Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

scab. Black flecks of blood stained the file on Rose's desk. The

colonel reached out to pick it up, then jerked back his hand in disgust.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Goltz," Harry explained. "That was a shaved spot a little above and

behind his right ear. Turn it over, Colonel."

Rose looked up at Harry with an expression that suggested he might be

wondering if Harry kept a VietCong ear necklace in his dresser at home.

"I didn't have a camera," Harry muttered.

Rose took a ballpoint pen from a stand and flicked the shriveled swatch

of skin over, revealing the tattoo it bore.

He made no sound as he studied it, but Schneider sucked in his breath so

sharply that both men turned to him.

"You've seen this mark before?" Rose asked.

The German nodded. "Yes. It's hard to detect. Once the hair grows

back in, the mark is invisible."

Harry looked curiously at the German.

"What the hell's it mean?" Rose demanded.

Schneider shrugged. "Certain members of a semisecret political group

wear that mark. The group is called Der Bruderschaft-the Brotherhood.

Quite a few policemen belong to it. I don't know what the tattoo means.

I always thought it was just a badge of membership.

Now and then you'll see a policeman with a bandage behind his ear.

They always make some excuse, but after a while you realize what it is."

"Sounds like some kind of friggin' cult thing," Rose declared.

"Is it like the Aryan Brotherhood in the States?"

Harry shook his head. "The Aryan Brotherhood is made up of convicts,

not police. They're cop killers."

"How many Berlin cops have this mark? A dozen? A hundred?"

"More than a hundred," Schneider said thoughtfully. "But I never

realized that it extended into the DDR. That's very disturbing."

"You're goddamn right it is," Rose agreed.

"Detective," Harry said softly, "do all members of Der Bniderschaft have

the tattoo? Or just a select few? A few who might belong to some truly

secret group, for instance."

"Like Phoenix, you mean," mused Schneider. "No, I don't think all the

members have the tattoo."

Rose was staring strangely at Schneider. When Harry realized why, he

couldn't help staring himself.

The big German scowled back at them. "No, I don't have a tattoo under

my hair," he growled. "And the first man who asks to look is going to

spend the night in the hospital."

When Rose looked as if he might ask, Harry stood quickly. "Thanks again

for saving my life, Detective. If you fellows don't mind, I'm going to

crash until takeoff time tomorrow."

Rose finally shifted his attention to Harry. "Just remember," he

warned, "you'll be going in blind down there. What I told you about the

British still holds: no contact at all, not even with your personal

connections. No one's above being manipulated by his

government-especially ministers and lords."

"Not even me," said Harry, and smiled wryly. "You worried about James

Bond catching up with me, ColoneIT' "No. I'm worried about some goddamn

George Smiley type. A fat little guy with glasses who's five steps

ahead of us already. Somebody who knows all about whatever happened

back in Germany in 1941."

Harry ruminated on this for a moment. "By the way, Colonel, Ivan Kosov

told me he'd like to collaborate on the Hess case."

"When hell freezes over," Rose muttered. "We'll get to the bottom of

this well ourselves."

Harry grinned. "That's what I told him you'd say."

Schneider stood and offered his prodigious hand. "Gluck haben, Major."

"Danke, " Harry replied.

"Get the hell out of here," Rose bellowed. "I'll brief you before you

fly out."

Harry sauntered out, returning Clary's sharp salute as he passed through

the outer office.

"What do you think?" Rose asked, when Harry had gone.

"I think I should go with him," Schneider said blun ,Well, you can't. I

need you here. You've got a lot do before you get any rest, mister."

"Such as?"

"Such as helping me rout out the scum that's holed up in that police

station."

Schneider smiled coldly. "Gut.

"But first I want YOu to get over to that police sergeant's apartment.

kpfel, right? Talk to the guy's wife. We should've covered it hours

ago, but I couldn't spare you."

Schneider stepped to the door and pulled on his heavy wool overcoat.

"And Schneider?"

"Yes, Colonel?"

"Sorry about that tattoo business. I'm on edge. If you stumble into

trouble, don't play hero, okay? I know YOu don't like Americans messing

around in your backyard, but solo's no way to flY On something like

this. You get me?"

Schneider nodded, but as his broad back disappeared through the office

door, Rose wondered how sincere the gesture really was.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

612 P.M. SOViOt Sector. EB$t Berlin, ODR In a black BMW parked two

blocks from the red-and-white border posts of the Sonnenallee

checkpoint, Colonel Ivan Kosov sat in silent rage while a man in a

two-thousand dollar Savile Row suit berated him for blatant incompetence.

The man was Yuri Borodin, himself a colonel and one of the brightest

stars of the Twelfth Department of the First Chief Directorate of the

KGB. Kosov hated everything about Borodin-his undisguised arrogance,

his hand-tailored clothing, his aristocratic family background and

manner of speech, his meteoric rise to high rank@everything. It made the

situation all the more difficult to bear.

"So you think your men can handle a simple surveillance job?"

Borodin asked coldly.

"Da, " Kosov grunted.

Borodin looked out of the car window distractedly. "I'm afraid I do not

share your faith. Major Richardson will go to U.S. Army Headquarters

for debriefing, then he'll move.

Wherever he goes, that is where the missing Polizei officers and your

Spandau papers are. If indeed papers are what the young German found.

If it is papers, I'd, bet my career that the Americans have them

already."

I hope you do, thought Kosov "What makes you think the Americans have

caught them?"'he asked. 'And what makes you think Major fiichardson was

even working on the Spandau case when my men captured him?"

Borodin switched to an upper-class English accent. "Instinct, old boy,"

he said primly.

Kosov wrinkled his lip in disgust. "You sound like an Oxford professor

with a pipe stuck up his ass."

"And how would you know what an Oxford professor sounds like?"

Borodin needled. "I'm just practicing the King's English, Comrade.

I'll probably be needing it in the next few days."

Someone tapped on the smoked-glass window on the driver's side of the

BMW. Kosov cranked down the window.

Captain Dmitri Rykov stuck his head into the window.

"They've taken him to U.S. headquarters," Rykov informed them, eyeing

Borodin with curiosity.

"I'll be off, then," Borodin said lightly.

"Where are you going?" asked Kosov.

"To pick up Major Richardson when he leaves army headquarters.

You don't really think I trust your chaps to stay on him, do you?

No offense intended, of course."

"But how will you get there?"

Borodin smiled. "In this car, of course."

"But this is my personal car!" Kosov exploded.

"Now, now, Comrade," Borodin said. "Relax. This car belongs to the

people, doesn't it? I need a car-this one's available. You'll get it

back eventually. Now, out of the car.

I must be on my way."

Koso hauled himself out of the vehicle and slammed the v d door behind

him. Borodin didn't even notice. He roared up to the checkpoint, not