Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

across his chest. "You tell me," he said, his voice distant, almost

nonhuman. "That's why I called you."

"Goddamn it," Schneider muttered, "why haven't you closed his eyes?"

"You're the homicide detective. I wanted you to see the crime scene

before we touched him. Maybe you'll see something I don't."

Schneider looked around the room. It had been torn to pieces by someone

who knew how to conduct a rapid search.

"What about your people?"

Rose's eyes narrowed. "You said you wanted to help me, Schneider.

Here's your chance."

The German squinted at Rose, then shook his big head slowly. "Colonel, a

homicide investigation is a team proce I need fingerprint men,

photographers, forensic technicians.

"I don't care about all that crap," Rose retorted. "I could have

high-tech coming out the wazoo if I wanted it. I'm interested in your

gut. Your trieb, remember?"

With a surreal sense of dislocation, Schneider walked a slow circle

around the room, keeping his eyes on Richardson's naked body all the

time. He noted several facts at once-the obvious. But Schneider was a

great mistruster of the obvious. Too often plain facts concealed more

subtle truths. The cause of death seemed plain enough: a bullet hole in

the back of the neck, small caliber, fired into the fragile bones of the

cervical spine. An execution. That Harry had resisted death was also

plain; his skin had been burned by the ropes that held him fast.

Schneider's eyes found Harry's lifeless gray orbs just once, and he

looked away quickly.

There was nothing to be found there but the frozen moment of stunned

horror-more animal than human-that Schneider had seen more times than

any man should.

Last came the message-if message it was. Drawn in the pool of blood

beneath Harry's right foot, like a child's fingerpainting, was a small

but clear capital B. Harry's right great toe was stained'scarlet, like a

blunt pen dipped in a well of blood. After the B came a curved line

that could have been the start of another letter-perhaps a lower-case

rebut in the midst of forming it Harry must have been shot, for a

tangential line arced sharply outward, as if the foot drawing it had

been flung wide in spasm.

Schneider crouched and examined the first letter. There was no

mistaking it: it was a B or nothing. With a long last look at the

second letter, the big German stood, carefully closed Harry's eyelids,

and walked back to the front room.

The air was breathable there. Rose's marching feet echoed behind him.

,what do you make of it?" Rose asked. "Dead Russian, dead American,"

Schneider replied.

"None of my business."

"I'm making it your business. Who do you think did it?"

"Someone in a hurry."

"I'm not in the mood for games, Schneider."

The German took a huge breath, exhaled. "All right.

Someone broke in here, surprised Richardson, tortured him for

information, and was surprised by the Russian in the front. The Russian

tried to run; the killer shot him in the back.

After getting his information@r not getting it-the killer executed

Richardson and left." Schneider sighed.

"How did you find out about it?"

"Anonymous call. Guy had a British accent. Clary and I hauled ass over

here, found Harry, and sealed the place off."

Schneider digested this in silence.

"What about that swastika?" Rose asked.

Schneider shrugged.

"A bullet in the neck is a Dachau-style execution," Rose pointed out.

"SS-style."

"They do it the same way in Lubyanka."

"Yeah," Rose muttered. "So you don't think it's the Germans? Not

Phoenix, or the Brotherhood, or whatever neoNazi wackos Harry pissed off

when he killed Goltz?"

"Why would Germans do dais?" Schneider asked. "Even Der Bruderschaft?

Or if they did, why would they leave a swastika? Why not the red eye?

Why leave anything at all?

They would know you Americans would go mad with rage.

How could that help them? If you implemented one-fourth of your reserve

powers, Berlin would become Beirut."

"Why this, why that' Rose grumbled. 'Why would the fucking Stasi kill

a KGB officer and bring the whole weight of the KGB down on their heads?

Nothing makes sense since yesterday, Schneider. Maybe they want us to

crack down on Berlin. Maybe they think that would spark big protests

against continued occupation." Rose rubbed his forehead anxiously. "The

scary thing is, I can't do a damned thing about this.

Five minutes before that anonymous call, I received an order to cease

and desist all investigations pertaining to Spandau Prison or Rudolf

Hess."

A faint smile touched the corners of Schneider's lips.

"Who gave you that order, Colonel?"

"It came from on high, my friend. What we call Echelons Beyond Reality.

If you ask me, Washington's covering for the goddamn Brits."

"You mean the letters on the floor?"

"Damn right. Harry was obviously trying to tell us who did this.

And it seems to me that B and r are the first two letters of British."

Schneider sucked in his breath. "Colonel, I'm not sure that second

letter is an r It could be a c or even an o. If it is an r, Richardson

could have been trying to wr Bruderschaft-the Brotherhood. Phoenix."

"Maybe, Rose admitted. "But you just told me you didn't think Germans

did it. Make up your mind, will you?"

He paused in thought. "No, that swastika is just too goddamn obvious.

This case revolves around Spandau, and Hess. We've got a dead Russian

and a dead American. In my book that leaves the Brits, not the

Germans."

Schneider raised an eyebrow. "An anonymous caller using a British

accent is just as obvious as that swastika. Also, we can't discount the

possibility that the murderer himself drew those letters in the blood.

To mislead us." The German sighed uncomfortably. "Colonel, is it

possible that men from

your own government could have done this?" is

Rose looked up sharply. "Schneider, I've been in this man,s army all my

life. But if I believed what you just suggested, I'd take this story

straight to the fucking New York Times."

Schneider believed him. "So what are you going to do? If your own

people won't help you on the Hess case, you're stuck."

,you ought to know me better than that by now," Rose countered.

He lifted an arm and pointed back down the hall.

"I liked that man back there," he said soffly- "He served his country in

war, and he served it in what the politicians like to call peace."

Rose's cheek twitched with the intensity of his anger.

"Whoever did that to him-Brit, German, whoever-he and his bosses are

going to pay like they never dreamed in all their worthless goddamn

lives. I won't rest until they do."

Just then Clary knocked twice quickly on the door, then opened it.

Schneider's mouth fell open. Silhouetted in Harry Richardson's

apartment door was the stocky, trenchcoated figure of Colonel Ivan

Kosov. The Russian took two steps into the foyer and bent over the body

of, Dmitri Rykov.

When he looked up, Schneider saw points of black fire flickering in his

eyes. Fury crackled off him like static electricity.

Stunned, Schneider turned to Rose for an explanation.

"I called him," Rose confessed. "if my own people won't help me, by

God, I'll take help where I can find it."

Schneider peered into Rose's eyes. "Why am I really here, Colonel?" he

asked quietly. And then suddenly he knewRose had been forbidden to

pursue the Spandau case using his own men, so he had called Schneider