Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

the slightest bit nervous about his false papers.

Borodin was Twelfth Department, and Twelfth Department always got the

best.

Dmitri Rykov stared dumbfounded at his superior. He had never seen Ivan

Kosov allow someone to run roughshod over him like that.

"Who was that man, Colonel?"

Kosov stared after his receding BMW. "Someone you will get to know very

well in the next few days, Dmitri." He turned to Rykov.

"You still have your travel papers?"

"Yes, Comrade Colonel."

"Good. I want you to cross into the American sector and go to U.S. Army

Headquarters. There you will find the man you just saw steal my BMW.

you're to follow him and report his every movement back to me.

Do you have any credit cards?"

Rykov nodded with enthusiasm"American Express?"

"Gold Card."

Kosov scowled. "Captain Rykov, I am authorizing you to spend whatever

is necessary to follow that man wherever he goes."

"Yes, sir!"

"Anywhere in the world," Kosov added.

Rykov's chest swelled as he absorbed the import of Kosov's words.

This had to be something big. Something that could make a career.

"His name," said Kosov quietly, "is Yuri Borodin. He's a colonel in the

Twelfth Department."

Rykov paled.

"Do you wish me to find someone else, Captain?"

Rykov cleared his throat. "Nyet, Comrade Colonel. Dmitri Rykov is your

man."

"Then get your ass over to the checkpoint and find out what cover

Borodin used to cross. I'll call a car for you."

Kosov laid a hand on Rykov's shoulder. "Keep your eyes open for someone

named Zinoviev. He's either a very old man or a very dead one.

Call me as often as you can. I'll have more information on Borodin for

you."

"Thank you, Comrade Colonel!"

"And Dmitri ... about that tattoo. The eye on Goltz'shead."

Kosov lowered his voice. "It is the symbol of a oneeyed man. I don't

know his name, but whoever he is, he's at the center of this case. The

Americans don't know anything about him, and I don't think Borodin does

either. So if you happen to meet a man with one eye-a glass eye, or

even a patch-you are to call me immediately. If you.

even hear of a one-eyed man involved with this case, you call me."

Rykov looked confused, but he nodded.

"Now go!

Ignoring his bruised leg, Rykov sprinted after the BMW.

Kosov lit a Camel cigarette and took a deep drag. He held in the acrid

smoke for a long time before he exhaled. He felt better now.

Much better. When he smiled, the expression made him look even uglier

than he wa's.

630 pm. #30 Ldtzenstrasse

Ivan Kosov's black-clad assassin padded softy into Ilse's apartment

building and slipped into the stairwell. He was looking forward to

paying back the German whore who had taunted him yesterday, and he knew

a hundred ways to extract his pound of flesh. He only hoped that the

old tart's young companion would be home with her. She could prove very

entertaining before she died. It never ceased to amaze Misha how

cooperative women became after only the briefest acquaintance with his

knife.

Three floors above him, Eva Beers leaned toward her bathroom mirror and

pulled a stained bandage away from her cheek. The laceration looked

considerably worse than it had twelve hours before.

The skin hung slack in spite of her best attempts to smile or grimace.

Last night, when she had first got back to her apartment, she'd

discovered that the lower half of her left cheek did not seem to be

moving normally. It disturbed her, but she put the problem down to

shock. Eva had been in her share of bar brawls, and drawing on this

experience she did a fair job of patching the deep gash inflicted by the

young Russian. But now she worried.

The bleeding had long since stopped, but the stubborn flesh to the left

of her mouth still hung lifeless, like that of a stroke victim.

Replacing the bandage, she decided to ignore Kosov's warning and seek

proper medical assistance.

She slipped on a housecoat and walked out to the front room of her

modest apartment to check on Ernst. The tough old cabbie lay snoring on

the sofa. He had taken a bad beating and needed a doctor almost as

badly as Eva did. She leaned over him, listening to his irregular

breaths. His bruised and battered face made her furious again. She had

expected the Russians to come back for her as soon as they realized she

had lied about Ilse, but they hadn't. Lucky for them, too, she thought.

Because for the remainder of last night and most of today, some of her

heavily built friends from her Ratskeller days had hung around the

apartment just in case the Russians showed up. An hour ago Eva had

thanked them and sent them on their way, glad that no further trouble

had visited.

Kissing Ernst lightly on his forehead, she went back to her bedroom and

pulled the door shut. In her bureau drawer she found the number of an

old general practitioner who not so long ago had run a quiet practice

catering to smugglers, addicts, and young girls in trouble. I hope he's

still in business, she thought. She had no patience with emergency

roomstoo many forms to fill out, too many questions to answer.

She left the doctor's number on the bureau and went into the bathroom to

make up her face.

In the hallway outside the apartment, Misha inserted an@e-thin tOOl

into the door lock and picked it with ease.

Eva had carelessly left the bolt unshot when her friends left but she

had fastened the chain. Misha put his deceptively' narrow shoulder

against the door and leaned into it hard, yanidng the chain's

anchor-plate from the doo@amb.

The noise of the screws pulling loose was minimal, but enough to make

the sleeping cabbie shift on the sofa.

Misha's ears detected the rustle, and after his eyes adjusted to the

darkness, he discerned the supine form. He crossed the room silently

and stared down. Bruises and a badly blackened eye distorted Ernst's

face, but Misha recognized the old man who had fought so tenaciously

outside his taxi on the previous night. As Misha stared, Ernst's eyes

flut@ open. With the dreadful clarity of nightmares the old cabbie

recognized the Russian above him. He opened his mouth to scream a

warning to Eva, but Misha snatched a threadbare pillow from the couch

and slammed it over Ernst's contorted face, pressing down with all his

strength.

In the bathroom Eva heard nothing. The battle being fought in her front

room was desperate but soundless. Just when Misha felt the old man's

struggles begin to subside, a hand shot upward and locked around his

throat in a maniacal death grip. The Russian struggled to hold the

smothering pillow in place, not believing the old man's strength. The

bony fingers clutching his throat seemed to be probing for some hollow

place where they could gain sufficient purchase to crush his windpipe.

Misha had had enough. The pillow had seemed a good idea at first, but

it was obviously too slow for this old lion.

Fighting to breathe, he held the @illow in place with his right hand and

drew his stiletto from its ankle sheath with his left.

A veteran of the streets, Ernst the cabbie knew what the snick of spring

and steel meant, but he rould fight no harder than he was already. He

felt the cold blade pierce his chest just below the sternum. Misha

expertly twisted the blade across the midline marking the passage of the

aorta; the old man felt ice turn to fire. He jerked spasmodically, then