Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

situation the way he always did. By ignoring it.

He kicked a mound of snow out of his path. So far he had made only two

cautious circuits of the perimeter. He felt more than a little tense

about strolling into a security zone where soldiers carried loaded

assault rifles as casually as their wallets. He panned his eyes across

the dark lot, shielding them from the snow with a gloved hand. God, but

the British did theirjob well, he thought.

Ghostly mountains of jagged brick and iron rose up out of the swirling

snow like the bombed-out remnants of Berlin buildings that had never

been restored. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward into the

shadows.

it was a strange journey. For fifteen or twenty steps he would see

nothing but the glow of distant street lamps. Then a soldier would

materialize, a black mirage against the falling snow. Some challenged

him, most did not. When they did, Hans simply said, "Versailles"-the

code word printed at the bottom of his sector map-and they let him pass.

He couldn't shake a vague feeling of anxiety that had settled on his

shoulders. As he passed the soldiers, he tried to focus on the weapon

each carried. In the darkness all the uniforms looked alike, but the

guns identified everyone.

Each Russian stood statue-still, his sharklike Kalashnikov resting

butt-first on the ground like an extension of his arrnThe French also

stood, though not at attention. They cradled their FAMAS rifles in

crooked elbows and tried vainly to smoke in the frigid wind. The

British carried no rifles, each having been issued a sidearm in the

interest of discretion.

it was the Americans who disturbed Hans. Some leaned casually against

broken slabs of concrete, their weapons nowhere in evidence.

Others squatted on piles of brick, hunched over their M-16

Arinalites as if they could barely stay awake. None of the U.S.

soldiers had even bothered to challenge Hans's passage. At first he

felt angry that NATO soldiers would take such a casual approach to their

duties.

But after a while he began to wonder. Their indifference could simply

be a ruse, couldn't it? Certainly for an assignment such as this a

high-caliber team would have been chosen?

After three hours' patrol, Hans's suspicions were proved correct, when

he nearly stumbled over the black American sergeant surveying the prison

grounds through a bulbous scope fitted to his M-16. Not wishing to

startle him, Hans whispered, "Versailles, Sergeant." When the American

didn't respond, he tried again. "What can you see?"

"Everything from the command trailer on the east to that Ivan pissing on

a brick pile on the west," the sergeant replied in German, never taking

his eyes from the scope.

"I can't see any of that!"

"Image-intensifier," the American murmured. "Well, well ... I didn't

know the Red Army let its sentries take a piss-break on guard du-What-"

The noncom wrenched the rifle away from his face.

"What is it?" Hans asked, alarmed.

"Nothing ... damn. This thing works by light magnification, not

infrared. That smartass flashed a spotlight toward me and whited out my

scope. What an asshole."

Hans grunted in mutual distaste for the Russians. "Nice scope," he

said, hoping to get a look through it himself.

"Your outfit doesn't have 'em?"

"Some units do. The drug units, mostly. I used one in training, but

they aren't issued for street duty."

"Too bad." The American scanned the ruins. "This is one weird place,

isn't it?"

Hans shrugged and tried to look nonchalant.

"Like a graveyard, man. A hundred and fifty cells in this place, and

only one occupied-by Hess. Dude must-ve known some serious shit to keep

him locked down that tight." The sergeant cocked his head and squinted

at Hans.

"Man, you know you look familiar. Yeah ... you look like that guy, that

tennis player-"

"Becker," Hans finished, looking at the ground.

"Becker, yeah. Boris Becker. I guess everybody tells you that, huh?"

Hans looked up. "Once a day, at least."

"I'll bet it doesn't hurt you with the Frduleins."

"I'd rather have his income," Hans said, smiling. It was his stock

answer, but the American laughed. "Besides," he added, "I'm married."

"Yeah?" The sergeant grinned back. "Me too. Six years and two kids.

You?"

Hans shook his head. "We've been trying, but we haven't had any luck."

"That's a bitch," said the American, shaking his head. "I got some

buddies with that problem. Man, they gotta check the calendar and their

old lady's temperature and every other damn thing before they can even

get it on. No thanks."

When the sergeant saw Hans's expression, he said, "Hey, sorry 'bout

that, man. Guess you know more about it than you ever wanted to." He

raised his rifle again, sighting in on yet another invisible target.

"Bang, " he said, and lowered the weapon. "We'd better keep moving,

Boris." He disappeared into the shadows, taking the scope with him.

For the next six hours, Hans moved through the darkness without speaking

to anyone, except to answer the challenges of the Russians.

They seemed to be taking the operation much more seriously than anyone

else, he noticed. Almost personally.

About four A.M. he decided to have a second look at his map. He

approached the command trailer obliquely, walking backward to read by

the glow of the single floodlamp. Suddenly he heard voices. Peering

around the trailer, he saw the French and British sergeants sitting

together on the makeshift steps. The Frenchman was very young, like

most of the twenty-seven hundred conscripts who comprised the French

garrison in Berlin. The Brit was older, a veteran of England's

professional army. He did most of the talking; the Frenchman smoked and

listened in silence. Now and then the wind carried distinct words to

Hans. "Hess" was one"lefenant" and "bloody Russians" were others.

Suddenly the Frenchman stood, flicked his cigarette butt into the

darkness, and strode out of the white pool of light. The Englishman

followed close on his heels.

Hans turned to go, then froze. One meter behind him stood the imposing

silhouette of Captain Dieter Hauer. The fiery eye of a cigar blazed

orange in the darkness.

"Hello, Hans," said the deep, burnished voice.

Hans said nothing.

"Damned cold for this time of year, eh?"

"Why am I here?" Hans asked. "You broke our agreement."

"No, I didn't. This was bound to happen sooner or later, even with a

twenty-thousand-man police force."

Hans considered this. "I suppose you're right," he said at length. "It

doesn't matter. Just another assignment, right?"

Hauer nodded. "You've been doing a hell of a job, I hear.

Youngest sergeant in Berlin."

Hans flushed a little, shrugged.

"I lied, Hans," Hauer said suddenly. "I did break our agreement.

I requested you for this detail."

Hans's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because it was busy work. Killing time. I thought we might get a

chance to talk."

Hans studied the slushy ground. "So talk."

Hauer seemed to search for words. "There's a lot that needs saying."

"Or nothing."

Hauer sighed deeply. "I'd really like to know why you came to Berlin.

Three years now. You must have wanted some kind of reconciliation ...

or answers, or something."

Hans stiffened. "So why are you asking the questions?"

Hauer looked hard into Hans's, eyes. "All right," he said softly.

"We'll wait until you're ready."