Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

as Phoenix AG. This familial relationship was symbolized by a small

design painted on the nosecone of the Lear. The single, gracefully

curved, blood red eye stared down the runway from the port side of the

Lear with a strange awareness, as if it, and not the pilot, would guide

the plane on its long journey south.

Inside the pressurized cabin, Luhr held Ilse in place with his boot as

the jet screamed into the night sky. The flight plan filed in the Tegel

tower designated the Lear as Flight 116, destination London.

But as soon as the sleek jet faded from Tegel's main radar screen, it

would dive and race southward to a remote airfield in Turkey.

Another subsidiary of Phoenix AG maintained extensive holdings in the

Antalya province, among them a surprisingly well-equipped airstrip on a

farm near Dashar. This company fostered extremely cordial relations

with the provincial government officials, who often made use of Phoenix

jets to take "fact-finding" excursions to the pleasure capitals of

Europe.

After the Lear left Dashar, it would no longer have a Right number or

plan, and its destination would be a matter into which only the most

uninformed would inquire. The grasp of the reclusive president and CEO

of Phoenix AG Corporation was known to be very long indeed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

1.35 A.m. Near Woltsbarg, FRG "That's it!" Hans cried, whipping his

head around for a better look. "You passed it!"

Hauer hit the brakes. "That's what you said two minutes ago.

"I'm sure this time."

Reluctantly, Hauer shifted the Jaguar into reverse. "Why here?

It's just another break in the trees. Another dead-end road in the

dark."

"No. This is the place. We're between two hills. And that low bridge

back there ... This is it."

Hauer released the clutch pedal and backed the car into position to

turn. The Jaguar shot forward. He accelerated down the winding drive

at twice the speed Natterman had, squinting ahead through the darkness

for any sign of an occupied dwelling. "I don't see any lights," he said

skeptically.

"Maybe they're sleeping.

jus Hauer looked across at Hans. "Your wife has ' t escaped from the

KGB, she has no idea where you are, and you think she's sleeping-"

"Watch out!"

Hauer slammed his boot down on the brake just as the Jaguar broke into

the small clearing around the cabin. The car hit a sheet of ice, spun

360 degrees and skated toward the building. It crashed into the trunk

of a plane tree just meters from the porch, crumpling the Jaguar's

offside wing. The motor died, but the headlights still shone off into

the darkness to the right of the cabin.

"This better be the place," Hauer mumbled, shaking his head to clear the

fog of impact.

Hans stuck his head through the shattered passenger widow and compared

what he saw to his mental image of his wife's family retreat.

"This is it," he said quietly. He turned to Hauer. "Why were you

driving so goddamn fast!"

Hauer bit back a sharp retort. He half-expected them to find the bloody

remains of Ilse and her grandfather inside the cabin. "Just knock on

the door," he said evenly.

Hans muttered angrily as he struggled with the unfamiliar door handle,

not even trying to conceal his exasperation.

Ilse!" he shouted. "It's me, Hans!"

Just as Hans popped the door open, it hammered him back into the car. He

did not even hear the booming explosion that resounded through the

forest.

"Get down!" Hauer bellowed. His warning was lost as the front

windshield shattered in a storm of flying glass.

"Shotgun, Hans! Down!"

Hans had hunkered down on the floor when a third blast shredded the

leather upholstery above his head. The fourth missed the Jaguar

altogether. Hauer grabbed his Walther from beneath the seat and jerked

back the slide.

"Wait!" Hans pleaded, grabbing his arm. "Ilse wouldn't know this car!"

He kicked open the shot-riddled door. "Ilse!

Professor! It's Hans!" This time he saw the fire leap from the

muzzles. The twin barrels exploded simultaneously, shearing off the

frozen branches hanging low over the car.

Hans ducked behind the Jag's door. "Professor! Your father Alfred was

a blacksmith! He built this house in 1925! You helped him make the

nails!"

Silence.

Now you're thinking," Hauer said.

The splintered cabin door creaked open slightly. "Hans?"

rasped a voice almost too weak to hear. "Hans, is that you?"

"Don't shoot, Professor! I'm coming out!"

Gingerly he raised his hands above the car door and waved. Then he put

a foot onto the packed.snow and slowly raised himself into Natterman's

line of sight.

"I can't see you!" Natterman called. "Step into the light!"

Painfully aware of the loaded weapon pointed at his chest, Hans eased

forward into the twin beams.

"Hans." The voice was louder now, the relief in it obvious. "Are you

alone?"

"No! I have .. ." He looked back at Hauer in the Jag. "I have my

captain with me!"

There was a long pause. "Do you trust him?"

For the hundredth time that night, Hans examined his feelings about his

father. Did he trust him? Hauer could just as easily be a member of

the fanatical societies whose meetings he described as- No!

Hans slammed that door shut in his mind. If Dieter Hauer could

contemplate killing a brother officer and kidnapping his own son's wife,

the whole world had turned upside down.

"I trust him!" he called.

Hinges screeched as Natterman pushed open the cabin door. He slumped to

his knees. "All right," he croaked, "that's . . ." The old man fell

flat on his face, his empty shotgun beside him.

Hans sprinted up onto the porch and bent over him. Hauer stayed in the

Jaguar, his Walther extended, covering the porch and the clearing as

best he could.

"Professor!" Hans cried, shaking him roughly. "Where is Ilse?"

"I got him," the old man mumbled. "I think Hans slapped him.

Then again, harder. He saw crusted blood around Natterman's disfigured

nose, but he had too much at stake to wait. "Where is Ilse, Professor?

Where is Ilse? Did the people who attacked you take her?" Hans turned

to the open door. "Ilse!"

"Not ... not here," Natterman mumbled. "Home, I think.

Yes." His voice gained strength. "She's at the apartment, Hans.

Coming here later. Tried to call, but .

"Oh God." Hans shivered as the implication of Natterman's ramblings

struck him. "Oh no. Captain! Help me get him into the house!"

Hauer scrambled out of the car. He backed up onto the porch, keeping

the pistol pointed at the woods as he moved.

"She's not here," Hans told him. "She's not here . . ."

"Take his legs!" Hauer ordered, grabbing the old man under the arms. He

had to keep Hans moving, keep his mind on something besides his wife

until there was time to analyze the situation.

They laid Natterman on the sofa in the front room. Hauer sent Hans to

fill a sock with snow, then tried his best to determine the seriousness

of the professor's wound. Cleaning it started the bleeding again-which

seemed incredible given the amount of blood splattered throughout the

cabin-but the frozen compress stanched the flow nicely.

Hauer substituted adhesive tape for sutures, fastening the edges of the

severed nostril together with surprising skill. He leaned back to

survey his work. "Wouldn't pass inspection at a Bundeswehr hospital,

but not bad for a field dressing. Let's get a blanket on him." He