The Spandau Phoenix

almost certain that it does."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Those papers you found at Spandau aren't just some relic from the past,

Hans. The Russians haven't gone crazy searching for a museum piece.

Those papers pose a very serious threat to someone now-in the present."

Hauer took a cigar from his pocket and bit off the tip.

"Before I tell you anything else, you must understand some thing very

important. Right now, as we speak, Germanythe two Germanys-are very

close to reunification."

"What? "

"I don't mean it's going to happen tomorrow, or next week. But six

months from now ... a year ... maybe."

"Are you mad?"

Hauer paused to light his cigar. "Most Germans would say so," he said.

"And they would be as wrong as you are. Tell me, as you grew up, didn't

you notice all the societies who clamor for the reunification of the

Fatherland? I don't mean administrative committees plodding through

mountains of paper; I mean the hard-core groups, the ones that exist

only to restore Germany's lost might."

Hans shrugged. "Sure. So what? What's wrong with working to make

Germany strong? I agree with them. Not some of the crazier factions,

maybe, but I want Germany to be united again. One nation, without the

Wall."

Hauer raised an eyebrow.

Hans colored. "It's my country, isn't it? I want it to be strong!"

"Of course you do, boy. So do 1. But there are different kinds of

strength. Some of these groups have some very strange ideals. Old

ideals. Old agendas.' "What do you mean? How do you know?"

Hauer studied his cigar. "Because we've been to their meetings-Steuben

and 1. I stumbled into this whole thing by accident.

About two years ago, I got drawn into a Special Tasks drug case.

The money trail led me to two police officers. In short order I became

aware that quite a few cops were involved in the drug traffic flowing

into and through Germany. And in spite of orders to the contrary, I

began to compile evidence on these officers. Steuben helped me all the

way. It didn't take us long to realize that their drug operation

extended into the highest ranks of the force."

"Prefect Funk?"

"Excellent example. But then things got strange. Pretty soon we

discerned a attem. Every officer involved in the drug traffic was also

a member of a semisecret society called Der Bruderschaft."

"The Brotherhood? I've heard of that."

Hauer exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. "I'm not surprised.

I joined it myself last year. That's what the tattoo is about.

The eye is their symbol. Ever see a policeman with a bandage behind his

right ear? That means he's gotten the mark.

They wear the bandage till the hair grows back. I don't know what the

eye means, but I was only a month away from getting it myself. You get

marked after a year in the group." Hauer stood up and flicked some

cigar ash into Ochs's sink. "The real name of the organization is not

Der Bruderschaft, however; it's Bruderschaft der Phoenix. Have you

heard of that?"

Hans's eyes widened. "I have! It was in the Spandau papers.

Something about the 'soldiers of Phoenix' appeanng before Prisoner

Number Seven."

"Christ, what else do you remember?"

Hans shook his head. "I only remembered that because it was in German,

not Latin."

Hauer began pacing the kitchen. "God, it's so easy to see now.

Der Bruderschaft is neo-Nazi. It would only be natural for them to try

to contact Hess in prison, to try to use him as some kind of mascot.

But maybe Hess didn't like the idea, eh? Maybe-my God," Hauer said

suddenly. "They might well be the ones who killed him! Hess would be

much more valuable to them as a martyr than a pathetic prisoner!"

"Who comes to these Bruderschaft meetings?" Hans asked.

"A bunch of malcontents and young toughs, mostly. You know the type@ops

who won't answer a call to help a Turkish woman who's being beaten in

the street. Most weren't even born until fifteen or twenty years after

the war." Hauer shook his head in disgust. "'They get drunk, argue,

make speeches about throwing the traitors out of Bonn and making Berlin

the capital again. Then they sing Deutschland fiber Alles. If they're

really tanked they sing the Horst Wessel. At first the whole thing

seemed comical.

But after a while I realized something. These clowns were bringing in

millions of marks through their drug operations, yet they didn't seem to

be keeping any of it. No Ferrans, no new houses. Where was all the

money going? I traced the command chain all the way up to Prefect Funk,

but after six months of investigation I hit a dead end."

Hauer's eyes flickered. "Then I had my revelation. It had been right

in front of me all the time. Their money came from drugs, right?

Well, where do the drugs flow in from?"

"The East," Hans said softly.

"Right. So I asked myself, What if their organization extended

laterally, not vertically? You see? How were the drugs getting through

East Germany? Were the Vopos blind?

Hell no. They were allowing the drugs to get through. The East German

police have their own Bruderschaft members."

Hans blinked in astonishment. "The Volkspolizei?"

Hauer nodded. "And the Stasi."

Hans drew back at the mention of the hated East German secret police.

"But why would the Stasi smuggle drugs? For hard currency?"

Hauer shook his head. "Think about being a Stasi agent for a minute,

Hans. What it's really like."

"No thanks."

Hauer waved his cigar. "Sure, a lot of them are scum. But they're

German scum. You see? All day and night they have the Russians leaning

over their shoulders telling them what to do. They hate the Russians

more than we ever could.

They're communists, sure, but what choice do they have?

They've been,under the Russian boot since 1945. So, what do you think

they do? Lie down and take Moscow's crap?

Most of them do." Hauer's eyes gleamed. "But some of them don't.

The HVA-East German intelligence-sucks Moscow's shitpipe. They're like

a German arm of the KGB.

But the Stasi? Forget it. They go their'own way. They can beat the

KGB at their own game and the KGB knows it. If Moscow complains about

the Stasi, Honecker himself tells the Kremlin to mind its own business."

"You sound like you admire the bastards."

Hauer shook his head. "This isn't a case of absolutes, Hans. The point

is that some elements of the Stasi want reunification even more than we

in the West do, and they're willing to fight for it. They want their

slice of the European economic pie, and they know that so long as

they're separate from us, they'll never get it. And that brings us to

the drugs.

"How? Drugs are their slice of the pie?' "No. Drugs are part of the

strategy. I think their theory runs something like this: the more

rapidly the social situation in West Germany breaks down, the more

rapidly the right-wing and nationalist factions in the West consolidate

their power. Think about it. For twenty years the Stasi supplied the

Red Army Faction and other left-wing terrorists with guns and plastique.

Why? Just to create chaos? No. Because every time those misguided

hotheads blew up a bank or an airport lounge, the right wing in the West

hit back a little bit harder. The public reaction got a little stiffer.

I'm telling you, Hans, it's a sound strategy. Moscow has never been

more lenient than it is right now. The entire Eastern Bloc is restless.

Trouble and sedition are brewing everywhere. And East Germany is the

most independent satellite of all. The Stasi monitors everything there:

student unrest, political volatility, economic stress, plus they have

that rarest of all commodities, direct intelligence lines into Russia.

I think Der Bruderschaft-and whoever controls it-believes that a strong

enough chancellor in West Germany could seize the right opportunity and

wrench the two Germanys back together." Hauer was breathing hard.

"And by God, they may be right."

Hans stared, fascinated. "Is the Stasi really as powerful as people

say? I've heard they have hundreds of informers here and in Bonn."

Hauer chuckled. "Hundreds? Try thousands. If I had the files from

Stasi headquarters, I could break half the political careers in West

Germany and a good many in Moscow. I mean that. Some of our most

powerful senators are actually on the Stasi payroll. Funk is just small

beer."

Hans was shaking his head. "Do you really believe all this?"

Hauer shrugged. "I don't know. One minute I believe every word of it,

the next I wonder if schnapps has pickled my brain. When I stand in

those Bruderschaft meetings, I want to laugh. Funk and his rabble are

just grown-up children fantasizing about a Fourth Reich.

It's classic infantile bullshit. Germany will be united again, don't

doubt it. But not by drunk policemen or skinheads. It's the bankers

and board chairmen who'll bring it off. Men from the world your mother

worshipped. We're the richest country in Europe now, Hans, and anything

can be bought for a price. Even a united Germany."

Hauer tugged at his mustache. "The question is this: is there a

connection between Der Bruderschaft and those bankers and board

chairmen? And if so, what is it? How much power does Phoenix exert

over the institutions in Germany? The Stasis potential for blackmail is

formidable.

Funk's group may seem like clowns, but no matter how you look at it, the

Polizei are an arm of the state."

Hans look confused. "But how could all this tie in with the Spandau

papers? With Ilse?"

"Bruderschaft der Phoenix, remember? Phoenix was mentioned in the

Spandau papers, therefore it ties Funk and the Stasi to the papers.

Your hooker friend said Russians came looking for you and chased Ilse.

The Russians went on the rampage when you discovered the Spandau papers.

Do the Russians know about Phoenix? Maybe they've infiltrated Der

Bruderschaft through the Stasi. Maybe they suspect the Stasis role in a

grab for reunification. What the hell is Phoenix? A man? A group of

men? At one Bruderschaft meeting I heard Funk-who was drunk out of his

mind-babbling about how Phoenix was going to change the world, make

everything right again, clean out the Jews and the Turks once and for

all. But when I tried to pump him, Lieutenant Luhr shut him up."

Hauer shifted in the small chair. "Whatever Phoenix is, I'm almost

certain it's based outside Germany. About a month ago, Steuben started

noticing calls going out from Funk to different towns in South Africa. I

assumed it was more drug business, looking for new markets, et cetera.

But I don't think that anymore. Hans, I think you have dredged up

something so politically hot that we @an't even imagine it.

I hope Ilse managed to get those papers to Wolfsburg, but @hether she

did or not, we won't get out of Berlin by driving your VW through

Checkpoint Charlie. We've got to take precautions, make arrangements.

People owe me@' "Pardon me," said a soft voice from the shadows.

Hauer turned in his chair. Benjamin Ochs stood silhouetted against the

lighted hall door. "Forgive me," he said, "but the shouting alarmed my

wife. Could I join you for a moment?" The old man shuffled into the

kitchen and took a seat at the table. He poured a brandy into one of

the unused tumblers his wife had set down earlier, drank it, then wiped

his mouth on his pajama sleeve. "I know what you're thinking, Captain,"

he said. "How Much did the old goat hear, yes?

Well, I'll tell you. I didn't hear everything, but I heard enough. I

wish I'd heard damned all. What I heard ... God help us.

You never said it, but I know what you were talking about. Are you

afraid to say it?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Hauer said.

"Nazis!" Ochs cried, his wizened head shaking. "That's what you're

talking about. Isn't it? And not just a pack of hooligans desecrating

Jewish cemeteries. You're talking about policemen-professional men,

bankers, board chairmen!"

"You misunderstood, Herr Ochs. It's not so bad as that."

"Captain, it's probably worse than that. Don't you know what the

Phoenix is? It's the bird that perishes in the fire only to be reborn

from its ashes." The old tailor drew himself up to his full height.

"I am a Jew, Captain, a German Jew. Before the war there were 160,000

of us here in Berlin.

Now we are 7,000. I was not a child during the war. While you hunted

scraps in the streets, I existed in a place you cannot imagine.

Beyond hope, outside of time. I lost my entire family-parents, brother,

two sisters-at this place. While they passed into oblivion, I sewed

uniforms for the German Army. I lived while my family died. I promise

you Captain, no uniforms were ever more poorly made than those Benjamin

Ochs made for the Wehrmacht. Every bit of skill I had went into

producing a uniform that would last just long enough to get a soldier to

the frozen Russian front, then fall into pieces fit only for a shroud."

Ochs raised his withered hand. "If you protect such men, Captain, I

tell you now to get out of my house. Now! But if you mean to fight

them . . .

then let me help you. Tell me what you need."

Hans sat speechless, but Hauer lost no time taking advantage of his

offer. "We need a car," he said.

"Done," Ochs said simply.

"We need something to wear besides these uniforms. Do you have anything

that might fit us well enough not to draw attention?"

Ochs smiled. "Am I not a tailor? I won't be a minute with the clothes.

Take whatever food you can find in the refrigerator. If you're going

through East Germany tonight, you won't be stopping for coffee." He

turned and started for the hall.

"Herr Ochs?" Hauer called.

"Yes?"

"What kind of car do you have?"

Ochs's eyes twinkled. "British Jaguar. She runs like the wind."

"Petrol?"

"Both tanks are full." The old man took a step back toward Hauer.

"You stop these men, Captain. Root them out.

Show them what the German people are made of."

turned and scurried down the hall.

"Is he right?" Hans asked. "Are you talking about real Nazis?"

Hauer shook his head. "I don't think so. Germany is the last place

fascism could take hold again. We have the strongest democracy in

Europe. And even if we didn't, NATO and the Warsaw Pact would vaporize

us before they allowed another German dictator. I think we're dealing

with accelerated reunification@conomic, political, and military. There

are massive profits to be made, and Phoenix knows that the nationalist

button is the one to push to get the German people behind them. Funk

and his clowns are just foot soldiers.

Moneymaking drones." Hauer knitted his brow. "Goddamn it, the answer

is right in front of me and I can't pin it down!

All of this fits together somehow: Phoenix, reunification, the Spandau

paper . s-" Hauer stopped dead. "My God. What if Hess's papers

contain something that could be used as leverage against NATO?

Against England and the U.S.? Or even Russia? People have always said

Hess knew some terrible secret. What if it's something Phoenix could

use to pressure the Four Powers on reunification? Even to pressure one

power?"

Hauer thrust the VW keys into Hans's hand. "Move your car down the

block. We don't want to set the dogs on this old fellow. He's been

through enough hell for one lifetime."

As Hans disappeared through the front door, Hauer opened the

refrigerator. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. As he reached

for a jar of Polish pickles, an image of Rudolf Hess flashed into his

mind. Tall and cadaverous, the solitary specter shuffled silently

through the snow-covered Spandau courtyards. What could that old man

have known? he wondered. What did he leave behind?

Something big enough to blackmail a superpower? Could anything really

be that big?

"If it is," he told himself with a shiver, "I'm not sure I want to

know."

Hauer pressed down a wave of guilt. He had lied to Hans earlier-he had

seen Erhard Weiss tortured. And he could not blot out the memory. Funk

and his goons weren't sophisticated enough for chemicals; they used

beatings and electricity. On the face, up the anus, clipped to the

penis. And they enjoyed it. Especially Luhr.

Young Weiss had screamed until Hauer thought his jawbone would pop out

of its socket.

The poor boy would have shot his own mother to make them stop, but Luhr

had wanted information, and Weiss hadn't had any. And Hauer-the brave

captain-had stood by in rigid silence while it happened. He could have

tried to stop it, of course, but he would soon have taken Weiss's place

in the torture chair.

Weiss is dead, he told himself. You can't bring him back.

Concentrate on the living. Hauer hoped Hans's wife had made it to

Wolfsburg, but he didn't think much of her chances of getting safely out

of Berlin tonight. If she had been caught, he hoped it was by the

Russians. God alone knew what Jiirgen Luhr would do to a woman if he

got the chance.

CHAPTER TEN

10.40 Pm. -Polizei AbschniH 53.' West Berlin Prefect Wilhelm Funk

appeared on the verge of a myocardial infarction. A critical situation

he thought admirably under his control had suddenly exploded in his

grossly veined face, and he could do precious little about it. A

genetic bureaucrat, Funk searched instinctively for scapegoats, but the

unfortunate Rolf already lay dead in the basement cell with Weiss's

mutilated corpse. Now Funk sat fuming in his office, accompanied by his

aide Lieutenant Jijrgen Luhr and Captain Otto Greener of the Kreuzberg

district.

"They cannot escape, Prefect," Luhr said, trying to calm his enraged

superior. "We have men at every checkpoint.

Even the smugglers know that taking Hauer out would be fatal. I made

the threats myself."

Funk's fury eased a little at this news. Luhr had always been his

favorite. The man had almost no human weaknesses, mercy least of all.

"Where do you think Hauer might run, Jijrgen? And why in God's name

would he betray us to save some green sergeant?"

"It doesn't matter. None of that matters. We'll find him.

it's only a question of time."

"Well, that's the point, isn't it!" Funk exploded. "Who knows what

that traitorous bastard's gotten hold of! He could destroy years of

work and planning!" Funk leaned forward and put his face in his plump

hands. "At least you got the damned Russians out."

"I'm not sure Kosov bought the lie detector charade," Luhr said

thoughtfully.

Funk waved away his concern. "You said it yourself, Jiirgen, it's just

a matter of time before we run them down.

And when we do, our problem is solved. All Bruderschaft men have the

shoot-to-kill order, and the rest of the force will probably do the same

out of anger. The Spandau papers will be confiscated, and that will be

that."

"What if we don't catch them before they leave the city?"

Otto Greener, cut in.

"We shall!" Funk snapped. "The alternative is impossible to

contemplate."

"But you must contemplate it, Prefect," Greener insisted, laying smug

emphasis on the title. An old rival of Funk's, Groaner enjoyed seeing

him placed squarely on the hot seat.

"Worry about your own district," Funk grumbled.

"But the problem isn't in my district."

Funk slammed his fist down on the desk. "One small setback and already

the dogs are yapping at my heels! What would you do in a real crisis,

Greener? Loot our accounts and sell out Phoenix?"

"How can I sell out someone I'm not even sure exists?"

Funk sighed. "Shut up, Otto. This problem will soon be resolved, and

when it is, I shall turn my attention to you.

The rotund Greener leaned back in his chair and lit a stained pipe. "I

hope you're right, Wilhelm," he said amiably. "For your sake. But

somehow I don't think you are. My instinct tells me that something

unexpected has happened.

Unexpected not only here, but in Pretoria." He raised a fat eyebrow.

"Perhaps Phoenix is not the omnipotent force we have been led to

believe."

"Fool!" Jiirgen Luhr spat. "Words like that could cost you your life.

You think you're in private here? Because there are four walls around

you? I'm starting to believe you think like a cow as well as look like

one."

"You insolent swine!" Greener bellowed, coming to his feet.

Luhr stood defiantly, daring the big man to move against him. His

psychotic blue eyes and formidable physique made any question of rank

irrelevant. "Hauer is loose in the city, and here you two sit, arguing

like children! What are you going to do?"

Groaner searched for a graceful way to reclaim his chair; Funk looked

like a dog disciplined for some reason it doesn't understand.

"Haven't I? Every car has the names and pictures.

God, every man out there knows Hauer by sight! I've convinced everyone

that he and Apfel murdered one of their own. What more can I do?"

Luhr paced worriedly. "I'm not sure. But I'm not so certain you've

convinced everyone. Most officers will get the report only by radio.

They won't actually have seen Weiss's body. Hauer and Apfel have

friends out there, Hauer especially. Men he's been under fire with.

They won't betray him on the basis of a rumor. Particularly one started

by you."

Funk reddened. "But a moment ago you told me they couldn't escape!"

Luhr smiled thinly. "I'm afraid that was to make you feel better.

I'm really not that confident." His face hardened.

"Tell me about Munich," he said. "I know Hauer was demoted because of

the Olympic massacre, but what exactly did he do there?"

Funk wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "I don't see what that has

to do with anything."

"Humor me," said Luhr.

Funk sighed. "All tight. Hauer was in the Federal Border Police then.

He was a sharpshooter or sniper or whatever you want to call it.

The Black September fedayeen were holding the Jew athletes at the

Olympic village. They'd demanded a jet to take them to Cairo. They'd

also demanded the release of Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof, whom

we'd just captured that year, plus a couple of hundred Arab political

prisoners in Israel. The Israeli government asked us to allow one of

their commando teams into Germany to attempt a rescue. And that wet rag

Willy Brandt wanted to let them in! He'd offered to release Baader and

Meinhof from the very beginning! Thank God the final authority was in

the hands of the state government."

"And Hauer?" Luhr prodded.

"I'm telling you," Funk said testily.."The fedayeen and their hostages

were given buses and allowed to drive out to two helicopters which had

been brought to the Olympic village. Some people-Hauer among

them-thought that was the best time to try a rescue. But the state

government said no. The ambush was to be at Fijrstenfeldbrijck airport,

when the terrorists tried to move from the helieopters to the waiting

jet. Almost as soon as the choppers touched down at Fiirstenfeldbriick,

someone gave the order to fire. Hauer was one of five sharpshooters.

The light was terrible, the distance prohibitive, and the shooting

reflected the conditions.

The whole firelight took about an hour. In the end it took an infantry

assault to kill all the Arabs, but not before they had blown up the Jews

in the helicopters."

Luhr nodded. "And Hauer?"

"I just told you."

"But the shooting-Hauer missed his targets?"

"No," said Funk with grudging admiration. "As a matter of fact he

killed one of the terrorists with his first shot, and wounded another

with his second. The fool might even have held on to his job if he'd

kept his mouth shut. But of course he didn't. He had to tell everyone

what we had done wrong, why the rescue was doomed from the beginning.

He was screaming for reforms in our counterteffor capability. He wanted

us to copy the damned Israelis."

"So what happened to him?"

Funk chuckled softly. "He paid the bureaucratic price, along with

everyone else associated with the massacre. He was transferred to the

civil police here, and he's been a Thorn in my ass ever since. I never

wanted that bastard in our group! I never trusted him after Munich!

He's carried a chip on his shoulder about those Jews ever since that

day." Funk snorted. "Imagine, losing sleep over a few Jewish

wrestlers."

Funk toyed with a shell-casing paperweight on the desk.

"The irony is that Bonn created the GSG-9 because of Munich.

Hauer wanted to join, of course, but by the time his old friends had

lobbied successfully for his acceptance, he was too old to pass the

physical tests. You have to be practically an Olympic athlete to get

in. He coached their sharpshooters for a while, but that's it. I think

they still use him occasionally in some kind of consulting capacity."

" Wunderbar! " Luhr snapped. "And you think we're going to catch this

man with standard tactics? Christ! We've got to do something more."

"What?" Funk asked, almost pleading.

Luhr shook his head angrily. "I don't know yet. But I know this: you'd

better inform Pretoria of what's happened, and the sooner the better!"

Funk blanched. Greener heaved himself from his chair and reached for

his cap. "I should get back to Kreuzberg."

"Yes, I suppose so, Otto," Luhr mocked. "We'll be sure and tell Phoenix

you mentioned him."

Greener slammed the door.

Luhr laughed. "What an old woman. How did he ever survive twenty-five

years on the force?"

"By doing just what he did then," Funk replied, lifting the phone,

"making judicious exits. Besides, nobody wants Kreuzberg. It's the

shithole of Berlin. Nothing there but filthy Turks and students-is that

you, Steuben? You're still on duty?" Funk cut his eyes at Luhr.

"This is the prefect. Get me an international operator again.

Same number.

Right, Pretoria. I need some advice from an old friend in the NIS.

Those fellows down there really know how to handle a problem.

Crack a few heads and no more problem. Yes, I'll wait .. ."

In the first-floor communications room, Sergeant Josef Steuben reached

under his computer desk and activated a small tape recorder.

After surveying the main station room through the window behind him he

logged Funk's call into a small notebook he had kept religiously for the

past four months. Steuben had no university degree, but Hauer

considered him an electronics genius. It had taken him less than a

minute to piggyback the signal cable coming from the thirdfloor office

Funk had commandeered. -There were no voltage-measuring devices

monitoring Abschnitt 53, so he felt reasonably safe.

Besides, he thought, if this thing ever gets to court, wild charges by a

computer technician and an accused murderer will be worthless. We've

got to have physical evidence.

"Dieter will love this," he said aloud. "Catch the buggers in the act@'

A voice like cracking ice froze Steuben in his chair. "Are you the only

man on duty in here?" it asked.

Steuben whirled. Lieutenant Jijrgen Luhr stood in the doorway of the

communications room, his right hand resting on the butt of his Walther.

"Stand back from the console," he ordered.

11:06 Pm. Prinzenstrasse: West Berlin Blindness, Hans thought.

This must be what blindness is like.

He felt as if he were staring backward into his own skull. He couldn't

see his father's face, although he knew it was only centimeters from his

own. Cramped and disoriented, he reached out.

"Be still!" Hauer grunted.

"Sorry."

Somehow, he and Hauer had stuffed themselves into the boot of Benjamin

Ochs's Jaguar. Ochs had thrown an old blanket on top of them, and

luckily they had gone in head first, so that what little heat passed

through the rear seat by convection kept their heads reasonably warm.

Now they sped across the city, the nattily dressed old couple staring

sternly ahead whenever they passed a green police vehicle.

In the lightless boot, Hans struggled to keep his limbs awake.

One leg was completely numb already, and his left shoulder felt as

though it might actually be dislocated.

"Captain?" he said. "I've been thinking about what you said.

About Stasi officers working for reunification. It just doesn't make

sense to me. If the Wall came down, wouldn't the Stasi be dismantled?

Even prosecuted for criminal actions?"

"Yes. And that should tell you something. Someone in the West must be

guaranteeing them some kind of immunity in exchange for their

assistance. Don't ask me who, because I don't know."

Hans digested this in the rumbling blackness. "Do you really think it

could happen?" he asked at length. "Reunification, I mean."

"It's inevitable," Hauer said. "It's just a question of when and how.

Mayor Diepgen himself said as much this year: 'this year with the 750th

anniversary we begin with the idea of Berlin as the capital of all

Germany.' No one outside Germany took any notice, of course. But they

will, Hans. You're young. People on the other side of the Wall seem

different to you. And they are in some ways. Big things separate us.

The Wall, our educational system, ideologies. But little things join

us. What we eat ... our old songs. The mothers in the East tell their

children the same fairy tales your mother told you at night. The

fathers tell the same stories of heroism from the same wars. Little

things, maybe. But in my experience, the little things outlast the big

things." Hauer shifted position. "We Germans are a tribe, Hans. That's

the best and the worst thing about us."

Hans nodded slowly in the darkness. "Where are we crossing?" he asked.

"Staaken?"

"No. That's what everyone will expect. They'll assume that if we run,

we'll run west. That's where the heaviest security should be."

"So where are we crossing?"

"Heinrich-Heine Strasse. We're going right into the heart of East

Berlin, then swinging south around the city. That old Jew has balls,

I'll tell you."

"How are we getting out, exactly?" Hans asked above the drone of the

Jaguar's engine. "You don't think they're going to let this car through

without checking the boot?"

Hauer chuckled softly in the dark. "I'd hoped you wouldn't ask.

The truth is, I'm glad the old man demanded to come. Now we've got

three things going for us: glasnost, the weather, and the reluctance of

the border guards to bother two old Jews traveling to a funeral."

"Funeral? What are you talking about? Whose funeral?"

Before Hauer could answer, Benjamin Ochs leaned back and struck the rear

seat with his balled fist. Two muted thuds sounded in the boot. "That's

it," Hauer whispered. "We're there."

Two more thuds reverberated through the closed space.

"Damn, " Hauer muttered. "Extra security. Don't say a word, Hans. And

pray the Vopos are lazy tonight."

Benjamin Ochs stared through his spotless windshield at the gauntlet

ahead. Thirty meters away, red-and-white steel barriers blocked the

road at both checkpoints. On the East German side, a steel-helmeted

Vopo stood at the window of a white Volkswagen, checking the driver's

papers. The West Berlin border guards had gone into their booth to

escape the biting wind.

The border guards weren't the problem. Ten meters in front of Ochs's

Jaguar, a black minivan marked PoLizEi had been parked diagonally across

the road, partially blocking it.

Beside the van, two great-coated police officers were questioning four

men in a black Mercedes that sat idling just ahead of Ochs's Jaguar. As

casually as he could, Benjamin Ochs rolled down his window.

"Step out of the car, Herr Gritzbach," said a large, surly police

sergeant to the driver of the black Mercedes. "And shut off the

engine."

"Certainly, Officer."

KGB Captain Dmitri Rykov smiled and turned the ignition key. The

Mercedes' engine sputtered into silence.

Rykov climbed slowly out of the car, moving as if he had all night to

stand in the cold and chat with his West German comrades. His three

passengers soon joined him.

"Why do you travel at this late hour?" the policeman asked sharply.

Rykov smiled. "Our employer wants us back at a construction site in the

East. Apparently there's some sort of emergency"What was your business

in West Berlin?"

Rykov pointed to his papers. "It's all there on the second page.

We're architects for the firm of Huber and R6hi. We're building a civic

hall near the Muggelsee. We came to West Berlin to consult with some

architects here, and also to study the Philharmonie building.

Magnificent."

"Yes, quite," added Corporal Andrei Ivanov, whose East German assport

identified him as one Gunther Burkhalter.

The policeman grunted. He knew about these men. He had seen the black

Mercedes with their drivers who spoke notquite-perfect German too many

times before. He also knew that their cover stories would check out.

When operating in West Berlin, the KGB carried authentic East German ID

documents supplied by the Stasi. Still, the sergeant was in no mood for

a silky-voiced Russian who,acted as if he expected the West Berlin

police to kowtow to him.

"Open the boot, Herr Gritzbach," he said.

Rykov smiled again and reached into the car for the keys.

Andrei and the others tensed, but their worries were for nothing.

Hidden in the cramped compartment beneath the rear seat of the Mercedes,

Harry Richardson remained unconscious. His hands and feet were boand so

tightly with duct tape that they received almost no blood at all. Even

if he had regained consciousness, he couldn't have moved.

Crammed into every inch of space unoccupied by his body were the oiled

weapons of the KGB team.

"You see?" said Rykov, gesturing into the Mercedes' trunk.

"Nothing but suit bags. Disappointed, Sergeant?"

The burly policeman slammed down the lid and moved back to the side of

the car. He had no legal reason to detain these men, however badly he

might want to. Brusquely he handed the passport and other papers back

to Rykov. "Pass," he said.

Grinning, Rykov slid halfway into the Mercedes and started the engine.

While he waited for his comrades to climb in, he stared at the policeman

through the open door and laughed. I love this, he thought.

The idiot knows, yet he can do noth"Aaarrrgh!" he shrieked.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Herr Gritzbach! I didn't realize!"

The police sergeant had slammed the heavy Mercedes door on Rykov's

exposed leg. "Are you all right, Herr Gritzbach? Should I call a

doktor?"

Rykov's ashen face quivered with rage. "No!" he snarled, rubbing his

leg furiously.

"But your leg might be broken."

Rykov lifted his throbbing leg into the car and slammed the door.

"Very well, then," the policeman said gleefully. "I hope your stay in

West Berlin has been a memorable one."

"I'll remember you," Rykov vowed, his face twisted in pain.

"Depend on that."

The Mercedes screeched away. It stopped perfunctorily at the western

checkpoint, then shot beneath the raised barrier on the East German

side, accelerating all the way. "Just as I thought," the sergeant

muttered. "Precleared." He turned and signaled the next car forward.

Benjamin Ochs swallowed his fear, placed a reassuring hand on his wife's

arm and eased the Jaguar toward the roadblock. The sergeant turned his

back to the bowling wind and lit a cigarette; then he walked back to the

police van. A younger officer stepped up to Ochs's window.

"Guten Abend, Officer," Ochs said, handing over his passport. "Is there

some emergency?"

"I'm afraid so, Herr ... Ochs. We're looking for two fugitives.

I must ask you a few questions. What is the purpose of your visit to

East Berlin?"

"Family emergency. My nephew has been killed. We're on our way to

Braunschweig."

Frau Ochs gave a little sob, then turned away as if she were crying. The

young policeman leaned over and peered in at her, then scrutinized her

husband's papers.

Ochs patted his wife's shoulder. "Now, now, Bernice.

We'll be there soon."

Inside the dark boot, Hans could hear every word distinctly.

"Captain," he whispered. "What do we do if-"

"Shut up," Hauer breathed. "It's all up to the old man now."

"But if they open the boot ... do we fight? Do you still have your

gun?"

"If they open the boot we do nothing. If I pulled out a gun this close

to the Wall, they'd be hosing us off the street in the morning.

The old couple, too. Just be quiet and don't move."

Though every muscle twitched in pain, Hans struggled to remain still. He

tried to ignore the voices outside, but it was impossible.

"He died in an auto accident early this evening," Ochs was saying.

"My brother called me. A horrible thing. Fourcar pileup."

"Why do you exit here?" asked the young officer sharply.

"Braunschweig lies due west."

Ochs tried to think of what Hauer had told him to say, but he hesitated

a second too long.

"Open the trunk, please," the policeman ordered. "You may remain in the

car if you have an automatic release."

With his heart in his throat, Ochs slowly reached for the button.

"Why is this taking so long?" Frau Ochs cried suddenly.

"He's only doing his job, Bernice," Ochs said, his heart pounding.

"The men we're after murdered two policemen,'@ the young man answered

stiffly. "They must be brought to justice." He looked over at the van

and motioned toward the Jaguar's boot.

The surly sergeant who had smashed Rykov's leg walked to the rear of the

Jaguar. He drummed his fingers on the boot lid, waiting for Ochs to

release the catch.

Inside, Hans tensed like a coiled spring. Hauer shoved his Walther deep

into the spare tire receptacle, praying it wouldn't be spotted until

they were safely away from the vehicle. Just as he got the pistol

covered, the catch popped open. The lid rose a little, then the

sergeant flipped it all the way up. Seeing the old blanket, he took

hold of a corner and jerked it aside.

Blinding glare from the checkpoint spotlights struck Hans and Hauer full

in the face, illuminating their twisted bodies.

The big policeman froze. This tiny compartment was the last place he

had expected to find the fugitives. He groped clumsily for his gun.

Squinting into the light, Hauer discerned the outlines of the

policeman's face. "Steiger!" he hissed through gritted teeth.

The policeman gaped in surprise, then leaned low over the trunk.

"Dieter!" he whispered. "What the hell are you doing?"

Hauer shook his head violently.

Sergeant Steiger glanced around the boot lid at his companion, who was

still questioning Ochs. Then he leaned lower and looked into Hauer's

eyes. "Dieter, was it you?" he whispered. "Did you kill Weiss?"

Hauer shook his head still more violently. "Funk, " he spat.

"That bastard ordered it."

Steiger straightened up and glanced over the trunk lid, past his

partner, to the American checkpoint, and then farther on to where the

East German Vopos waited. He made a hard decision very fast. Leaning

back over the boot, he shoved down hard on the car frame with his thighs

and hands, giving the impression of checking for a false bottom.

Then he stood up, glanced once at Hauer, and slammed the lid.

"Nothing here," he called to his partner. "Suitcases."

Steiger sauntered to the police van and picked up his cigarette.

His partner was still questioning Ochs.

"This is highly irregular," the young man said officiously.

What's happening? Ochs thought wildly. Why didn't that policeman jerk

them out of the boot? "My wife is very upset, Officer," he stammered.

"There's an old synagogue in East Berlin-in the Kollwitzstrasse, not far

from here. She was practically raised in that synagogue. Before the

war, of course' "

"You are Jewish?" the policeman asked sharply.

Ochs heard blood roaring in his ears. Memories of his youth flooded

into his mind. Midnight knocks at his door ...

screams for help ignored-"Yes," he answered quietly. "We are Jewish."

The young man smiled and handed back Ochs's papers.

"There is also a very beautiful synagogue in Braunschweig," he said.

"You must see it. I spent my summers there as a boy.

That's why I asked."

Ochs swallowed the lump in his throat. "Thank you. Yes, we've seen it

many times." With a shaking hand he shifted into first gear.

"You have your money ready for the Vopos?" the policeman asked.

"You know you must change twenty-five Deutschemarks as you cross over."

"I've got it, thank you. Right here." The old tailor patted his breast

pocket. He let out the clutch pedal and moved slowly away from the van.

Crushing out his cigarette, Sergeant Steiger stepped away from the

police van and waved to the West German checkpoint guards. They raised

the barrier from inside their booth and let the Jaguar pass unmolested.

Ochs rolled to a stop on the East German side. In the boot, Hans held

his breath and listened for the voices of the Vopos. He heard Ochs

inquire about the exchange rate, complaining a little but not too much.

The wait seemed interminable to Hans, but at last the red-and-white post

lifted and the Jaguar glided slowly past the dragon's teeth, barbed

wire, minefields, and machine gun towers that fortified the eastern side

of the Wall.

"Where are we now?" Hans whispered.

"Swinging south around the city, I hope," Hauer replied.

"Would you mind getting your knee out of my balls?"

Hans squirmed in the darkness. His heart was still racing.

"Why didn't that sergeant arrest us?"

"Steiger and I go back a long way. He was with me on the Baader-Meinhof

case that got me my captain's bars. Stormed a house with me."

"But if there's a warrant for our arrest-"

"He could be arrested too. He knows that. But he also knows Funk and

his kind.

Mealy-mouthed bureaucrats who've never seen the real Berlin, never had

to face down a crazy kid with a gun. Steiger asked me if I killed

Weiss, I said no. That was enough for him."

"How long will it take us to cross the DDR?"

"If we get out of East Berlin, you mean? Depends on the old man.

We're taking the long way around, but it shouldn't take over two hours

to reach the Marienborn-Helmstedt crossing. If we make it, we'll leave

the Ochses at Helmstedt and you can drive us from there."

Hans made an uncertain sound of acknowledgment.

"Don't tell me," Hauer said. "You've never been to this cabin."

"Actually, I haven't. But I'll recognize it when we get there.

I've seen dozens of pictures."

Hauer didn't bother berating Hans; it was difficult to speak for long in

the boot. There didn't seem to be much oxygen.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

11:15 Pm. PolizOi Abschniff 53.- West Berlin Funk set the phone back in

its cradle and reached for the bottle of soda water on his desk. His

hand quivered as he poured.

"I gather Pretoria was not amused?" Luhr said softly.

Funk swallowed a huge gulp of soda. "Outraged," he gargled.

"Said we were a disgrace to the German people."

"Was it Phoenix himself.?"

"Are you joking? His aide or security chief or whatever that diabolical

Afrikaner calls himself"

"I believe Herr Smuts is half-German, Prefect."

"And how would you know that?"

"That one time he came here in person, to our plenary meeting.

One of his men told me that he was such an efficient security chief

because he'd got the toughest qualities of both races from his parents.

"The worst qualities, if you ask me," Funk complained.

"The man doesn't have much tact."

"I don't think tact is a major asset in his business," Luhr said dryly,

hoping he didn't sound too sarcastic. For the time being Funk was still

his superior in both the police and Phoenix's hierarchies.

And until that changed ...

A brisk knock at the door startled Luhr.

"Komm!" Funk barked.

An impeccably uniformed patrolman marched into the office and saluted.

"There's been a murder, Prefect," he announced. "Near the Tiergarten."

Funk looked unimpressed. "So?"

"The murdered man, sir. He was an East German trade liaison.

He'd lived here just four years. And the way he was killed, sir. Shot

in the head at close range by a Makarov pistol.

The gun was in his own hand like a suicide, but@' "A Makarov?"

Luhr interrupted.

"Yes, but there were other shots fired at the scene. A burst of

automatic-weapons fire."

"What? What was the victim's name?"

"Klaus Seeckt, Herr Oberleutnant."

"Who do we have on the scene?" Funk interjected.

"A Kripo homicide team, sir. But they're from the Tiergarten district.

The photographer's ours, but he didn't get a chance to call until just

now."

"Leave us," Funk ordered.

The officer clicked his boot heels together and marched out.

"What do you make of this?" Funk asked anxiously.

Luhr looked thoughtful. "I don't know, but I'd better get over there.

We can't let anything slip until we run Hauer down. I don't like any of

this. First the Russians barge in here like an invasion force, then

Hauer betrays us, then I find Steuben taping our calls at

the-switchboard. And now some East German is murdered with a

Russian-made pistol?

What did Apfel find at Spandau?"

Funk frowned worriedly. "If the Russian forensic people are right, some

type of paper. A journal, perhaps? Whatever it is, Jiirgen, Phoenix

isn't amused. Do you think Steuben could be part of an official

investigation? One I don't know about? Something Hauer initiated,

perhaps?"

Luhr shook his head. "Steuben was working with Hauer, but I don't think

it went any farther up than that. We'd have been warned if it did. As

soon as I get back, I'll make the bastard own up to the whole thing.

Don't worry, we're going to bag Hauer, send Phoenix his papers, and end

up better off than we were before."

"You're probably right," Funk said wearily. He stood.

"I'll be at home if you find anything I should know about."

Luhr pulled on his coat and strode into the hall, smiling confidently

until he closed the door. You bumbling fool, he thought.

All you care about is collecting your filthy drug percentages and

keeping your mistress happy. Luhr felt a thrill of secret satisfaction.

As soon as he had learned of Hauer's treason and escape, he had

dispatched some of Phoenix's deadliest assets to every possible place

Hauer or Apfel might go to ground-from the apartment of a woman that

Hauer spent his weekends with, to a remote cabin on the Mittelland Canal

near the East German border. And as soon as one of Phoenix's killers

recovered the Spandau papers, Luhr would step forward and take the

credit. By tomorrow morning, he thought, I'll have enough to break that

fool with Phoenix, and then Berlin-One will pass to me. To a true

German!

He shoved open the main station door and hulled through the crowd of

reporters. Ignoring all questions, he climbed into an unmarked Audi and

slammed the door in a journalist's face. "Those South Africans had

better be good," he 1

muttered, as he rewed the cold engine. "Because Dieter Hauer isn't

going to die easily."

Ten minutes after Luhr pulled away from the curb, Ilse Apfel trudged

through the huge doors of Abschnitt 53 and presented herself to the desk

sergeant. Like the reporters outside, he mistook her for a prostitute

and so ignored her for as long as he could. While she waited for him to

finish a telephone conversation, Ilse tried to wipe off the remainder of

Eva's garish makeup with a tissue.

She did not feel comfortable coming into the station, but her choices

were limited: she could talk either to Hans's superiors or to the men in

the black BMWS. Twice during her journey here she had spotted the big

sedans combing the streets for her, but she'd managed to evade them. At

an allnight U-Bahn cafe she had changed some of Eva's paper

Deutschemarks for coins, which she used to phone the Wolfsburg cabin.

She had tried every ten minutes for an hour, but her grandfather never

answered. The proprietor had started to frown after her third cup of

coffee, and Ilse decided to get out before he called someone to remove

her.

"What can I do for you, Friiulein?"

The sergeant's booming voice startled Ilse, but she stepped up to his

high desk and spoke in her clearest voice.

"I'm looking for my husband, Sergeant Hans Apfel. Earlier tonight

someone told me that he had come here and gone, but I think he may have

returned. Could you check for me, please?"

The sergeant's demeanor changed instantly. He jumped from his chair and

escorted Ilse to an unoccupied desk.

"Frau Apfel, I'm terribly sorry I kept you waiting! Please sit down. I

know your husband personally, Let me call upstairs.

I'm sure someone will know where he is."

For the first time since seeing the Spandau papers@ver six hours

ago-Ilse began to relax. She watched the desk sergeant at the

telephone, drumming his fingers as he waited to speak to someone. He

smiled back. Hans has probably straightened everything out already, she

told herself.

"But he can't be gone," the sergeant insisted quietly.

"He-" The sergeant fell silent as Wilhelm Funk emerged from a first

floor office. He dropped the phone so loudly that Funk looked his way.

"What is it, Ross?" Funk barked. "I'm in a hurry."

The desk sergeant cut his eyes toward Ilse, then crossed the room and

interposed Funk's corpulent body between Ilse and himself.

"Prefect," he whispered, "the woman sitting behind you is Sergeant

Apfel's wife. She's come here to find him."

Funk's mouth fell open. It took all his willpower not to whirl and

snatch the woman up by her hair. "Go back to your desk," he whispered.

The sergeant obeyed without a word.

Funk glanced at his watch, gauging Luhr's probable time of return.

Then he summoned his warmest smile, turned, and extended his plump hand.

"Frau Apfel? I am Wilhelm Funk, prefect of police. I believe your

husband was on the Spandau Prison security detail?"

Thrown off-balance by Funk's lofty rank and his apparent knowledge of

her plight, Ilse stood and put her small hand into his pink paw.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, Hans was at Spandau. Have you seen him

tonight?"

Funk's smile broadened. "I have indeed. I questioned him earlier this

evening. In fact, I've been trying to locate him ever since.

Just after Hans left the station, I remembered something I neglected to

ask him. Simply a formality, of course, but I try to keep everything

proper. You understand.

Every thing in its place, every paper signed and all that."

"You're looking for Hans now?"

"Yes, my dear. When Sergeant Ross told me who you were, I hoped you

might be able to help us find him. But I see that you're as perplexed

as we are. Please, let me escort you upstairs. I have a temporary

office there. I'll have coffee sent up and perhaps together we can

deduce where your husband has gone."

This is too much to ask! Funk thought gleefully as he whisked Ilse up

the stairs. The instrument of my deliverance walks straight through my

front door! With a lecherous look at Ilse's backside, he closed his

office door and seated her before his desk. "Frau Apfel, I wanted to

get you in private before I spoke frankly about this. May I speak

frankly to you?"

In spite of her fatigue, Ilse's adrenaline began to course again.

Facing the supreme police officer of West Berlin was a little unnerving.

"About Hans?" she asked warily.

Funk paused, appraising the woman before him. What did she know?

And more importantly, what did she suspect? Remembering his unpleasant

call to Pretoria, Funk decided to gamble. "My dear, I'm afraid our Hans

may be in some trouble."

"What do you mean?" she asked quickly. "What kind of trouble?"

"When we questioned the officers from the Spandau patrol this evening,

we conducted the proceedings with the aid of a polygraph. You know, a

lie detector?"

"I know what they are. You have to pass a polygraph test to work at my

company."

"Ah. You're a career woman, then?"

"Yes-please, just tell me what's going on. Why did you use a

polygraph?"

Funk smiled condescendingly. "This is a complex matter, my dear.

There are ... other parties involved." Funk lowered his voice.

"The Russians, for instance. They were present at this polygraph

session.

I'm afraid all of our men passed this examination except your husband

and a young officer named Erhard Weiss."

"I know Erhard."

Funk thrust out his lower lip. "I see." He glanced at his watch; Luhr

might return any minute. "Naturally," he said in a confiding tone, "I

instructed our @lygraph operator to make no sign if any of our men

failed. We even took the precaution of preparing clean reports from

several men before the interrogation began. Glasnost may be the flavor

of the month, but we can't have a pack of Russians barging in here and

demanding access to German officers. I'm sure you understand."

Ilse nodded uncertainly.

Funk took a deep breath. Now for the gamble. "As soon as we'd cleared

the Russians out, I questioned Weiss ai your husband alone. Weiss had

nothing to tell. I believe simple nervousness caused him to fail the

test. But Hans"Funk paused-"Hans told me that he had discovered

something at Spandau, just as the Russians claimed. He said that he had

removed it to a safe place."

Ilse buried her face in her hands. The insane events of this night had

become too much to bear. If she had been less tired, perhaps, she might

have been more suspicious. But the prefect seemed to know everything

already, and he wanted to help her find Hans.

Raising her head, she looked Funk in the eye and posed a single test

question.

"What did Hans tell you he found?" she asked, her redrimmed eyes lock@d

on his bluff face.

Funk didn't hesitate. He assumed the Soviet forensic people knew their

business. "Why, papers, my dear," he said nonchalantly. "When Hans

left the station, he assured me he was going to retrieve them, but as

you can see"-Funk flicked his palms toward the ceiling-"he has yet to

return."

Ilse stifled a sob. It was no use, she had to trust someone.

c e. "A . e Try as she might to control herself, the tears am re the

Russians looking for Hans too?" she asked. "For the papers?"

Gott im Himmel! Funk felt his heart thud in triumph. It was papers!

"I'm not sure," he replied, trying to hold his voice steady.

"It's possible. Why do you ask?"

"Because they came to my apartment!" she blurted. "They were looking

for Hans, I know it! I almost didn't get away!"

My God, I've done it! Funk thought wildly. I have her!

Rising to his feet, he hurried around the desk and sat beside Ilse. Like

a concerned father he clasped both her hands in his and patted them

reassuringly.

"Now, now, child," he consoled her. "We'll find Hans, don't worry. We

have thousands of men at our disposal. Just calm down and tell me

everything. Everything from the very beginning."

Ilse did.

12.01 A.M. British Sector.' West Berlin

By the time Jiirgen Luhr arrived at the murder scene, the forensic team

had repacked its equipment and stacked it beside the front door.

A uniformed patrolman guarded the door against any prowling pressmen who

might arrive. Chainsmoking technicians rubbed the sleep from their eyes

and cursed the man who had the nerve to be killed in the middle of the

night. The man of the hour lay wrapped in the polyurethane bag that

would be his sole vestment until someone came forward to claim him. For

it was murder-anyone could see that. The attempt to disguise the

shooting as a suicide had been clumsy at best, everyone agreed. Or

almost everyone. Detective Schneider hadn't said anything yet.

Naturally.

Luhr approached a thin man who sat on a sofa, fiddling with a camera.

"Who's in charge here?" he asked in a clipped tone.

"Detective Schneider," said the man without looking up from his camera.

"He's in the back."

"I'm Lieutenant Luhr. The prefect sent me to inquire into this matter."

Funk's title brought the photographer to his feet. "It's about time you

got here," he whispered.

"Who is the dead man?" Luhr asked.

"His passport says Klaus Seeckt."

"Occupation?"

"He worked in some kind of liaison capacity for the West Berlin

government-something to do with trade. From the looks of this place, he

didn't do much but cash his checks and stay around the house.

There's a three-quarter-inch video camera in the back bedroom. I'll bet

this guy made some interesting movies back there-"

"Who discovered the body?" Luhr broke in, annoyed by the photographer's

prurient speculation.

"A patrolman. He's gone already, though. An old couple next door heard

the shooting and called it in. They didn't see anything."

"They never do, do they?" said Liihr, trying to foster some comradely

spirit. "Have you found anything significant?"

Flattered to be asked his opinion, the photographer drew himself to his

full height. "Well, it's pretty clear this was no suicide. At least to

me. We dug eight slugs out of the front wall. They came from some kind

of automatic weapon.

Fresh prints everywhere, too. At least three people besides the victim

were here tonight. We can't know exactly what happened, of course, but

I don't see this fellow deciding to commit suicide just because someone

broke into his house.

I think he surprised a gang of thieves-pros-and they killed him with his

own gun. Then they panicked, put the gun in his hand, and ran."

"Any sign of forced entry?"

"No. Like I said, pros."

Luhr cracked a knuckle joint. "Yes, that's what you said.

What type of bullets were fired from the automatic weapon?"

"7.65 millimeter, brand unknown. Didn't find any shell casings."

Luhr smiled skeptically. "Let's summarize your theory, shall we?

Your 'burglars' break in without leaving a trace.

When the owner surprises them, they panic and kill himleaving

fingerprints everywhere-yet in their panic they stop to hunt down eight

shell casings ejected from an automatic weapon fired in the heat of the

moment. Rather contradictory actions, wouldn't you say?"

The photographer frowned and rubbed his chin. "I don't know.

They make those attachments now that fit right onto your weapon.

They catch every shell you can pump out."

"A bit exotic for housebreakers, don't you think?" Luhr glanced around

the room. "Anything else?"

"Well, there was, in fact. Detective Schneider found a card outside. In

the snow near the walkway. It didn't have anything on it but a number.

A telephone number."

Luhr's eyes narrowed. "Where is this card now?"

"I don't know. If it's still here, Schneider would have it.

He's in the back."

As Luhr stepped down onto the small stone terrasse, a bearish man

wearing a hat and a rumpled raincoat waded into the pool of yellow light

thrown off by a dim spotlight above the glass doors. The man stopped

when he saw Luhr, taking in the silver lieutenant's bars, st@ched-flat

uniform, and gleaming boots.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked warily.

"Detective Schneider, I presume?"

The big man nodded.

'I am here as the unofficial representative of the prefect.

He has expressed an interest in this case As the murdered man apparently

has some tie to the East German government, the prefect fears that there

might be ... repercussions.

You understand?"

Detective Schneider waited for the lieutenant to ask what he had come

outside to ask. He didn't like the way Luhr's arrogant little mouth

softened his classic Nordic face. Or the eyes, he thought.

Rapist's eyes.

"The photographer tells me that you discovered a card on the premises. A

card with only a telephone number. Where is this card now?"

"I didn't actually find it," Schneider said, slipping his right hand

into his trouser pocket. "Patrolman Ebert did."

Schneider fingered the white card and watched Luhr's face.

"I'm not sure where it is now. I had it, but I think Officer Beck asked

me for it. He's still here, I believe."

"What have you got in your pocket?" Luhr asked sharply.

Schneider slowly withdrew his hand. He held the brass gorget plate and

chain that identified him as a Kripo detective.

With a hiss of frustration Luhr went in search of Officer Beck.

As soon as he disappeared, Schneider pulled a ballpoint pen from his

shirt pocket and copied the number from the card onto the palm of his

hand. Then he followed Luhr into the house.

"Lieutenant?" he called. "Herr Lieutenant!"

Luhr barrelled back through the front door, his face flushed with anger.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant." Schneider shook his head as if he were a fool

and knew it. "That card was in my coat pocket all the time. I could

have sworn I gave it to Beck. Here you are."

Luhr snatched the card. "Officer Beck says he never asked you for the

card!"

Schneider continued shaking his head. "Must have been somebody else. I

tell you, past midnight and my mind just goes."

"I suggest, Detective," Luhr said acidly, "that you either get more

sleep or look for a new line of work. Have you had anyone trace this

number yet?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

"I'll handle it, then."

While Luhr stalked out to his unmarked Audi, Schneider stood in the

foyer and scratched his large head. Something had felt wrong about this

case from the moment he walked in the door. While everyone else had

gone on about the sloppiness of the murder, Schneider had kept silent.

Twenty minutes later the nameless card had turned up. And now this

Nazi-looking lieutenant had appeared-the prefect's aide, no less-to

spirit that card away.

Schneider couldn't remember ever having seen Luhr at a crime scene

before. That bothered him. He hurried past the few technicians left

outside the house and climbed into his battered Opel Kadett.

"Telephone," he murmured as he cranked the old car.

Jiirgen Luhr had beat him to it. As Schneider rounded the corner of

Levetzow and Bachstrasse, he spied the prefect's aide standing at a

corner call box. Schneider slowed, then drove on, maddeningly shut out

of the conversation passing through the wires just over his head.

"Frau Funk?" Luhr asked, when a woman answered. "I'm sorry to disturb

you so late. This is Jijrgen Luhr. Could I speak with the prefect,

please? ... But he was leaving the station-" Luhr broke the connection

and punched in the number of Abschnitt 53. "Berlin-Two," he snapped.

"The prefect, immediately."

A full minute passed before Funk came on the line, his voice smug and

unruffled in contrast to, its earlier panic.

"Yes, Jiirgen?"

"I've found something odd at the Tiergarten house. A card with nothing

but a phone number on it. We should trace it immediately. The crime

looked very suspicious. Evidence of automatic weapons fire, conflicting

signs of amateurishness and professionalism. I think our brothers in

uniform may have, been there."

"How interesting," said Funk. "Why don't you come back to the station

and we'll discuss your theory."

"What's the matter? Is someone with you?"

A pause. "There was someone here, Jijrgen. Sergeant Ross just took her

downstairs to her new accommodations."

"Her? Who are you talking aboutt' "The wife of one of our 'brothers in

uniform,' as you put it. A Frau Ilse Apfel. She walked into the

station just after you left. She had a most interesting story to tell."

"What? The sergeant's wife?"

"That's right. I understand the situation much better after talking to

her. I suggest you get back here, Jiirgen, if you want to be in on this

at all. I've already spoken to Pretoria.

I received some very interesting orders, and they involve YOU."

Luhr left the receiver dangling from the call box and dashed to his car.

He squealed down the Bachstrasse in a rage. "Damn that imbecile! How

could he be so lucky?" He screeched around a curve.

"It's all right," he assured himself, calming a little. "He hasn't

found Hauer or Apfel yet.

Or the Spandau papers. And that's what Phoenix wantswhat he's

frightened of. And that distinction will be mine."

In his fury, Luhr failed to notice the burly figure of Detective Julius

Schneider standing at a yellow call box four blocks from the one he had

used to place his own call. Unlike Luhr, Schneider wasn't about to try

to trace the mysterious phone number through normal channels.

An inquiry in his own name might draw unpleasant attention, possibly

even the prefect's, and Schneider didn't need that. Besides, he had

always believed in taking the shortest route between two points.

Reading the telephone number off the palm of his hand, he lifted the

receiver and punched in the digits. He heard five rings, then a click

followed by the familiar hiss and crackle of an automated answering

machine.

"This is Harry Richardson," said a metallic voice. "I'm out.

Friends can leave a message at the tone. If you're a salesperson, don't

call back. If it's a military matter, call my office. The previous

message will be repeated in German.

Thank you."

Schneider waited until the German version of the message had finished,

then hung up. His pulse, normally as steady as a hibernating bear's,

was racing. Schneider knew who Harry Richardson was. He'd even met him

once. American intelligence officers who took the time to cultivate

investigators of the Kriminalpolizei were rare enough to remember.

Schneider doubted if Richardson would remember him, but that didn't

matter. What mattered was that an American army officer was somehow

involved in what was fast shaping up to be an explosive murder case.

Schneider took several deep breaths and forced himself to think slowly.

He'd found Richardson's card outside the victim's house, but there had

been blood all around it. What did that mean? And what should he do?

He thought of the prefect's insolent aide, and the overly officious

manner that in Schneider's experience spelled coverup.

With sudden insight Schneider realized that he now stood at one of those

crossroads that can change a man's life forever.

He could get into his car and go home to his wife and his warm bed-a

course of action almost any sane German would choose-or he could make

the call that he suspected would pluck him from his old life like the

wind sweeps a seed from the ground.

"God," he murmured. "Godfrey Rose."

Schneider jumped into his car and fired the engine. Thirty minutes ago

he had been mildly intrigued by the night's events. Now his mind ran

wild with speculation, electrified by the smell of the kind of chase he

had become a detective for in the first place.

Squealing away from the curb, he made an illegal U-turn and headed east

on the Budapester Strasse, making for the Tiergarten station. He hoped

his English was up to the task.

CHAPTER TWELVE

12.'30 A.M. Veipke, FRG. Near the East German Border Professor

Natterman swung the rattling Audi back toward the frontier and pushed

the old sedan to 130 kilometers per hour. Now that the end of his

harrowing journey approached, he could not keep from rushing. The speed

was exhilarating; the protesting whine of the tires as he leaned the car

into the curves kept his fatigued mind alert. Thank God for old

friends, he thought. A boyhood churn had come through for him tonight,

providing the Audi with no questions asked.

Thankfully, the mysterious Englishman who had "accidentally" stumbled

into his compartment had disappeared.

Natterman hadn't seen him again on the train, nor at Helmstedt when the

few passengers disembarked. A few times during the last hour he had

caught sight of headlights in the blackness far behind him, but they

came and went so frequently that he wrote them off to nervousness.

As the Audi jounced over the railroad linking Gardelegan to Wolfsburg,

the professor spied the eerie, never-dimming glow of the sprawling

factory city to the west. The sight startled him still.

When he was a boy, Wolfsburg had been a tiny village of less than a

hundred, its few houses scattered hodgepodge around the old feudal

castle. But when the Volkswagen works came there in 1938, the village

had been transformed almost OVERNIGHT into an industrial metropolis.

He could scarcely believe his father's tiny cabin still remained in the

quiet forest northeast of the city.

It had been eleven months since he last visited the cabin, but he knew

that Karl Riemeck, a local laborer and old family retainer, would have

both the grounds and the house in fine shape. The thought of spending

some time in the old place had almost blotted out the wild theories

whirling through Natterman's weary brain. Almost. As he roared down

the narrow road cut through the deep forest, visions of notorious and

celebrated faces from the past flickered in his mind like pitted

newsreels. Hitler and Churchill ... the Duke of Windsor ... Stalin ...

Joseph P Kennedy, the American ambassador to wartorn Britain, a Nazi

appeaser and father of a future U. S. President. . . Lord Halifax, the

nerveless British foreign secretary and secret foe of Churchill ...

Those smiling faces now seemed to conceal uncharted worlds of deception,

worlds waiting to be mapped by an intrepid explorer. The thrill of

impending discovery coursed through the old historian's veins like a

powerful narcotic, infusing him with youthful vigor.

He eased off the gas as he crossed the Mittelland Canal bridge.

Again he had arrived at the impenetrable core of the mystery: what were

the British hiding? If Hess's double had flown to Britain to play a

diversionary role, what was he diverting attentionfrom? Why had the

real Hess flown to Britain? To meet Englishmen, of course, his mind

answered. But which Englishmen? With a pang of professional jealousy

Natterman thought of the Oxford historians who were documenting the

pro-Nazi sympathies of over thirty members of the wartime British

Parliament whom they believed had known about Hess's flight beforehand.

The gossip in academic circles was that the Oxford men believed these

MPs were Nazi appeasers, enemies of Churchill whom Hess had flown

secretly to Britain to meet. Natterman wasn't so sure.

He had no doubt that an apparently pro-Hitler clique of upper-class

Englishmen existed in 1941. The real question was, did those men really

intend to betray their country by forging an unholy alliance with Adolf

Hitler? Or was there a deeper, more noble motive for their behavior?

The answer to this lay in Hitler's war plans. The Fuhrer's ultimate

goal had always been the conquest of Russia-the acquisition of

Lebensraum for the German people-which made him very popular with

certain elements of British society. For despite being at war with

Germany, many Englishmen saw the Nazi state as an ideal buffer against

the spread of communism. Similarly, the Fuhrer had visions of Germany

and England united in an Aryan front against communist Russia. Hitler

had never really believed that the English would fight him. Yet when

Winston Churchill refused to accept the inevitable surrender to and

alliance with Germany, the Fuhrer got angry.

And there, Natterman believed, lay the basis of Rudolf Hess's mission.

Hitler had assigned himself a very strict timetable for Barbarossa-his

invasion of the Soviet Union.

He believed that if he did not invade Russia by 1941, Stalin's Red Army

would gain an overwhelming superiority over him in men and materiel.

That meant that to be successful, his invasion armies had to jump off

eastward by May of 1941 at the latest, before the snows melted and made

the effective use of tanks impossible. And the British, Natterman

remembered, had known this. An RAF group captain named F. W.

Winterbotham had worked it out in 1938. And this knowledge@orrectly

exploited@ould have given the British a peculiar kind of advantage.

For the longer they could fool Hitler into believing they wanted a

negotiated peace, the longer they could stave off an invasion of

Britain. And the nearer would draw the date when Hitler would have to

redeploy the bulk of his armies eastward. If Hitler could be fooled

long enough, England would be spared.

But had those "pro-Nazi" Englishmen understood that in 1941?

Natten-nan wondered. Were they altruistic patriots who had lured Rudolf

Hess to Britain on a fool's errand, and thus saved their homeland from

the Nazis? Or were they traitors who had decided Adolf Hitler was a man

they could deal with-a bit of a boor, perhaps, but with sound policies

vis-A-vis the communists and Jews? The answer seemed simple enough: If

a group of powerful Englishmen had merely pretended to treat with Hitler

in order to save Britain, they would be heroes and would require no

protection from public scrutiny, especially fifty years after the fact.

However, the well-documented efforts of the British government to

suppress the details of the Hess case tended to reinforce the opposite

theory: that those Englishmen really had been admirers of Hitler and

fascism.

The variable that confused this logic was a human wild card-Edward VIII,

Duke of Windsor, former Prince of Wales and abdicated King of England.

The duke's proGerman sympathies and contact with the Nazis-both before

and during the war-were documented and very embarrassing facts' At the

very least Windsor had made a fool of himself by visiting Hitler and all

the top Nazis in Germany, then trumpeting the Fuhrer's "achievements" to

a shocked world.

At worst he had committed treason against the country he was born to

rule. After his stormy abdication, the duke, living in neutral Spain,

had pined away for the throne he had so lightly abandoned.

Startling evidence unearthed in 1983

indicated that in July of 1940 Windsor had slipped secretly into neutral

Lisbon to meet a top Nazi, where they explored the option of Windsor's

return to the English throne. And that, Natterman thought excitedly,

was the core of it all! Because according to British historian Peter

Allen, the Nazi whom Windsor had sneaked into Portugal to meet had been

none other than Rudolf Hess!

Natterman gripped the wheel tighter. A clear picture had begun to

emerge from the blurred background of speculation. He could see it now:

while Hitler's "British sympathizers" may have been feigning sympathy

for the Nazis in order to save England, the Duke of Windsor most

definitely was not. And if Windsor had committed treason@r even come

close-that was the kind of royal "peccadillo" that the British secret

service would be forced to conceal, suppressing the entire Hess story,

the heroism as well as the treason.

Natterman felt his heart thump. A fourth and stunning possibility had

just occurred to him. What if the British "traitors" really were

pro-Nazi, but had been allowed to pursue their treachery by an even more

devious British Intelligence? That way the Nazis could not possibly

have picked up on any deception, because the conspirators themselves

would not have been aware that they were part of one!

Natterman's mind reeled at the implications. He tried to focus on that

uncertain time-the spring of 1941-but his memories seemed foggy, misted

at the edges somehow. His brain contained so many fragments of history

that he was no longer sure what he had merely read about and what he had

actually lived through. He had lived through so much.

More books, he thought. That's what I need now. Documentation.

I'll have Ilse stop at the university library on her way here.

I'll make a list as soon as I get to the house.

Churchill's memoirs, Speer's book, copies of Reich documents, a sample

of Hess's handwriting ... I'll need all that for even a preliminary

study of the document. And eventually the ink, the paper

itselfNatterman hit the brakes, bringing the Audi to a sliding stop.

He had reached the cabin. He turned slowly onto the narrow, snow-packed

lane that wound through the forest to the cabin. When the familiar

flicker of a lantern appeared in the darkness ahead, he smiled and

watched it wink in and out of sight as he negotiated the last few

curves.

As he pulled the car into the small turnaround beside the cabin, he

decided to invite Karl Riemeck up for a schnapps tomorrow. The old

caretaker had obviously taken the trouble to drive out here and light a

lamp for him, and Natterman suspected he would also find a good supply

of firewood laid by for his convenience. Deciding to retrieve his

suitcase later, he halted his heavy book satchel over his shoulder and

climbed out of the Audi- The cold practically pushed him up onto the

cabin porch, where he found a week's supply of oak logs stacked on a low

iron rack.

"Thank you, Karl," he murmured; "This is no night for old men like us to

go without heat." On impulse he tried the knob; the door swung open

soundlessly. "You think of everything, old friend," he said, shivering.

"I come to the door with a burden, and must I search for my key? No.

All, is prepared for me."

Switching on the electric lights-which the cabin had done without until

1982-he saw that the main room looked just as it always had. Not too

small, but cozy, lived in.

Natterman's father had liked it that way. No false opulence, just rough

comfort in the old ways. Built of birch and native oak, the cabin felt

more solid today than it had when Natterman was a boy. He tossed his

satchel on a worn leather chair and walked back out to the porch.

Adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he stared out through the& forest,

up the dark access road, searching for the glimmer of headlights, but he

saw none.

He gathered as much wood as he could hold, carried it into the cabin,

and stacked it carefully in the rack beside the fireplace. Then he

placed two well-split logs on the cast-iron rack, dropped to his knees,

and began to build a small pyramid of twigs beneath them, just as his

father had taught him to do six decades before. Though his brain still

simmered in anticipation of uninterrupted study of the Spandau papers,

the familiar ritual calmed him.

When his pyramid stood ready to be lit, he searched the hearth for

matches, but found none. Rising with a groan, he padded over to the

woodstove that occupied an entire alcove in the rear of the front room.

Along with a walk-in pantry, this antique constituted the cabin's

kitchen. Here also the professor had no luck. Muttering quietly, he

recrossed room and opened the bedroom door.

When he saw what lay beyond, his chest muscles contracted with a force

he thought would burst his heart. On the bed directly before him, bound

to the brass bedframe with a thick leather belt, Karl Riemeck stared

sightlessly ahead, his face contorted in a mask of rage,

incomprehension, and pain.

A huge freshly clotted stain of blood blossomed on the caretaker's chest

like an obscene flower.

Natterman became as a child. His bowels boiled; urine dribbled into his

trousers. He desperately wanted to run, but he had no idea where safety

lay. He whirled back toward the main room. Empty and pristine as a

magazine photograph.

Unable to focus on Karl, he stumbled to the front door and locked it.

"My God, my God, my God," he muttered, bending over and putting his

hands on his knees. "My God!" His chant was a mantra. An incantation.

A way to begin thinking. A way back to reality.

Forcing down the wave of bile that struggled to erupt from his throat,

the old professor stood erect and strode back into the bedroom to see if

he could do anything for his friend. He ignored the gore that matted

the shirt, and placed his hand directly over Karl's heart.

Still. Natterman had expected nothing. He knew death when he saw it.

Perhaps it was the shock of Karl's death that dulled Natterman's

instincts, blinding him to further danger. Perhaps it was fatigue.

But when the cold hand reached from beneath the bed and locked itself

around his spindly ankle, he froze. He opened his mouth to scream, but

no sound came. Again his brain shut itself off against reality. The

iron claw jerked his feet from under him; he crashed to the floor like a

sack of kindling, certain that his hip was broken.

Moaning in pain and terror, he tried to crawl toward the doorway, but

strong arms caught his shoulders and spun him onto his back. When his

eyes focused, a flashing silver blade filled almost his entire field of

vision. Beyond it he saw only a mane of blond hair. He tried to

breathe, but an anvil seemed to have settled on his chest. When the

pressure eased slightly, then moved higher, he realized the anvil was a

man's knee.

"You have something I want, old man!"

The words were quick and angry, the voice flint against stone.

The knee pressed down so hard into Natterman's chest that he could not

have spoken if he wanted to.

"Answer me!" the man screamed.

That's not a British accent, Natterman thought with relief, his mind on

the safety of the Spandau papers. Thank God!

It's only a robber-a rvbber who has killed Karl. The professor's brain

raced through its knowledge of languages, trying to place the unfamiliar

accent, but to no avail. Dutch maybe?

The blond man flicked the blade back and forth in a lethal dance, then

inserted the point deep into Natterman's left nostril.

"Don't be stubborn like your friend, old man. It cost him -what little

life he had left. Now, talk."

The pressure eased a little. "Take whatever you want!"

Natterman rasped. "My God, poor Karl-"

"Pool Karl? You idiot!

You know what I want! Speak!

Where is it!"

For another moment Nattennan's mind resisted, then he knew. As

impossible as it seemed, this murderer knew his secret. He knew about

the Spandau papers, and he had managed to beat Natterman here-to his

father's house-to steal them!

"Oh God," Natterman whispered. "Oh no."

"No?" the blond man sneered.

"But I don't know what-"

"Liar!" In a rage the killer jerked his knife up and outward, severing

the old man's left nostril in a spray of blood.

Tears filled Natterman's eyes, temporarily blinding him. A warm rush of

blood flooded over his lips and chin. He coughed and gurgled,

struggling for air.

"Listen, you Jew maggot! You're nothing to me!" The killer put his

lips to Natterman's ear and lowered his voice to a deadly whisper.

"If you don't signal your agreement to cooperate in five seconds, I'm

going to' sever your carotid artery. Do you understand? That's the

pipeline to your addled brain."

To validate his threat the killer jabbed the point of his knife into the

soft skin beneath Natterman's left ear. Choking horribly on his own

blood, Natterman tried to nod.

"You'll show me where it's hidden?"

Natterman nodded again, spitting up frothy red foam.

The killer hauled him to his feet as easily as he would a dead branch.

He took out a white handkerchief and thrust it toward the professor's

streaming wound. "Direct pressure," he muttered.

Natterman nodded, stanching the flow, surprised at even this small

gesture of humanity. The man before him looked scarcely thirty. The

long mane of blond hair gave him a starving-student look that the

professor knew well. A handsome face lit by zealot's eyes.

"Now," the killer said softly, "show it to me."

Natterman turned back to the bed where Karl's body lay.

He began to sob as the enormity of what had happened struck him.

"For God's sake, old man, don't fall apart on me! Your friend stuck

himself into this business and wouldn't clear off. He forced me.

Come into the other room."

Like a drone Natterman followed the killer into the front room.

With his face partially masked by the bloody handkerchief, he tried

frantically to think of a way out of his predicament. Chess, he thought

suddenly. It's just like a game of chess. But played to the death.

"Don't think, you idiot! Show me where it is! Now!"

The blond killer stood two meters from Natterman, but when he thrust the

knife forward he halved the distance with fearful effect.

Natterman dropped the blood-soaked handkerchief on the floor and began

to fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

"What are you doing, fool!"

"It's taped to my back," Natterman explained.

For a moment the man looked confused; then his face resumed its tight

grimace. "Well, then," he said uncertainly, "be quick about it."

My God, thought Natterman, he doesn't know what he's looking for He was

sent ... by someone else. Who? How did they connect me with Hans and

the papers? Shaking with terror, the professor stripped the

foil-wrapped bundle from his back. He felt as if three layers of skin

had come up with the tape. I must survive, he told himself Survive to

learn the truth. I must distract him...

"Now," said the killer, "walk forward slowly and hand it to me."

Natterman tossed the taped bundle across the room. It landed on the

floor and slid partially under a heavy cabinet that stood in the corner.

"You cracked bastard! Pick it up and bring it here!"

Natterman hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked to the cabinet,

bent over, retrieved the bundle. Just like chess, he thought.

I move-he moves.

"Hand it to me."

Natterman extended the packet, watching curiously as several drops of

blood fell from his nose onto his twitching biceps. I must be in shock,

he realized. I'm watching someone else...

Keeping his eyes on Natterman, the killer stripped the tape from the

foil that the professor had used to protect the papers.

"Carefully," Natterman pleaded. "They're very delicate."

"Is this all there is?"

Natterman shrugged. "That's it."

"Is this all, you filthy Yid?" The killer shook the papers in the air.

Afrikaans, blurted a voice in Natten-nan's brain. The accent is

Afrikaner But ... why does the animal think I'm Jewish? "I swear that's

all there is," he said. "Please be careful. That's a very important

document." As Natterman spoke, he let his eyes wander toward his book

satchel. It lay exactly where he had tossed it when he came in-on the

leather chair by the door. He stared for a moment, then looked quickly

back at the intruder.

"Again you lie!" the Afrikaner cried. "If I find something else in

that bag, old man, you're dead."

Natterman stood by the corner cabinet. Silently he willed the killer

toward the satchel. Toward the chair. Holding his knife out in front

of him, the Afrikaner backed slowly toward the satchel. Just a little

_further, Natterman thought, a little further ...

The killer averted his eyes as he reached for the satchelNow!

Natterman groped in the space between the cabinet and the wall and

closed his hand aroufid the big Mannlicher shotgun that had stood there

for over sixty years. The shotgun his father had always kept out of the

way, yet within easy reach if a deer wandered into the clearing or

poachers encroached on his land. The professor cocked both hammers as

he brought the weapon up, and fired the moment the barrels cleared the

back of the couch.

The killer dived for cover behind the leather chair, but not quickly

enough. Twenty-four pellets of double-aught buck shot tore through his

right shoulder, leaving his upper arm a mass of pulp and bone that hung

from his torso by sinew alone. The bloody knife that had butchered Karl

Riemeck clattered to the floor, its owner blown out of sight behind the

chair.

"Bastard!" Natterman screamed. Never in his life had he wanted to kill

another human being-not even in the war.

But now a rage of terrifying power surged through him as his stinging

eyes probed the outline of the chair for a clear shot.

The Afrikaner knelt motionless behind the chair, thinking.

He had known pain before, and he knew that to give in to it meant death.

Silently he seized the door handle with his good arm and jerked inward.

His shattered shoulder seared with pain; his agonized scream filled the

small cabin as he fought to stay conscious. An almost-forgotten voice

shouted from the depths of his brain: Move soldier! Move! And move he

did. In seconds he had scrambled alligator-style through the doorway,

dragging his useless arm behind, pulling the door shut with his foot as

he passed through. He flopped off the porch into the snow just as the

second blast from Natterman's shotgun splintered the lower quarter of

the oak door.

I should have known! the Afrikaner thought furiously.

Should have anticipated. I underestimated the old bastard.

He had a 9mm automatic in his car, but he'd parked his car in the woods

beyond the clearing. He'd never make it, not if the old man could see

at all. In desperation he swept away a hummock of snow and rolled

beneath the cabin into icy blackness.

Above him, Professor Natterman rooted hysterically through the cabinet

in search of extra shotgun shells. There' I Beneath an overturned

wicker basket he found a full box of twelve-gauge shells.

He broke the breech of the antique weapon, removed the empties,

chambered two shells, jammed the gun closed, and cocked both @ammers.

Then he bolted the splintered oak door.

The papers! he thought suddenly. The Afrikaner had them!

in a panic he searched the cabin for the onionskin pages, but saw none.

No! his mind screamed. He cannot have them!

Crazed with rage, he blasted another hole in the door, then unbolted it

and shoved it open. Just outside, crumpled and matted in a huge smear

of blood, lay six of the nine Spandau pages. Natterman darted outside

and frantically gathered them up, then scanned the snow for the other

pages. He saw none. Furious, he staggered back into the cabin and

snatched up the tinfoil that had protected the papers. He wrapped it

carefully back around the bloodstained pages, then stuffed the foil

packet deep into his pocket.

The exertion had broken loose the clot in his nose. Blood poured down

his bare chest. The animal must have a gun, he thought wildly.

He must. He wouldn't have come with just the knife. Natterman seized

his shirt and jacket from the floor and stumbled into the bedroom, where

Karl still stared sightless at the door.

"Aaarrrgh! " he roared in anguish. It took almost all his remaining

strength to drag the linen chest from the foot of the bed and wedge @it

against the bedroom door. When he had blocked it as well as he could,

he picked up the telephone beside the bed.

Dead as Karl, he thought bitterly. Pinching his bloody nostrils closed,

he surveyed the room. A washstand. A chair.

An old pine armoire. His father's bed beside the window.

The window!

Even as Natterman realized his vulnerability, he saw a pale hand working

just over the sill, trying to force the glass upward. He obliterated

the window with a double-barreled blast, gibbering like a madman as he

did. The stress had finally overcome him. Like a drunkard he staggered

over to the armoire and heaved and pushed until finally it slid across

the gaping window. Then he collapsed in a heap against it, not even

trying to stop the blood that continued to plop onto his heaving chest.

His last act before he fainted was to chamber two more rounds into the

Mannlicher.

142 A.m. The Northern Transvaal, Republic of South Africa Alfred Horn

sat hunched in his motorized wheelchair, his prehensile forearms

pressing a leopardskin rug against his arthritic knees, and stared into

the fire. As always, his mind raced back and forth between past and

present, searching for causes and connections, cataloguing injustices to

be avenged. Perhaps it was his advanced years, but to Horn the present

seemed merely a small space between two doorsone leading back into a

past he could not change-the other opening onto a future that, after

five decades of planning and struggle and living with defeat, promised

the fulfillment of ultimate destiny. Time was short, he knew, and

growing shorter. Did he have a week or a month before his ability to

leave his imprint upon the world was stolen from him? He needed a

month. How ironic, he reflected, that his knowledge of the past posed

the greatest threat to his plans for the future. But he was nearly

ready. A soft knock sounded behind him. He answered without turning

his gaze from the fire.

"Yes?"

The door opened soundlessly. Smuts stood silently at attention.

"What news from Berlin, Pieter?"

"There's a flurry of British and Russian intelligence activity, sir. I'm

almost certain they have not located the papers.

No sign so far of Israeli involvement."

"But what of our two policemen, Pieter? They have the papers."

"Sir, Berlin-One informs me that while he has not yet captured the young

man whom he believes found the papers, he does have custody of the man's

wife."

Horn pondered this intelligence. At length he said, "We shall have them

all here. Bring the woman, the man will follow. Send a jet tonight."

"I've already ordered it done, sir."

"Good. Can the husband be reached by phone?"

Smuts cleared his throat. "We haven't located him yet, sir."

While Horn's glass eye remained immobile, his good eye flickered with

birdlike suspicion over his security chief's lanky frame, finally

settling on his craggy face. Under its unrelenting gaze, Smuts shifted

his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Pieter?" Horn asked finally.

"Yes, sir?"

"Our two policemen have escaped from West Berlin, haven't they?"

To Smuts's credit, he did not dissimulate. "That appears likely, sir.

The older man-Hauer-apparently has a great deal of influence in Berlin.

We have a man waiting at their last known destination-a cabin near

Wolfsburg-but he hasn't reported in."

Horn toyed with a poker in the stand. "These policemen are proving to

be a credit to their race, Pieter. After you've drawn them here, we

must see what our young friend has dug from the rubble of Spandau."

"It will be done."

"Tell me, how will you convince the young husband that you have his wife

if you haven't reached him by the time she's airborne?"

Smuts suppressed a smile. Horn's attention to the smallest details of

an operation constantly surprised him. "A simple matter really, sir,"

he explained. "Audio recordings on two separate tape machines.

Prerecorded affirmatives and negatives to be used as needed, with a

short statement to open the exchange. With adequate noise reduction the

results are quite convincing."

"Excellent, Pieter. I'm pleased."

Smuts's boot heels cracked like a muffled pistol shot.

Horn unconsciously picked at the stippled scar tissue around his glass

eye. "I've been thinking, Pieter. I want you to shut down all our drug

and weapons trading for the time being. I want no roads leading from

the outside world to here."

Smuts nodded. "Very good, sir. We do have that shipment of gold coming

from Colombia, though, payment for our ether. Two million dollars in

bullion. It's coming by ship, and the ship is almost here."

Horn considered this. "We'll let her land, then. But everything else

shuts down."

"Yes, sir."

"When the policeman's wife arrives, bring her directly to me.

It's so seldom I get a chance to meet young Germans anymore. I should

like very much to speak with her."

"Meet her? But, sir, the risks-"

"Nonsense, Pieter. If you are present, what are the risks?"

Smuts nodded. "As you command."

Horn eyed Smuts appraisingly. "Anything else?"

"Beg your pardon, sir?"

Horn frowned. "The radiation leak. You failed to update me on your

progress."

Smuts colored. "I'm sorry, sir. I've been meeting with the engineers

about the runway extension." He raised his fore arm and read the time

from the inside of his wrist. "The leak was contained as of two hours

ago. Minimal exposure to personnel, the basement lab is clean."

"Any word on our cobalt case?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry."

"All right, Pieter. Dismissed."

"Sir!" Again the boots fired, and Smuts disappeared.

In spite of his frustration, Horn smiled wistfully. A jungfrau, he

thought, a true daughter of the Fatherland My God, how long has it been

since I spoke with a German woman who wasn't raised in this savage

country?

"Pieter!" he called suddenly.

Smuts raced back into the room, a Beretta pistol in his hand.

"I'm sorry," Horn apologized, "I spoke too loudly. More wood for the

fire, that's all. My joints are driving me mad."

Smuts holstered his weapon. "Yes, sir."

Without hesitation, a man who had commanded troops with distinction

across half the African continent marched to a woodpile less than a yard

from his employer's chair, added a fresh log to the fire, and stoked the

flames beneath it.

"How's that, sir?"

"Fine, Pieter. Fine." Horn slumped back into his padded wheelchair and

there, motionless until dawn, slept the sleep of the saved.

1.50 AW. Togel Airfield, West Berlin

"Wing tanks full," the pump jockey said, screwing down the tank cap. He

scurried down the hydraulic ladder and onto the tarmac of the fueling

area. "On account?" he asked.

Handsomely dressed in a tailored gray suit, Lieutenant Jijrgen Luhr

nodded curtly, then marched up the ramp that fed into the belly of the

sleek Lear turbojet. On the plush carpeted floor of the passenger

cabin, trussed from head to toe with industrial tape, Ilse Apfel

struggled desperately to breathe.

"Try to relax, Frau Apfel," Luhr said. "The trip will be much more

comfortable for us both."

With great difficulty Ilse inclined her head toward the blond policeman

and glared. She hoped defiance would mask the abject terror squirming

in her stomach. One hour ago she had been forced to watch this insane

lieutenant drag a knife across the throat of Sergeant Josef Steuben.

Ilse had never met Steuben, but she had vomited from sheer horror.

And beneath the horror, she cursed herself for her stupidity.

How could she have walked right into the arms of these ruthless animals?

"It's useless to struggle," Luhr advised. "I would have preferred more

subtle measures myself, but I'm told that our host is opposed to the use

of drugs. Quite ironic, considering the source of some of his income."

Luhr tapped a small syringe against his armrest. "I'm sure this has all

been a shock to you," he said, "but it's only the result of your

husband's stupidity. However, in spite of that-and for reasons quite

beyond my understanding-you, as well as 1, are to be granted a great

opportunity. Tomorrow we're going to meet the man who owns this jet. It

is a great honor." Luhr chuckled to himself. "Or so I've been led to

believe."

The walls of the Lear thrummed as the engines spooled up for the taxi

run.

"Still," he said, "I don't think we need all that constricting tape."

Ilse struggled harder. Luhr grinned.."You're sure you wouldn't like a

little sedative? We have a long flight ahead." He stood carefully,

holding his head sideways beneath the low cabin ceiling. He towered

over Ilse on the floor. "Although," he said heavily, "I think we might

arrange some interesting inflight diversions."

As if about to relieve himself, Luhr unzipped his trousers and withdrew

a large, uncircumcised penis. While Ilse stared in disgust, he tugged

himself eagerly, watching her reaction.

She wasn't frightened by the sight of his organ-most Berlin girls have

seen their share of male anatomy-it was his eyes.

In a single instant all humanity had gone out of them. As the grunting

lieutenant r)ulled at himself, his blue eyes burned not with lust, but

@with blind, furious hatred. Jiirgen Luhr wanted to do more than rape

Ilse-he @anted to kill her-to rape her to death if he could.

She shut her eyes tight and forced her mind away from this place, back

to a time just after she and Hans were married. They had gone to Munich

to visit Hans's mother, at a small Pfahlbauten on the long silver lake

outside the city.

Frau Jaspers, n6e Apfel, had @een bitchy, but Hans and Ilse had spent

hours together on the water, paddling a small boat and "You think you

can handle this?" Luhr rasped, brandishing his organ. "You're going to

get it ways you never even dreamed about-" Suddenly the plane lurched,

forward. Luhr lost his balance and fell back into his seat, laughing

wildly. Ilse struggled in vain against the tape, trapped like a living

mummy. Putting himself back into his trousers, Luhr leaned back in his

seat and sighed deeply. "Plenty of time for that," he muttered.

The madness had faded from his eyes. He leisurely raised a gleaming

boot and prodded Ilse's bottom, then laughed again.

The Learjet reached its assigned runway and paused, engines shuddering,

pointed east like a porcelain arrow. The legend on its tail read

LASERTEK, but this company was merely a tiny division in the

labyrinthine network of subsidiaries owned by Horn Intercomm, a holding

company on the outer edges of a vast but nebulous corporate entity known

as Phoenix AG. This familial relationship was symbolized by a small

design painted on the nosecone of the Lear. The single, gracefully

curved, blood red eye stared down the runway from the port side of the

Lear with a strange awareness, as if it, and not the pilot, would guide

the plane on its long journey south.

Inside the pressurized cabin, Luhr held Ilse in place with his boot as

the jet screamed into the night sky. The flight plan filed in the Tegel

tower designated the Lear as Flight 116, destination London.

But as soon as the sleek jet faded from Tegel's main radar screen, it

would dive and race southward to a remote airfield in Turkey.

Another subsidiary of Phoenix AG maintained extensive holdings in the

Antalya province, among them a surprisingly well-equipped airstrip on a

farm near Dashar. This company fostered extremely cordial relations

with the provincial government officials, who often made use of Phoenix

jets to take "fact-finding" excursions to the pleasure capitals of

Europe.

After the Lear left Dashar, it would no longer have a Right number or

plan, and its destination would be a matter into which only the most

uninformed would inquire. The grasp of the reclusive president and CEO

of Phoenix AG Corporation was known to be very long indeed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

1.35 A.m. Near Woltsbarg, FRG "That's it!" Hans cried, whipping his

head around for a better look. "You passed it!"

Hauer hit the brakes. "That's what you said two minutes ago.

"I'm sure this time."

Reluctantly, Hauer shifted the Jaguar into reverse. "Why here?

It's just another break in the trees. Another dead-end road in the

dark."

"No. This is the place. We're between two hills. And that low bridge

back there ... This is it."

Hauer released the clutch pedal and backed the car into position to

turn. The Jaguar shot forward. He accelerated down the winding drive

at twice the speed Natterman had, squinting ahead through the darkness

for any sign of an occupied dwelling. "I don't see any lights," he said

skeptically.

"Maybe they're sleeping.

jus Hauer looked across at Hans. "Your wife has ' t escaped from the

KGB, she has no idea where you are, and you think she's sleeping-"

"Watch out!"

Hauer slammed his boot down on the brake just as the Jaguar broke into

the small clearing around the cabin. The car hit a sheet of ice, spun

360 degrees and skated toward the building. It crashed into the trunk

of a plane tree just meters from the porch, crumpling the Jaguar's

offside wing. The motor died, but the headlights still shone off into

the darkness to the right of the cabin.

"This better be the place," Hauer mumbled, shaking his head to clear the

fog of impact.

Hans stuck his head through the shattered passenger widow and compared

what he saw to his mental image of his wife's family retreat.

"This is it," he said quietly. He turned to Hauer. "Why were you

driving so goddamn fast!"

Hauer bit back a sharp retort. He half-expected them to find the bloody

remains of Ilse and her grandfather inside the cabin. "Just knock on

the door," he said evenly.

Hans muttered angrily as he struggled with the unfamiliar door handle,

not even trying to conceal his exasperation.

Ilse!" he shouted. "It's me, Hans!"

Just as Hans popped the door open, it hammered him back into the car. He

did not even hear the booming explosion that resounded through the

forest.

"Get down!" Hauer bellowed. His warning was lost as the front

windshield shattered in a storm of flying glass.

"Shotgun, Hans! Down!"

Hans had hunkered down on the floor when a third blast shredded the

leather upholstery above his head. The fourth missed the Jaguar

altogether. Hauer grabbed his Walther from beneath the seat and jerked

back the slide.

"Wait!" Hans pleaded, grabbing his arm. "Ilse wouldn't know this car!"

He kicked open the shot-riddled door. "Ilse!

Professor! It's Hans!" This time he saw the fire leap from the

muzzles. The twin barrels exploded simultaneously, shearing off the

frozen branches hanging low over the car.

Hans ducked behind the Jag's door. "Professor! Your father Alfred was

a blacksmith! He built this house in 1925! You helped him make the

nails!"

Silence.

Now you're thinking," Hauer said.

The splintered cabin door creaked open slightly. "Hans?"

rasped a voice almost too weak to hear. "Hans, is that you?"

"Don't shoot, Professor! I'm coming out!"

Gingerly he raised his hands above the car door and waved. Then he put

a foot onto the packed.snow and slowly raised himself into Natterman's

line of sight.

"I can't see you!" Natterman called. "Step into the light!"

Painfully aware of the loaded weapon pointed at his chest, Hans eased

forward into the twin beams.

"Hans." The voice was louder now, the relief in it obvious. "Are you

alone?"

"No! I have .. ." He looked back at Hauer in the Jag. "I have my

captain with me!"

There was a long pause. "Do you trust him?"

For the hundredth time that night, Hans examined his feelings about his

father. Did he trust him? Hauer could just as easily be a member of

the fanatical societies whose meetings he described as- No!

Hans slammed that door shut in his mind. If Dieter Hauer could

contemplate killing a brother officer and kidnapping his own son's wife,

the whole world had turned upside down.

"I trust him!" he called.

Hinges screeched as Natterman pushed open the cabin door. He slumped to

his knees. "All right," he croaked, "that's . . ." The old man fell

flat on his face, his empty shotgun beside him.

Hans sprinted up onto the porch and bent over him. Hauer stayed in the

Jaguar, his Walther extended, covering the porch and the clearing as

best he could.

"Professor!" Hans cried, shaking him roughly. "Where is Ilse?"

"I got him," the old man mumbled. "I think Hans slapped him.

Then again, harder. He saw crusted blood around Natterman's disfigured

nose, but he had too much at stake to wait. "Where is Ilse, Professor?

Where is Ilse? Did the people who attacked you take her?" Hans turned

to the open door. "Ilse!"

"Not ... not here," Natterman mumbled. "Home, I think.

Yes." His voice gained strength. "She's at the apartment, Hans.

Coming here later. Tried to call, but .

"Oh God." Hans shivered as the implication of Natterman's ramblings

struck him. "Oh no. Captain! Help me get him into the house!"

Hauer scrambled out of the car. He backed up onto the porch, keeping

the pistol pointed at the woods as he moved.

"She's not here," Hans told him. "She's not here . . ."

"Take his legs!" Hauer ordered, grabbing the old man under the arms. He

had to keep Hans moving, keep his mind on something besides his wife

until there was time to analyze the situation.

They laid Natterman on the sofa in the front room. Hauer sent Hans to

fill a sock with snow, then tried his best to determine the seriousness

of the professor's wound. Cleaning it started the bleeding again-which

seemed incredible given the amount of blood splattered throughout the

cabin-but the frozen compress stanched the flow nicely.

Hauer substituted adhesive tape for sutures, fastening the edges of the

severed nostril together with surprising skill. He leaned back to

survey his work. "Wouldn't pass inspection at a Bundeswehr hospital,

but not bad for a field dressing. Let's get a blanket on him." He

looked around.

"Hans?"

Standing rigid at the bedroom door, Hans gasped and staggered backward.

Hauer darted to the door, saw Karl Riemeck's body, then returned to

Natterman's side.

"Who's the man in the bedroom?" he asked, his mouth an inch from the

old man's ear. "A friend of yours?"

Natterman nodded.

"Who killed him? Did you see him killed?"

The professor shook his head, then opened his eyes slowly. "Karl was my

caretaker," he whispered. "The animal killed him."

"Animal? What animal?" Hauer groaned as the old man's eyes closed. He

was out again. "Hans! Get over here and help me!"

Hans didn't move. His eyes seemed to be fixed on some undefined point

in space. Hauer had seen the look before: American army officers called

it the thousand-yard stare. It was the Vietnam variant of shell shock,

but Hauer knew that neither bullets nor blood had caused Hans's torpor.

What had overloaded his mind was the justified fear of losing his wife

forever. Giving Hans hope became Hauer's primary objective, for he knew

that Hans's unearthly calm was merely the silence before the storm, the

moment when all his fear and impotent rage would explode through his

self-control like a hurricane.

"Ilse must still be on her way," Hauer said confidently, preparing to

restrain Hans physically if necessary.

Hans's jaw muscles flexed steadily. "I would have seen her," he

mumbled.

"You wouldn't have seen her. We crossed East Germany in the trunk of a

car, for God's sake. Maybe, she took a late train like the professor.

Maybe she hitched a ride in a truck.

She could still be waiting for a train right now." Keeping his eyes on

Hans, Hauer shook Natterman gently. "Is there a telephone, Professor?"

"Dead ... I think the man who attacked me cut the line."

"Repair it, Hans," Hauer ordered. "Check the unit, then trace the

wire."

Hans finally focused on Hauer's face. "No," he said quietly .

"I'm going back to Berlin." He was trying to rebutton his coat, but his

shaking fingers seemed unable to keep hold of the small buttons.

"You can't get back in," Hauer told him.

"It's Ilse's only chance . . . She could be@' "No! " Professor

Natterman's stentorian voice boomed through the small room like a

thunderclap. Hauer stared as the old man slowly raised himself and

leveled a long finger at Hans. "You will not go back. To return now

would be suicide. Can you help Ilse if you're dead? The telephone must

be our lifeline now."

The professor's rebuke left him winded, but it had a dramatic effect on

Hans. He rubbed his forehead furiously with both hands as he walked

away from the two older men. "If only I hadn't tried to keep those

goddamn papers," he muttered.

"You did the right thing," Hauer said firmly. "If you had turned the

papers in, Funk would have them now, and you'd be as dead as your friend

Weiss."

Hans looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

"Trace the wire," Hauer said softly, looking to Natterman for support.

"It runs out of a hole in back of the cabin," said the professor.

Hans still looked uncertain.

Hauer drew his Walther. "And take this. Whoever attacked the professor

may still be out there."

Hans snatched the pistol and disappeared through the front door.

Natterman turned to Hauer. "Will he try to leave?"

"He can't. I've got the keys."

Natterman studied Hauer's face. "You're Hans's father," he said after

some moments. "Aren't you? I can see the resemblance."

Hauer took a slow, deep breath, then he nodded curtly.

Natterman made a sound that was almost a chuckle. "Ilse told me you had

been at Spandau. So, you've acknowledged your son at last, eh?"

"I acknowledged him the first moment I saw him," Hauer said in a clipped

tone.

Natterman looked skeptical. "Tell me, Captain, you're the expert.

Do you believe I will ever see my granddaughter again?"

Hauer pursed his lips. "Who has the papers Hans found at Spandau?"

Natterman hesitated, thinking of the three pages that had disappeared

with Karl Riemeck's murderer. "I do," he confessed.

"They're safe."

Hauer wondered if the old man had the papers on him.

"Then I'll give you sixty-forty odds that she's still alive.

Frankly, I'd expect a ransom demand any time now. And you know what

they'll be asking for." He walked over to the cabinet that had

concealed the shotgun. He touched it softly, appearing to examine the

grain of the wood. "So," he said.

"Exactly what is in THESE papers Hans discovered?"

Natterman propped himself up on the arm of the sofa. It made him dizzy,

but he felt better able to deal with questions from an upright position.

' "You must realize that you'll need assistance to do anything from this

point on," Hauer said. "You must also realize that I'm the only man

within a great distance who is able to help you."

"On the contrary," Natterman said testily. "There are many nearby who

would help me."

Hauer sighed. "Men like the one in the,bedroom there?"

Natterman's eyes smoldered. "Why should you help me?"

he snapped. "What exactly are you after, Hauer?"

Hauer stiffened. In Germany, the cavalier omission of a man's rank or

title is an open insult. He was moving forward when boots clattered

loudly on the porch. The splintered door banged open.

"I need a knife," said Hans, his breath steaming as he closed the door.

He stamped his icy boots on the floorboards while he searched the

kitchen alcove.

"How long will it take?" Hauer asked, his eyes still on Natterman.

"Less than a minute if I didn't have to, climb that goddamn pole.

It's covered with ice, and the bastard cut the wire at the top."

Hans found a sharp paring knife in a drawer and clomped out again.

"I'm waiting," said Hauer.

Natterman sighed. He would have to say something, he knew, but

misdirecting a police captain shouldn't be too difficult. "All right,

Captain," he said. "What Hans found at Spandau-what your son found-is a

letter of sorts. A diary, if you will. A diary written in Latin by the

man known to the world for almost fifty years as Rudolf Hess."

"Perfect," said Hauer. "A dead language from a dead

man.

The professor sniffed indignantly. "This diary happens to prove that

that particular dead man was not Rudolf Hess."

Hauer's eyes narrowed. "You believe that?"

Natterman looked sanguine. "It's nothing new. You've heard all the

theories, I'm sure. Himmler tricked Hess into becoming a pawn in his

quest for Hitler's job; Goring had Hess shot down, then-"

"I've heard the theories," Hauer cut in. "And that's just what they

are, theories. Bullshit."

"Your expert opinion notwithstanding," Natterman said, "I believe that

the man who died last month in Spandau was never the Deputy Fuhrer of

the Third Reich. And from what I saw on television today, I'd say the

Russians believe that too.

Hauer snorted. "The Russians would hound a rat right up their backsides

if they thought it endangered their precious Motherland.

What proof is there that the papers are authentic?"

Natterman bridled. "Why the diary itself, of course."

"You mean that it exists? That Hans found it where he did?"

The professor tugged at his silver beard. "No. Those things are

significant, but it's the papers themselves that are the proof."

"How?"

"The language, Captain. You might think that Prisoner Number Seven

wrote in Latin to conceal his words from the prison guards, or something

similar. But that's not the case at all. Think, man. Here was a man

who knew he was near death, who decided to leave a record of the truth.

Yet all proof that he ever lived had been wiped out long ago by Reinhard

Heydrich. How could he prove who he was? I'll tell you. As Hess's

trained double, Number Seven had studied everything about the Deputy

Fuhrer. Yet no matter how much like Hess he became, he still possessed

certain traits and abilities that Hess did not. And knowing those

abilities better than anyone, he used one to prove his identity. Thus,

he wrote his final record in Latin." Natterman's eyes flashed with

triumph. "And so far as I have been able to determine, Rudolf

Hess-though better educated than most of Hitler's inner circle-Aid not

know more than twenty words of Latin, if any. "

"That proves nothing," Hauer argued. "In fact, that suggests to me that

some crank wrote this diary."

"Why do you fight this so hard, Captain? Number Seven was the only

prisoner."

"At the end. There were others before."

"Yes," Natterman admitted. "A few. But cranks? No. And the searches,

Captain, there were thousands of them. The diary must have been written

near the end."

"It could have been slipped in by a guard," Hauer suggested. But the

cold ache in his chest belied his words.

Natterman shrugged. "It's not my job to convince you, Captain.

But given what's already occurred, I suggest we work on the assumption

that the diary is genuine-at least until I can take further steps to

authenticate it."

Hauer rummaged through his borrowed suit for a cigar.

"But what's the point of all this? The KGB and half the Berlin police

force haven't gone mad over some scrap of history. What does the diary

mean now?"

"Now?" Natterman smiled. "I suppose that depends on who you happen to

be. Paradoxically enough, the answer to your question lies in the past.

That is why the diary is so important." The old man's voice climbed a

semitone with repressed excitement. "It is a veritable tunnel into the

past ...

into history."

Hauer walked to the front window of the cabin and stared out into the

frozen darkness. "Professor," he said finally, "if this diary were

real, is there any conceivable way it could be embarrassing enough to

influence NATO? Possibly even the Soviet Union?"

Natterman raised an eyebrow. "Given the lengths to which certain

countries have gone to suppress the Hess story, I would say yes. Of

course it would depend on what one wanted to influence those nations to

do."

Hauer nodded. "Suppose someone wanted to use the diary to make the

superpowers more amenable to the idea of German reunification?"

Natterman's face darkened with suspicion. "I think I have answered

enough questions, Captain. I think you should@' The splintered cabin

door banged open again. When Hauer turned, he saw Hans hunched over,

dragging something into the cabin.

It took him a moment to realize that it was a human body. Then he saw

the hair-long, blond hair.

"Hans?" he said hoarsely.

Hans grunted and fell backward, breathing hard. The corpse's head

thudded to the floor. Hauer walked slowly across the room and looked

down at the body. It wasn't Ilse.

It was a man. A dead man with long blond hair. The right arm hung from

the torso by a single cord of tendon; the shoulder had been blasted into

mush by the professor's shotgun. But the most shocking sight was the

throat. It had been expertly cut from ear to ear.

"A thorough job, Professor," said Hauer.

"I-I didn't do that," Natterman stammered. "Not the throat."

Hauer glanced furtively'at the windows.

"There's someone else out there!" Natterman cried.

Hauer watched in astonishment as the old man flew at the carcass like a

grave robber. He rifled every pocket, then began groping beneath the

frozen, blood-matted shirt.

"What are you doing, Professor!"

Natterman looked up, his eyes wild. "I-I'm trying to find out who he

is."

"Any papers on him?"

Natterman shook his head violently, afraid for a moment that Hauer had

asked about the missing diary pages. But he doesn't know they're

missing, he reassured himself, getting to his feet. He doesn't know ...

Hauer said, "It's a good thing he didn't get hold of the Spandau papers.

There's no telling where they might be now."

"You have the papers?" Hans asked in surprise.

My God, Natterman thought wildly. Where are those pages? "Ilse gave

them to me," he said.

"The question," Hauer mused, "is who finished this bastard off?"

With a grunt he crouched over the body and heaved it onto its stomach.

The half-severed head flopped over last. Hauer probed the thick blond

hair behind the corpse's right ear. "Well, well," he said, "at least we

know who sent this one. Look."

Hans and the professor knelt and examined the spot Hauer had exposed

with his fingertips. Beneath the roots of the dead man's hair was a

mark just under two centimeters long.

It was an eye. A single, blood red eye.

"Phoenix," Hauer muttered.

Natterman jerked as if he had been stunned with electricity.

"It's the eye from the Spandau papers! The exact design!

The All-Seeing Eye. What does it mean there? On this man's head?"

Hauer stood. "It means that Funk's little cabal sent this fellow.

Or his masters did."

"You said 'Phoenix.' You haven't read the Spandau papers. What do you

know about the word Phoenix?"

"Not nearly enough."

"But who killed him?" Hans asked. "Whoever it was ...

it's almost as if he's helping us. Maybe he knows something about

Ilse."

Hans darted toward the door, but Hauer caught him by the sleeve.

"Hans, whoever killed this man did it to get the papers, not to help us.

You were outside for ten minutes and no one talked to you.

Obviously no one wanted to. Whoever's out there could cut your throat

as easily as he did this fellow's, so forget it." He kept hold of

Hans's sleeve. "Did you fix the telephone?"

Hans looked longingly at the door. "The wire's spliced," he said in a

monotone.

"Good. I'll call Steuben at the station. If something's changed in

Berlin, we just might be able to slip back in before morning."

Hauer knew it was a lie when he said it. They wouldn't be going back to

Berlin. Not until they had followed the Spandau diary wherever it

led-until they had traveled the professor's "tunnel into the past" to

its bitter end. One look at the mangled carcass at his feet told him it

was going to be a bloody journey.

"We'd better stand watches," he said. "Whoever killed our tattooed

friend may still be out there. You're up first, Hans."

Thirty meters from the cabin, a tall @@ntinel stood in the deep snow

beneath the dripping trees. In one hand he held three bloodstained

sheets of onionskin paper, in the other a knife. By holding the blade

at a certain angle, he could illuminate the pages by reflecting light

from the cabin windows.

But it was no use. He spoke three languages fluently, but he could not

read Latin. As he watched the silhouettes moving across the yellow-lit

windows, he envied the old man's education . Not that it made any

difference. He had known what the papers said ever since he'd stood

outside the door of the Apfel apartment and listened to the arguments

inside. Stuffing the pages into his coat pocket, he murmured a few

words in Hebrew. Then he squatted down on his haunches in the deep

snow. He had lived in the burning desert for the past twelve years, but

the cold was nothing to him. Jonas Stern knew he could outwait anybody.

Especially Germans.

mI-5 Headquarters Charles Street, London, England

Sir Neville Shaw jerked his head up from the Hess file; he'd been poring

over it so long that he had dropped into a kind of half-sleep.

He snapped out of it when Wilson, his deputy, barged into his dim office

without knocking, something he was forbidden to do on pain of

bloodcurdling punishments.

"What the devil!" Shaw snapped.

"I'm sorry, sir," Wilson panted. "I think we've got a problem."

"Well?"

"We finally got something on Spandau-from a Ukrainian in the technical

section of KGB East Berlin. It seems the KGB shot pictures of everyone

who gathered to watch the destruction of the prison. He didn't know why

they took the pictures, but he slipped us the list of names their

computers matched to the photos. They actually turned up a couple of

old SS men-"

"Get to the point!" Shaw barked.

"It's Stern, sir. Jonas Stern. The Israeli that the Mossad wrote us

about. He was at Spandau Prison on the day we tore it down!"

Only a steady whitening of Shaw's, knuckles on the desktop revealed how

shocked he was. He rocked slowly back and forth for nearly a full

minute; then he looked up at Wilson, his eyes bright with purpose. "Did

you pull the file on the woman I told you about?"

"Swallow? Yes, sir. Ann Gordon is her real name."

"Is she living in England?"

"In a little hamlet about thirty miles west of London."

Shaw nodded contentedly. "I'll need to speak to her. I don't want her

coming here, though. Set up a secure line so that I can brief her by

phone."

Wilson's brow knit with confusion. "But I don't understand, Sir

Neville. Swallow is retired."

"I seriously doubt that. But even if she is, she'll come running when

she hears Stern's name."

"Do you mean to reactivate this woman, sir?"

Shaw ignored the question. "I don't know how Jonas Stern is tied into

the Hess case, but he can't be allowed to get near those papers.

If papers are what's been found."

"But why use Swallow at all? She's ... she's an old woman. My lads can

handle any situation with twice the reliability."

Shaw laughed quietly. "Wilson, we tread shadowy paths, but there are

deeds done in this world that should never see the light of day.

Swallow has done more than her share of them. I'll bet your four best

men couldn't sandbag that old harridan."

Wilson looked indignant. "Sir Neville, this seems terribly irregular.

Going out of school like this-"

"That's exactly the point," Shaw snapped. "Swallow is absolutely,

totally deniable. If something embarrassing were to happen-if she

happened to kill Stern, say-all could be blamed on this old vendetta.

Even the Israelis couldn't fault us. Their letter practically

exonerates us before the fact. It proves Stern was at risk the moment

he left Israel."

Sir Neville folded his hands into a church steeple and studied a

Wedgwood paperweight on his desk. Wilson watched his master with

growing apprehension. The mI-5

director looked as if he'd aged five years in the brief hours since

their last meeting.

"You're to put together a second team," Shaw said slowly.

"No brief as yet, but have them ready. More hard boys. The hardest."

Wilson cleared his throat. "May I ask what for, sir?"

Sir Neville ran his hands through his thinning hair, then massaged his

high forehead with his fingertips. "I'm afraid, Wilson, that if your

other lads are unlucky enough to find those Spandau papers, they'll have

cashed in their chips."

Wilson's face went white. "But you . . ." He faltered, recognizing

the diamond-hard gleam in Shaw's eye. "When you briefed them you gave

direct orders not to read the papers if found. They won't."

Sir Neville sighed. "We can't be sure of that."

"But they're my best three men!" Wilson exploded.

Sir Neville raised an eyebrow. "Your men? Interesting choice of words,

Wilson." His craggy face softened. "Damn it, Robert, it's not my

choice, is it? It's the word from on high. Tablets from the bloody

mountaintop!"

Wilson's mouth worked in silent, furious incomprehension. "But what

does that mean, Neville? We are a constitutional monarchy, for God's

sake!"

Sir Neville cleared his throat. "That's quite enough, old boy.

I've been instructed that as regards this case, we're to consider

ourselves on a war footing."

"But we're not at war! We can't just kill our own people!"

Sir Neville attempted a paternal smile, and it was terrible to see.

His eyes had focused into some foggy distance that he alone perceived.

"Some wars, Wilson," he murmured, "last a very long time. A war like

the last one-the last real one-Aoesn't end on a battlefield. Or on some

baize treaty table. There are loose ends, unfinished business.

Left uncut, those loose ends tangle and eventually get drawn into the

skein of the next war. That's what's happening here. For too long we

simply hoped that this Hess business would go away. Well, it hasn't."

Sir Neville blinked, then splayed his hands on the mahogany desktop.

"It's settled," he said with resignation. "I've got my orders.

When those papers are found, everyone down the chain is on borrowed

time.

"But that's insane!" Wilson almost shouted. "You sound like a bloody

Nazi yourself!"

Sir Neville bit his lip in forbearance. "Wilson," he rasped, "if your

lads find those papers and bring them to you, you shut your eyes and

shove them right in here to me. Because no one in that chain will be

exempt. Am I clear?" He examined his fingernails. "And I've got a

feeling that includes myself."

The deputy director's eyes widened. "What in God's name is in those

papers, Sir Neville? What could that motheaten old Nazi have known?"

Shaw grimaced. "It's not what's in them, Robert, but what might be in

them. What they could lead to. You think the Cold War's over?

What a load of tripe. Twenty hours ago it reared its ugly head, and not

for the last time, I'll wager.

I've heard half a dozen back-corridor versions of the Hess affair in my

time, and not one of them is true. There are guilty consciences on

high, Wilson. It's evidence we're after.

Of what? A bargain with the devil, British-style. A marriage of

convenience to the Teutonic Mephistopheles. Enough black ink to smudge

out the oldest reputations in banking, government, and manufacturing.

Maybe enough heat to crack the bloody Crown itself."

Wilson flexed his fists. "The Crown be damned," he said softly.

"We should have killed Hess years ago."

Arctic fire flickered in Sir Neville Shaw's eyes. "We did kill him,

Robert," he said. "I suppose it's high time you knew."

Wilson felt cold sweat heading on the back of his neck.

"I ... I beg your pardon, Sir Neville?"

"I said we killed Hess." Shaw plucked an errant lash from his eye. "The

damned thing of it is, we're going to have to kill him again."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

2DD A.m. Tiorgarten Kriminalpolizei Division West Berlin Detective

Julius Schneider lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a number from

the special list he kept in his top desk drawer. A very loud voice

inside his head was telling him it would be better to drop this matter

altogether-better for his marriage, much better for his career. But the

adrenaline pulsing through his body kept the phone in his hand.

"What?" growled a tired voice at last.

"Colonel Rose?" he said, concentrating on his English pronunciation.

"Yeah, Rose here. Who's this? Clary? Jesus, it'S tWO A.M."

"Colonel, my name is Julius Schneider. You don't know me. I'm a

detective with the West Berlin Kriminalpolizei."

"What?"

"Are you awake, Colonel? I have something very important to tell you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm awake. Go ahead."

"This is a very sensitive matter. Perhaps we could meet somewhere."

Rose was definitely awake now. His voice took on a hard edge of

suspicion. "Who did you say this is?"

"Detective Julius Schneider, Colonel. Eighteen months ago you gave a

lecture on NATO intelligence-sharingNovember, U.S. Army headquarters in

Dahlem. I attended along with nine other Kripo detectives."

"Uh-huh," Rose grunted. "Okay, let's say I'm mildly interested.

What's your problem?"

"As I said, Colonel, I don't feel comfortable going into it on the

telephone."

"Outline the situation."

"I'd prefer to meet you somewhere."

"It's gonna take more than that to get me out into the cold alone, son.

Give me something."

Schneider glanced through his office window at the sluggish activity of

the night duty officers. "I think you've got a man over the Wall," he

whispered quickly.

"A what?" Rose sounded incredulous. "What do you mean? A defector?"

Schneider spoke still lower. "No, Colonel, I think one of your officers

has been taken over the Wall against his will-"

"Don't say another word! " Rose snapped. "Where are you?"

"The Tiergarten Kripo station."

Colonel Rose pulled a map of Berlin from his bedside table.

"Okay, Mr. Detective," he said slowly, "you know the Penta Hotel?

Should be two blocks from where you are now."

"I know it."

"Be standing in the front service doorway in fifteen minutes.

I'll cruise by with my door open-you jump in. Got it?"

"Ja.

"You in uniform?"

"Nein. Kripo don't wear uniforms."

"When you move toward the car have both hands extended. Empty.

Wait a second ... what was your name? Full name?"

"Julius K. Schneider, Kripo Detective First Grade."

"Right. Fifteen minutes."

Schneider heard Rose disconnect. Looking at his watch, he decided to

wait fourteen minutes in his office, then sprint the two blocks to the

Penta. At two-twelve he donned his hat and overcoat, said good night to

the duty sergeant and strolled casually out of the station.

The wind hit his face like a shrew's slap. Schneider turned into the

blast and began running with surprising speed for a man of his bulk.

He glanced at his watch as he crossed to the next block.

Twothirteen.

Come on, Colonel ... A car moved up from his rear, slowed, passed.

Halfway up the second block, he ducked into the front service doorway of

the imposing Penta Hotel. His gasps filled the lighted alcove with

steam.

Two-fourteen, and still no colonel. Schneider pulled off his left boot

and smashed the fluorescent bulb over his head.

No sense in advertising, he thought, tugging the boot back on. As he

straightened up, a battered U.S. Army Ford came roaring up the

Nijrnberger Strasse. The passenger door swung open thirty meters from

the Penta's service door, but the car showed no signs of slowing.

Schneider judged the Ford's speed at sixty kilometers per hour.

Like a fullback he charged from the safety of his niche and sprinted

alongside the car with both hands extended. He could see the

bull-necked American colonel in the driver's seat, scrutinizing him over

the barrel of what looked like a .45 caliber pistol. Tiring quickly,

Schneider flailed his arms for Rose to stop. The Ford slowed to thirty

kilometers per hour. Schneider could hear Rose yelling for him to jump

in.

Almost out of wind, he managed to catch hold of the doorframe and dive

headlong across the front seat. When he tried to rise, he felt the cold

metal of a gun barrel pressed to his temple.

"That's a Colt .45 on your noggin, son," Rose growled.

"Don't move until I say so. Understand?"

"Ja, " Schneider grunted.

With a skillful swing of the steering wheel Rose simultaneously slammed

the passenger door and swung onto the six-lane Hohenzollemdamm, heading

west. "Full name?" he barked.

"Julius K. Schneider."

"Rank?"

"Detective, First Grade."

"Length of service?"

"Seven-no, eight years."

"Name of spouse?"

"What the hell does it matter? I'm the one-" Rose jammed the pistol

barrel into Schneider's ear.

"Name of spouse!"

"Aarrghh! Liese, damn you!"

Rose withdrew the gun. "Okay, get up."

Rattled and angry, Schneider thrust himself against the passenger door

and rubbed his cheek where the gun had scraped it. "What the hell was

that for?"' he asked in German.

"You ought to have expected it," Rose replied,in English.

"You call in the middle of the night to tell me one of my men has been

kidnapped, and you expect a cocktail party?"

"Is this the way Americans return favors?" Schneider said stiffly.

"Last I checked, you hadn't done me any favors. We'll see how I return

one when you do. Now what the hell's this all about?"

"Major Harry Richardson," Schneider answered, relishing the poorly

concealed look of shock that crossed Rose's face.

"You know him?"

"Go on," Rose said noncommittally.

"Very well, Colonel. Tonight I was called to the scene of a murder. A

house near the Tiergarten. The murdered man was one Klaus Seeckt, an

East German trade liaison employed by my government. My colleagues

believe Seeckt surprised a gang of professional thieves who murdered

him, then tried to make it look like suicide. And they could be right,

of course. The Kripo are famous for their skill in solving homicides."

"Get to the point, Detective."

"I believe a real suicide took place, Colonel. Not a simple suicide,

but a suicide still."

"I'm listening. You can speak,* German-if you like."

Schneider sighed with reliel "Physical evidence, Colonel.

First, eight 7.65mm slugs fired into an interior wall beside the front

door-burst pattern- We found no shell casings to match these slugs.

Second, no fingerprints on the pistol in the corpse's hand except his

own. Third, I found something odd outside the house. It was a white

business card"Schneider paused for effect@'with nothing but a telephone

number on it."

He saw Rose's jaw tighten. "When I called the number on the card, I got

an answering machine with a message from one Harry Richardson.

As I'm sure you're aware, Major Richardson makes a rather special effort

to know Berlin.

Consequently, we Berliners know him."

Rose exited right off the Hohenzollemdamm onto ClayAllee, then looped

under to the Avus autobahn. Solemn ranks of bare trees closed about the

car as it rolled into the Grunewald. The colonel seemed to feel more

comfortable here, Schneider noticed. Perhaps because from the heart of

the Grunewald jutted the Teufelsberg-the Devil's Mountain-a massive hill

constructed from the millions of tons of rubble that was Berlin after

the war. Schneider thought it depressingly symbolic that the highest

peak in Berlin was crowned by the futuristic onion domes of a gargantuan

U.S./British radar spying station. Rose slowed and turned to Schneider

as they rolled through the darkness.

"And what does all that tell you, Mr. Detective?"

"The 7.65mm slugs tell me Czech vz/61 Skorpion machine pistol. I

translate that KGB. I know it would be stupid for them to use one here,

but they've made stupid mistakes before. I also happen to know that, in

spite of the drawbacks of the 7.65 cartridge, several Berlin-based KGB

agents still favor the Skorpion. Granted, burglars could use one, but I

haven't seen any pass through the evidence room lately."

Rose eyed the German with increasing interest.

"Then there's the weapon that killed Seeckt. If burglars faked a

suicide, they had to shoot Seeckt, wipe the pistol, then press a set of

his fingerprints onto it. Leaving what?

One good set of Seeckt's prints. But there were dozens. If they used

gloves, they'd have smudged many of Seeckt's original prints. But they

didn't. So what happened? Burglars forced Seeckt to kill himself?

Unlikely. But the'KGB? It's possible. If KGB agents had just

discovered that Richardson had turned Seeckt, for example, Seeckt might

have preferred a quick bullet to what would have been waiting for him in

Lubyanka. My trieb, Colonel-my instinct-tells me that's what happened.

The question is, what was your man doing there in the first place? Was

Klaus Seeckt working for you?"

Rose said nothing.

"One more thing," Schneider added. "There was blood near the card."

Rose winced.

"A good bit of it, too. Colonel, I think Richardson, dropped that card

as an SOS. Why else would it be there?"

Without really knowing why, Rose decided to trust the German.. He

really didn't have much choice. "Harry Richardson's an exceptional

officer," he said tersely. "A bit of a loner, maybe, but sound as a

K-bar. Especially in tradecraft.

But even if he has been kidnapped, what makes you think he's not still

in West Berlin?"

Schneider's barrel chest swelled a size; he recognized the respect that

came with Rose's decision to trust him. "Because Russians wouldn't have

the nerve to keep him here," he explained. "East Germans would-the

Stasi has assets all over the city. But this crime scene was too clumsy

for tt Stasi.

They would never, never use weapons of Eastern manufacture in the West.

Also, burglars-turned-kidnappers would soon recognize their mistake in

snatching an American officer. Unless they were part-time terrorists,

it would scare them to death. That leaves one option-KGB.

It has to be."

"Alert the checkpoints," said Rose, his voice taking on the weight of

command. "See if any known agents have passed through tonight@' "I've

already checked," Schneider told him. "It's too late.

A bordet officer at Heinrich-Heine Strasse told me four KGB agents with

flawless cover passed through at elevenfifteen tonight.

Richardson was probably inside that car."

"Goddamn!"

"What was Richardson working on, Colonel?"

"Sorry, Schneider. I can't go that far."

"I see," the German said icily. "Well, then. I'll leave you to

discover the remaining facts for yourself."

Rose slammed on the brakes and glared at Schneider.

"Don't you hold out on me, Schneider! This is still a U.S.

military zone of occupation. I can have you r ass detained for a year

if I need to!"

"That is true," Schneider retorted. "But while you carry out that

useless exercise, your man could be dying in a KGB cell. Or worse yet,

he could be on the next flight to Moscow.

Even the KGB is smart enough to know that in East Berlin, a live

American major is more of a liability than an asset."

"You're pushing, Schneider."

The German's voice hardened. "I want this case, Colonel."

Rose pursed his lips and leaned back into his seat. "Okay, Detective,"

he said finally. "Quid pro quo. You give me everything you've got, and

I'll see you're included in any developments on this side of the Wall."

Schneider searched out Rose's eyes in the darkness. "You give me your

word as an American officer and a gentleman?"

Rose eyed the German strangely. "I didn't think that bought much

overseas anymore."

"It does from me," Schneider said solemnly.

Rose felt as if he had somehow stepped back in time. "As an officer and

a gentleman, then," he vowed.

"Gut, " grunted the German. Quickly he told Rose about Lieutenant

Luhr's unusual appearance at the murder scene, and his interest in

Richardson's card. When Schneider revealed that Prefect Funk was

personally directing the Spandau case from Abschnitt 53, Rose looked

very uncomfortable.

"Was Richardson working on something related to the Spandau incident?"

Schneider asked.

Rose nodded slowly.

The German shook his large head. "Something very big is happening,

Colonel. I can feel it. At 10:20 Pm. the prefect issued an

all-district alert for two police officers who allegedly murdered a

third in a dispute over drugs. And this murder supposedly took place in

that police station."

"What?"

Schneider nodded. "One of the 'fugitives' is a decorated officer, a

GSG-9 adviser, no less. And both"-the German smiled thinly-"were on the

team assigned to guard Spandau Prison last night."

Rose's eyes widened. "Holy shit!"

Schneider smiled with satisfaction. "Stasi agents call you 'God, the

All-Knowing,' Colonel. Did you know that?"

"I've heard," Rose answered, barely listening.

"I guess they exaggerate."

Rose grabbed the German's beefy shoulder. "Okay, Schneider, you listen.

Richardson wasn't due to report until 0800 this morning, so technically

he's still on schedule. But I've got a bad feeling about this. My

sphincter's twitching, and that ain't good." He paused.

"You got any whiskey on you?"

Schneider shook his head, nonplussed by the American's sudden change of

demeanor.

"Okay, here's the deal. Harry was looking into the Spandau thing for

me. He thought there was a lot more to it than your bosses were letting

on, and with the damned State Department and the Brits breathing down my

neck, I was all too willing to give him room to maneuver." Rose paused

angrily. "If you're right, and the Soviets have taken my boy over that

Wall .. ."

He smashed his fist against the Ford's dashboard. With an oath he

jerked the car into gear, made a screeching U-turn in the wooded lane,

jammed the accelerator to the floor and bored through the ranks of

frozen trees, making for the forest's edge.

"You gotta be anywhere, Schneider?" he growled.

"Nein. "

"You wanna be temporarily seconded to my command?"

"Jawohl, Herr Oberst!"

"Jesus Christ," Rose snorted. "Will you cut out that Kraut lingo?

Makes me nervous. You sound like you're in a goddamn John Wayne movie."

He glanced suspiciously at the German. "And on the wrong side."

Schneider choked off an acid reply.

To the German's astonishment, Rose snatched up a radiotelephone and

began transmitting en clair. Schneider couldn't believe it.

Hundreds of listening devices constantly sampled the ether over Berlin

and fed the intercepted transmissions into tape recorders in every

sector of the city.

Rose's call would be heard by at least a hundred people before morning,

yet he seemed unconcerned"Clary!" he shouted.

"Who's this?" came the sleepy reply.

"Wake up, son!"

"Colonel?"

"Clary, we've got a loose fish tonight, you copy that?"

Schneider heard deep breathing. He imagined the stunned sergeant,

wakened from a dead sleep to crazy code words coming from his telephone.

"Roger that, sir," Clary mumbled. "Loose fish. Is the fish still in

the boat?"

"Probable negative on that, Clary. The fish is out, repeat, out of the

boat. Copy?"

"That's a roge, sir."

Schneider looked bewildered.

"ETA camp ten minutes," Rose snapped.

"Copy that, sir, I'm outta here."

"Out."

Rose pushed the speed limit all the way through the Grunewald.

The American certainly knew his way around, Schneider reflected.

Despite the labyrinth of icy lanes winding through the forest, he burst

out of the trees less than a mile from U.S. Army headquarters.

"Russians," he muttered.

"Idiots."

"I beg your pardon, Colonel?"

"The Russians, Schneider. The goddamn Russkies, Reds, Commies,

whatever."

"What about them?" Schneider bit his lip. He had almost called the

American colonel "sir."

"I'll tell you what about them," Rose grumbled. "If those sons of

bitches have kidnapped my man and taken him over the Wall, that's a

goddamn act of war, that's what. And they're gonna find out who really

runs this burg, that's what!"

Schneider shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "And that is?"

"The U.S. Army, by God."

The German gave a hollow laugh, "Cut out that American imperialist

lingo, would you, Colonel? It makes me nervous."

Rose wasn't laughing.

2.05 A.m. The Natterman Cabin: Wolfshurg, FRG "Professor, wake up!"

Hauer prodded the old man. "Professor!"

Natterman moaned, then his eyes twitched open and his right arm shot

outward. "Karl!" he shouted.

Hans grabbed his outstretched hand. "Professor, it's Hans!

We're at your father's house."

The old man's eyes focused at last. He pulled his hand free.

"Yes ... Karl is dead?"

"I'm afraid so," said Hauer. He leaned over-the sofa where Natterman

lay and held up something shiny in his left hand. "What do you make of

this, Professor?"

Natterman took the object a'nd examined it briefly. "It's a gold

Krugerrand. Standard unit of currency in South Africa.

"Is it common?"

The professor shrugged. "Thousands of Germans own millions of them, I

should think. On paper, of course.

"Is the coin common?"

"I wouldn't think so. Where did you get it?"

"Hans picked it up outside, standing watch."

Natterman sat up. "My God!"

"What is it?"

"The man who attacked me ... I remember now! I recognized his accent.

It was Afrikaans!"

"Afrikaans? What do you make of that?"

Natterman pursed his lips. "I don't know. That man-the Afrikaner@arne

here to steal something, but I don't believe he knew exactly what he was

after until he actually saw the papers. He didn't seem to believe it,

even then."

"An errand boy?"

"That was my impression. What time is it, Hans?"

"A little after tWO A.M."

"Two! Don't let me fall asleep again. Is the telephone working?"

"Yes," Hauer replied, "but we haven't learned anything."

He had tried in vain to reach Josef Steuben at Abschnitt 53.

And at Steuben's home he'd got only the men he'd sent to protect

Steuben's family. No sign of his friend.

"The apartment's empty," Hans said anxiously.

"Ilse is all right," Natterman assured him. "You must believe that.

Even if someone has taken her, it's you they want.

They need her alive to draw you. They believe you will bring them what

they seek."

Hans nodded. "They're right."

Natterman's eyes grew wide. "Have you lost your senses?

The Spandau papers are much too important to be surrendered to anyone

like that."

Hans glared balefully at the old man. "I don't give a damn about those

papers, Professor. You'd better understand that now. I'd give them to

the devil himself to have Ilse here with us now." His eyes narrowed

suspiciously. "Where are the papers?"

Natterman looked hunted. "They're ... in the bathroom," he said.

"I'll get them."

Hauer kept silent. His brain was spinning. Bruderschaft der Phoenix

... The gold Krugerrand and the Afrikaner accent-like the calls from

Prefect Funk to Pretoria-had dropped into place like two more tumblers

in the lock that protected Phoenix from the outside world.

But what did South Africa have to do with Germany? What did Pretoria

share with Berlin? Hauer was still puzz!ing over this when the klaxon

ring of the old telephone in the bedroom shattered his concentration.

Both he and Hans raced to the phone.

"It's Ilse!" Hans cried, grabbing for the receiver.

Hauer caught his wrist in a grip of steel. "If it is, I'll give the

phone straight to you." He lifted the receiver as the raucous bell

clanged for the third time.

Two hundred and forty kilometers away, locked in an interrogation room

of Abschnitt 53, Prefect Wilhelm Funk nervously eyed a technician who

sat before three Marantz PMD-430 tape recorders.

Each tape deck was wired directly into the transmitter of Funk's

telephone. Two contained recordings of Ilse Apfel's voice, recorded at

gunpoint reading a script authorrd by Pieter Smuts, the Afrikaner known

to Funk by the code name Guardian. The third deck maintained a constant

level of background noise to mask the ONI oFF switching of the primary

machines. Praying that the elaborate deception would work, Funk began

his performance.

"I wish to speak to Sergeant Hans Apfel," he hissed, trying to mask his

distinctive growl.

"I know you, you bastard," said Hauer.

Funk abandoned all pretense. "I know you too, Hauer.

Fucking traitor. It's Sippenhaft for you, just like your friend

Steuben."

Hauer closed his eyes, trying in vain to steel himself against the

anguish. He had sent a man to his death. He had made a widow and

orphans.

"If Apfel isn't on the phone in ten seconds," Funk warned, "I

disconnect. Beginning now. Ten, nine, eight ..."

Hans snatched the proffered phone. "This is Sergeant Apfel.

Where is my wife?"

"Do not speak, Sergeant. In a moment your wife will read a prepared

statement. After-"

"Ilse!" Hans shouted. "Ilse?"

"One more outburst like that, and this conversation will be terminated.

After your wife finishes reading, you may ask questions, but keep them

simple. She's a bit under the weather."

Hans swallowed hard.

"Hans, listen to me-" He clenched the phone with all his strength.

Ilse's usually musical voice quavered with fear and'confusion, but he

knew the sound like his own breathing. He clapped his hand to his

forehead in relief, then balled it into a fist as the torment went on:

"... the men who are holding me require only one thing in exchange for

my freedom-the papers you discovered at Spandau. The papers belong to

them. You have illegally stolen their property. Restitution is all

that they seek. I do not know where I am. If you follow the

instructions you are given exactly, we will be reunited. If you deviate

from these instructions in any way, they will kill me. These men

possess a machine which can detect whether photocopies of a document

have been made. If copies have already been made, important them now and

bring all copies to the rendezvous. If you deny that copies have been

made, but their machine proves otherwise, I will be shot. Follow every

order exactly.

They . . . " At this point Ilse's voice broke. She sobbed and spoke at

the same time. "I saw them kill a man, Hans ... a policeman.

They killed him right in front of me. They cut his throat! " In

Berlin, the technician stopped the first tape machine.

Ilse's sobs seemed to fade into the familiar hiss of a poor

long-distance connection.

Hans could restrain himself no longer. "Ilse, they can have whatever

they want! Tell them! The papers! Anything!

Just tell me where to bring them!"

"Have any copies of the papers been made?" Funk asked.

Hans turned to Professor Natterman, who had appeared in the bedroom

door. "Did you make any copies of the papers?"

Natterman saw a mental image of his Xerox machine flashing in his

darkened office, but he banished it from his mind. "No," he said,

looking straight into Hans's eyes, "I didn't have enough time."

"There are no copies," said Hans, his eyes still on the old man.

"Noted," said Funk. "Now, listen carefully to your instructions.

Write them down. Error or delay will not be tolerated."

Hans snatched a pen and notepad from Hauer, who had anticipated the need

and procured the items from Professor Natterman's book satchel. Across

the top of the pad Hauer had scrawled: Stay calm.

Agree to everything they ask.

"Drive to Franlkfurt tomorrow morning," Funk began.

"There you will board the first available'flight to Johannesburg, South

Africa. Your final destination is Pretoria. It's forty miles north of

Johannesburg, but shuttle buses run constantly." Hans scribbled as fast

as he could. "Your wife informs us that you have no passport, but this

will not be a problem if you use the South African Airways counter. Do

you have that?"

"South African Airways," Hans said breathlessly.

"Your flight leaves at two Pm. Once in Pretoria, check into the

Burgerspark Hotel. Any taxi driver can take you to it. A suite will be

reserved for you. At eight Pm. you will be contacted and issued

instructions as to how to exchange the papers for your wife." Funk's

voice went cold. "If you are not in your room at the Burgerspark Hotel

by eight Pm. on the day after tomorrow-with the Spandau papers-your

wife will die. That is all, Sergeant."

"Wait! My questions!"

There was a long silence. "Two questions," Funk said finally.

Hans swallowed. "Liebchen, are you all right?" he stammered, not

knowing what else to say.

In Berlin Funk held up his index finger. The technician pressed the

PLAY button on machine 1. "Yes," came Ilse's quavering reply.

"Have they hurt you in any way?"

This time Funk raised two fingers. "No, " Ilse seemed to answer.

"Don't be afraid," Hans implored, trying to keep his voice steady.

"No matter what. I'm going to get you back-"

"That is all, Sergeant," Funk said sharply.

"Don't hang up! Please-please let me speak to her again.

I'm going to do everything you ask!"

While Hans pleaded, Funk held up two fingers. His assistant

fast-forwarded to a preset location on tape 2 and depressed PLAY one

last time. Ilse's voice burned down the wires, cracking with emotion.

Her words were an anguished cry of hope and despair captured during the

session at the point of Luhr's Walther. She had screamed them after

seeing Josef Steuben murdered, believing that she would be killed

herself when her taped statement was completed. Luhr had added it to

the programme himself-the perfect diabolical touch.

"Oh God, Hans!" she wailed. "We did it! I'm going to have a baby! "

She broke into sobs again.

Hans's mouth went dry. For a moment he stood speechless, his face a

graven image of horror. Then he howled from the depths of his soul.

"You fucking swine! I'm coming for her! If she's harmed you'll die

like pigs under the knife so help me God!"

Funk grinned, pleased by the suffering of the young man who had caused

him so much trouble. "Tell Hauer," he growled, "tell him to remember

Sippenhaft."

The line went dead.

With shaking hands Hans set the receiver back in its cradle and turned

to Natterman. "They have her," he said hoarsely. "And they want the

Spandau papers. Where are they, Professor?"

"Hans," Natterman said uncomfortably, "you can't make such a decision in

a fit of anger. You must take time to think."

. Hans's eyes had glazed. His mouth worked silently. "Just give me the

papers," he said finally.

With a desolate sigh the old historian dug the foil packet from his

trouser pocket and turned it slowly in his hand.

"They killed another policeman," Hans said in a robotic voice.

"Ilse said they cut his throat right in front of her."

Hauer's big hands were balled into fists.

Hans reached out to Natterman for the papers, but as he did a simple,

terrible realization struck him. The men who had kidnapped Ilse were

the same men who had gouged the Star of David into Erhard Weiss's chest

with a screwdriver.

His stomach clenched in agony. Never until this moment had he known

true fear.

Hauer's lips had begun to tremble. His jaw muscles flexed furiously.

"Wilhelm Funk is a dead man," he vowed. "I swear that by Steuben's

children. "

"I'm afraid that won't solve your problem," Natterman observed, backing

up a little. "Hans, please, you've got to try to think this thing

through rationally. What do these men want you to do?"

Hans stared unseeing at the old man. A single vision floated behind his

eyes, a searing memory of a Berlin dawn, two years before.

A kidnapped girl ... lithe and blond like Ilse ... the daughter of a

Bremerhaven shipping magnate. They'd fished her out of the Havel in the

gray morning light, her naked body bloated and lifeless, her sightless

eyes wide, her pubic hair matted with river slime. The kidnappers had

thrown her alive into the river with her hands tied behind her. The

thought that Ilse could end up like the wretched girl ...

Hans hadn't eaten a full meal for almost twenty hours, but his stomach

came up anyway. He bolted for the door, tripped over the dead

Afrikaner, and fell retching on the floor. Hauer tensed himself against

the smell, hoping Hans would feel better after relieving his nausea. He

didn't. He rose slowly, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and

stepped toward Natterman, his hand outstretched.

Natterman looked down at the foil packet, backed away a little.

Hauer edged closer. He had seen the flash of hysteria behind Hans's

eyes, and he knew that at this moment Hans was capable of anything.

He had moved just in time.

"Give me those papers!" Hans screamed. He lunged at the professor with

both hands extended, his eyes white with fury. Hauer hesitated, timing

his blow. As Hans's head surged past, he fired off a right jab that

caught him on the point of the chin, spinning him round.

Hauer grabbed him as he fell, easing him stomach-down onto the floor.

Before Natterman could speak, Hauer had handcuffed Hans and sat him up

against the bedroom wall.

"He went mad!" cried Natterman, his eyes wide. "He'd have killed me

for those papers!"

"Do you blame him?" Hauer asked, breathing heavily. He touched Hans's

bruised chin softly. Hauer felt a strange tightening in his throat.

"He'll come to in a minute, " he said, and he coughed to cover the catch

in his voice. "Just lay the papers on his lap. You won't have to worry

after that."

Natterman obeyed, but he looked unconvinced. "Where did you get those

handcuffs?"

"I always keep them with me. They're the most underrated tool in the

police arsenal." Hauer looked Natterman dead in the eye. "Now, I'd

like you to leave me alone with my son, please."

The professor retreated into the bedroom without a word.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

2.-07 A.M. Soviet Sector East Berlin, DDR Harry Richardson woke to the

sound of men shouting. His head still throbbed from the Russian's

pistol blow. Most of the duct tape had been removed from his body, but

his hands and mouth were still bound. Unsure of the position of his

captors, he kept his eyes closed. He soon realized that the voices were

coming from an adjacent room. There seemed to be three men arguing,

possibly four. He opened his eyes.

Nothing. Then he discerned a thin horizontal line of dim light-beneath

a door, he supposed. He recognized none of the voices, but they all

spoke Russian. One man seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty

speaking it.

"He can't stay here any longer," said the man with a heavy German

accent. "Not an American. And certainly not this one. I know him.

He's one of Rose's agents."

"Relax, Goltz," said a Russian voice. "This is the East, isn't it?

Ost-the heart of friendly territory. What can happen?"

Goltz. Hariy recognized the name. Axel Goltz, East German Stasi ...

"If you consider East Berlin friendly territory," Goltz said, you should

spend a day on the street here. The people hate us even more than they

hate you."

"You and your Stasi sisters have been letting things slide for too long

over here," Rykov said with contempt. "You don't have the balls for

anything rougher than blackmail."

"You are a fool," Goltz -said with surprising venom. "I command here-in

this house at least-and I say the American goes. Take him to Moscow. if

you wish, just get him out of Berlin. There are too many sharp eyes

here for him to stay invisible."

Rykov, thought Harry, finally making the connection.

Rykov was the Russian captain from Klaus's house. Suddenly the night's

events came rushing back to him. Klaus's suicide, the silenced bullets

thwacking into the wall beside the door, the argument between the young

KGB officers about what to do with himA door hzid slammed in the next

room. The squabble ended instantly. "Where is the American?"

asked a gruff voice.

"In the next room, Comrade Colonel. He's unconscious."

"Bring him in."

Behind the wall, Harry tensed. Colonel, he thought. Which colonel? But

as soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer.

Who but Ivan Kosov-the colonel he'd seen early this morning at Abschnitt

53? A bright vertical bar of light stabbed his eyes.

"Wake up, Major!"

Harry got to his knees, then made an effort to stand.

Rykov helped him.

"You hit me anyway, you bastard," Harry muttered.

"Nothing personal. Just easier."

Rykov seemed to be having difficulty walking. When Harry's eyes sought

the floor for balance, he spied a bloody tear below the knee of Rykov's

trousers, his souvenir from the checkpoint crossing.

Harry looked up as he passed into the next room, and he immediately

recognized four of the five men who awaited him. The gruff-voiced

colonel was Kosov. He lounged in a comfortable chair opposite a

portable television. Between Kosov and a door that Harry hoped led to

the street stood a hard-looking young man dressed from head to toe in

black.

Axel Goltz, the Stasi agent, sat behind a deal table next to Andrei

Ivanov, the corporal from Klaus's house. Goltz had restless eyes and

dark hair cropped close against his skull.

"The major needs a chair," said Kosov. "Misha?"

The black-clad Russian moved lithely to the table, lifted one of the

armless wooden chairs and placed it opposite Kosov. Rykov shoved Harry

into the chair, then ripped the tape from his mouth. The sudden pain

brought tears to his eyes, but passed quickly. He held out his hands to

Misha, who looked questioningly at Kosov.

"No!" Rykov objected. "He doesn't need his hands."

"One gentleman to another," said Harry, his eyes on Kosov.

Kosov chuckled, then nodded to Misha, who broug it out his stiletto and

cut through the sticky mess like tissue paper.

Rykov laid a hand on the Skorpion machine pistol in his belt.

"Now that you're comfortable," said Kosov in heavily accented English,

"what have you to tell me?"

"What do you want to know?"

"What you were doing at Klaus Seeckt's house."

"Routine debriefing," Harry said offhandedly. "Twice monthly."

"He's lying!" Rykov snapped in Russian. "He almost broke down the door

trying to get in!"

Kosov looked to Corporal Ivanov for corroboration.

"He's right," Andrei admitted grudgingly. "Nothing routine about it.

The major also speaks excellent Russian."

"You see, Major?" Kosov said. "There's no point in trying to deceive

me. I regret that my men brought you here at all, of course.

I asked for a German policeman, I got back an American major. An

unfortunate accident. But now that the mistake has been made, I intend

to use the opportunity to ask you a few questions. You would do the

same, I think."

Harry shrugged.

"I simply wish to know the details of your relationship with Klaus

Seeckt. Then I can make arrangements for your safe return to West

Berlin."

Harry almost laughed. Mistake or not, the Russians had kidnapped him.

To return him now would be admitting it, and they wouldn't do that. Even

if Colonel Rose had known he was going to Klaus's house-which Rose

hadn'the would have no way of knowing Harry had been taken into the DDR.

He might eventually suspect it, but by then the chances of getting Harry

back would be.slim. And if the Russians moved him any father east, the

odds fell to zero.

This situation required desperate measures. Shock tactics.

Looking straight at Kosov, Harry crossed his legs and began to speak

flawless, aristocratic Russian.

"You'd better write this down, Kosov. If you bungle this, Chairman

Zemenek will have you back in the Fifth Chief Directorate so fast you

won't have time to pack your shorts.

You'll be chasing filthy Tatars for the rest of your life."

Kosov started, both at the perfection of Richardson's Russian and the

reference to his old job. "What do you know about me, Major?" he asked

warily.

"Only what's necessary. Which isn't much, I'm afraid.

Ivan Leonidovich Kosov: Born Moscow 1943, entered service 1962, excelled

at repression in the provinces-notably Azerbaijan-for the Second Chief

Directorate. That and your father-in-law's influence got you

transferred to Directorate 'K' in 1971, stationed Yugoslavia. A little

more competent than the average K-man, you obtained a posting to the

East Berlin Rezidentura in 1978, where you've performed @uately for the

past ten years."

"Leave us," Kosov told his men.

Axel Goltz spoke up angrily. "But Colonel@' "Now!" bellowed Kosov.

"Only Misha remains."

When the others had left the room, Kosov said, "Your Russian is

excellent, Major. You have a good memory. So what? You think I don't

know as much about you?"

Harry looked over at the predatory Misha standing motionless in the

shadows. "No, Colonel, I don't. There is a gap in your ...

'consciousness,' shall we say?"

Kosov grunted. "What kind of gap?"

"The fact that we occasionally work for the same team.

Broadly speaking. I went to Klaus Seeckt's house tonight to deliver a

message."

"Come now, Major, I would know if you had any connection with KGB."

Harry snorted. "You think you're made aware of everything that happens

in Berlin? Perhaps you are a fool, Kosov."

The Russian paled as he held up a hand to restrain Misha.

'You speak confidently for a man facing death," he said softly.

"I thought you were sending me bapk to West Berlin."

Kosov grimaced. "Tell me, do you have any proof of this fantastic

story? The rich American who secretly serves the worker's paradise?"

Harry played out a little more bait. "I assume you, fare miliar with

the Twelfth Department of your Directorate?"

Kosov nodded almost imperceptibly.

"My contact is Yuri Borodin. Klaus Seeckt was one of our conduits."

Kosov blinked. "What can this fiction profit you, Major?

An extra hour of confusion? You are going to Moscow regardless of what

you say here, and it's there your fate will be decided."

Kosov sounded confident, but Harry had seen the doubt flicker into his

eyes at the mention of the Twelfth Department. The Twelfth Department

was an elite branch of the KGB-an all-star team recruited from veterans

of other KGB departments who had proved themselves expert at moving in

international society. Developed under Yuri Andropov, the Twelfth

Department had more autonomy than any other branch of the service; its

agents were allowed to pursue their chosen quarry anywhere in the world.

Harry's personal history of wealth and privilege made him an excellent

target for a man like Yuri Borodin; plus he had seen Borodin in the

company of Klaus Seeckt. He thought his desperate story might stand up

to perhaps an hour's scrutiny.

"Tell me about this mysterious message, Major," said Kosov.

My God, thought Harry. He's buying it. "Sorry, Colonel," he said

gravely. "The message is for Borodin alone."

"You had better tell me something," Kosov warned. "Or I may see fit to

let Misha persuade you. He's most eager to do so."

Harry gave a sardonic smile. "That's about what I'd expect from an old

Second Directorate thug."

Kosov came up out of his chair. He moved very fast for a big man.

For a moment Harry thought he had carried things too far, but the

Russian sat down again, albeit slowly.

Harry didn't want to push Kosov over the edge@nly up to it.

"I'm waiting," Kosov rasped.

Here goes, Harry thought. In the past two minutes he had pieced

together the most plausible story he could from the meager facts he

possessed about the Spandau case. Play out the bait, wait for the

strike . . . "I can tell you this much, Colonel," he said, "U.S.

Military Intelligence is fully aware of the content of the papers found

at Spandau Prison. While your moronic thugs were kidnapping me, our

State Department was considering a request from the British government

to turn over an abstract of those papers to mI-5. My message for

Borodin concerns those papers, and if you don't appreciate the

sensitivity of that issue, it's your misfortune. So, why don't you get

off your fat ass and verify my story before you sabotage what remains of

your less-than-illustrious career."

It was a shot in the dark, but it struck home.

Kosov stood up and studied Harry. "An interesting story, Major.

Tell me, how is our one-eyed friend these. days?"

Harry felt a jolt of confusion. Kosov had blind sighted him.

One-eyed friend? Did Kosov mean Yuri Borodin? As far as Harry knew,

Borodin had two perfectly good eyes. Harry racked his memory for a

one-eyed man, but all he could come up with was a black kid from

Baltimore who'd lost both his eyes to shrapnel in the DMZ. Jesus- "I

don't quite get you, Colonel," he said lamely.

Kosov smiled. "Well, then, Major, how about the Spandau papers?

Did they mention any names?"

"Several. Hess, for one."

"Naturally. Any others?"

"None I'd care to mention," Harry said tersely, feeling the noose

closing around him.

"I'll mention a few, then." The Russian grinned. "Tell me if you

recognize any. Chernov? Frolov?" Kosov waited.

"No? How about Zinoviev?"

Just the house wine, thanks, Harry thought crazily. He felt cold sweat

heading on the back of his neck. Russian names?

What the hell could they have to do with Spandau?

"Well, Major?"

"Zinoviev," Harry whispered.

Kosov blanched. "Rykov!"

The three agents rushed back into the room like hungry Dobermans.

Kosov seized his overcoat from a rack by the door and issued orders

while he pulled it on.

"Hold the major here until I,return from headquarters. I need to call

Moscow and I want a line the Stasi can't tap."

"But Herr Oberst!" Axel Goltz objected, venting his anxiety at last.

"We can't keep an American here! If Rose finds out, the reaction could

be very severe. Why@' "Stop whining!" Kosov snapped.

"Act like a German, for God's sake! You can manage without me for an

hour.

Misha?"

The black-clad killer whipped open the door. Kosov hurried through and

crunched down the snowy drive, his silent footpad on his heels. The

door banged shut.

Harry sat completely still. He couldn't quite believe that his

desperate ploy had worked. One brief glance through the open door had

told him what he wanted to know-that the room they now occupied stood at

ground level, not on the tenth floor of some human warehouse in Pankow-

Quickly he mapped the room in his mind: Andrei and Goltz by the deal

table; a sofa with a broken spine against the far wall; a large

curtained window at right angles to the sofa; Kosov's empty chair,

facing him; one door leading to the room where he had been held earlier,