Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

almost gone. In the distance a huge yellow crane backed too quickly

across the prison courtyard.

Stern tensed as the flagstones cracked like brittle bones.

Ten minutes later the mechanical monsters ground to a screeching halt.

While the senior British offic@r issued his dismissal orders, a pale

yellow Berlin city bus rumbled up to the prison, headlights cutting

through the lightly falling snow. The moment it stopped, twenty-four

soldiers dressed in a potpourri of uniforms spilled into the darkening

prison yard and broke into four groups of six. These soldiers

represented a compromise typical of the farcical Four Power

administration of Spandau. The normal month-long guard tours were

handled by rota, and went off with a minimum of friction. But the

destruction of the prison, like every previous disruption of routine,

had brought chaos. First the Russians had refused to accept German

police security at the prison.

Then-because no Allied nation trusted any of its "allies" to guard

Spandau's ruins alone-they decided they would all do it, with a token

detachment of West Berlin police along to keep up appearances. While

the Royal Engineers boarded the idling bus, the NCO's of the four guard

details deployed their men throughout the compound.

Near the shattered prison gate, a black American master sergeant gave

his squad a final brief: "Okay, ladies. Everybody's got his sector map,

right?"

"Sir!" barked his troops in unison.

"Then listen up. This ain't gate duty at the base, got it?

The Germs have the perimeter-we got the interior. Our orders are to

guard this wreckage. That's ostensibly, as the captain says. We are

here to watch the Russians. They watch us; we watch them. Same old

same old, right? Only these Ivans probably ain't grunts, dig?

Probably GRU-maybe even KGB. So keep your pots on and your slits open.

Questions?" I "How long's the gig, Sarge?" "This patrol lasts twelve

hours, Chapman, six to six. If you're still awake then-and you'd

better be-then you qan get back to your hot little pastry on the

Bendlerstrasse."

When the laughter died, the sergeant grinned and barked, "Spread out,

gentlemen! The enemy is already in place."

As the six Americans fanned out into the yard, a greenand-white

Volkswagen van marked PoLizEi stopped in the street before the prison.

It waited for a break in traffic, then jounced over the curb and came to

rest before the command trailer steps. Instantly, six men wearing the

dusty green uniform of the West Berlin police trundled out of its cargo

door and lined up between the van and the trailer.

Dieter Hauer, the captain in charge of the police contingent, climbed

down from the driver's seat and stepped around the van. He had an

arresting face, with a strong jaw and a full military mustache. His

clear gray eyes swept once across the wrecked prison lot. In the dusk

he noticed that the foul-weather ponchos of the Allied soldiers gave the

impression that they all served the same army. Hauer knew better.

Those young men were a fragmented muster of jangling nerves and

suspicion-two dozen accidents waiting to happen.

The Germans call their police bullen-"bulls"-and Hauer personified the

nickname. Even at fifty-five, his powerful, barrel-chested body

radiated enough authority to intimidate men thirty years his junior.

He wore neither gloves, helmet, nor cap against the cold, and contrary

to what the recruits in his unit suspected, this was no affectation

meant to impress them. Rather, as people who knew him were aware, he

possessed an almost inhuman resilience against external annoyances,

whether natural or man-made. Hauer called, "Attention!"

as he stepped back around the van. His officers formed a tight unit

beneath the command trailer's harsh floodlamp.

"I've told anyone who'd listen that we didn't want this assignment," he

said. "Naturally no one gives a shit."

There were a few nervous chuckles. Hauer spat onto the snow. A

hostage-recovery specialist, he-'plainly considered this token guard

detail an affront to his dignity. "You should feel very safe tonight,

gentlemen," he continued with heavy sarcasm. "We have the soldiers of

France, England, the United States, and Mother Russia with us tonight.

They are here to provide the security which we, the West Berlin police,

are deemed unfit to provide." Hauer clasped his hands behind his back.

"I'm sure you men feel as I do about this, but nothing can be done.

"You know your assignments. Four of you will guard the perimeter.

Apfel, Weiss-you're designated rovers. You'll pa&ol at random, watching

for improper conduct among the regular troops. What constitutes

'improper conduct' here, I have not been told. I assume it means

unsanctioned searches or provocation between forces. Everyone do your

best to stay clear of the Russians. Whatever agencies those men out

there serve, I doubt it's the Red Army. If you have a problem, sound

your whistle and wail. I'll come to you. Everyone else hold your

position until instructed otherwise."

Hauer paused, staring into the young faces around him.

His eyes lingered on a reddish-blond sergeant with gray eyes, then

flicked away. "Be cautious," he said evenly, "but don't be timid. We

are on German soil, regardless of what any political document may say.

Any provocation, verbal or physical, will be reported to me immediately.

Immediately."

The venom in Hauer's voice made it plain he would brook no insult from

the Soviets or anyone else. He spoke as though he might even welcome

it. "Check your sector maps carefully," he added. "I want no mistakes

tonight. You will show these soldier boys the meaning of

professionalism and discipline. Go!"

Six policemen scattered.

Hans Apfel, the reddish-blond sergeant whom Hauer had designated one of

the rovers, trotted about twenty meters, then stopped and looked back at

his superior. Hauer was studying a map of the prison, an unlit cigar

clamped between his teeth. Hans started to walk back, but the American

sergeant suddenly appeared from behind the police van and engaged Hauer

in quiet conversation.

Hans turned and struck out across the snow, following the line of the

Wilhemstrasse to his left. Angrily, he crushed a loose window pane

beneath his boot. With no warning at all this day had become one of the

most uncomfortable of his life. One minute he had been on his way out

of the Friedrichstrasse police station, headed home to his wife; the

next a duty sergeant had tapped him on the shoulder, said he needed a

good man for a secret detail, and practically thrust Hans into a van

headed for Spandau Prison. That in itself was a pain in the ass.

Double shifts were hell, especially those that had to be pulled on foot

in the snow.

But that wasn't the real source of Hans's discomfort. The problem was

that the commander of the guard detail, Captain Dieter Hauer, was

Hans's father. None of the other men on this detail knew that-for which

Hans was grateful-but he had a strange feeling that might soon change.

During the ride to Spandau, he had stared resolutely out of the van

window, refusing to be drawn into conversation. He couldn't understand

how it had happened. He and his father had a long-standing

arrangement-a simple agreement designed to deal with a complex family

situation-and Hauer must have broken it. It was the only explanation.

After a few minutes of bitter confusion, Hans resolved to deal with this