiously as several drops of

blood fell from his nose onto his twitching biceps. I must be in shock,

he realized. I'm watching someone else...

Keeping his eyes on Natterman, the killer stripped the tape from the

foil that the professor had used to protect the papers.

"Carefully," Natterman pleaded. "They're very delicate."

"Is this all there is?"

Natterman shrugged. "That's it."

"Is this all, you filthy Yid?" The killer shook the papers in the air.

Afrikaans, blurted a voice in Natten-nan's brain. The accent is

Afrikaner But ... why does the animal think I'm Jewish? "I swear that's

all there is," he said. "Please be careful. That's a very important

document." As Natterman spoke, he let his eyes wander toward his book