Spandau Phoenix

“You did. Why’s that?”

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? With the ham-fisted way the Soviets have handled the Spandau mess so far, I figured the negotiations would have to be bumped up a notch on both sides. Sir.”

“Can the ‘sir’ crap, Harry. Just what do you think did happen last night?”

“Do you have anything that wasn’t on TV?”

“Nothing substantive. Master Sergeant Jackson pretty much confirmed the press accounts of the incident, and the German police aren’t saying squat. Christ, you’d think if the Russians wanted to file a complaint against the Army, they’d give it to us and not the goddamn State Department.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “If it’s got anything to do with Spandau, the State Department doesn’t trust us, and you know why.”

“Bird,” Rose muttered. He sighed wearily. In 1972 the first U.S. commandant of Spandau Prison, Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Bird, had been relieved of his duties for secretly bringing a tape recorder and camera into Spandau over a period of months and compiling a book on Rudolf Hess, which was published in 1974. The colonel’s entrepreneurial spirit hadn’t exactly improved the relationship between the Army and the State Department.

“The point,” Rose went on, “is that the ambassador will be here in the morning, and he’ll want to grill me for breakfast. I want you with me when I talk to him, and I want to know everything he’s going to say before he says it.”

“No problem, Colonel.”

“Okay, Harry, what’s your read on this thing?”

“I’m not sure yet. I was over at Abschnitt 53 for a few minutes this morning—”

“You what?”

“I’ve got a friend over there,” Harry explained.

“Naturally.” Rose opened his bottom drawer and set the bottle of Wild Turkey between them on the desk. “Drink?” he asked, already pouring two shots.

Harry accepted the glass, raised it briefly, then drank it off neat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “As I was saying, Colonel, I dropped by there just to get a feel for what was going on. The problem was, I couldn’t even get near my guy’s office. I got through the reporters okay, but inside the station it was wall-to-wall cops. There was a squad of Russian soldiers guarding the cellblock, and they weren’t ceremonial roosters. One guy was wearing a sergeant’s uniform, but he was no noncom. Wasn’t even regular army. KGB down to his BVDs.”

Rose groaned. “Is this the Hess thing again?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so, Colonel. They’ve run Hess into the ground already. Pardon the pun, but it’s a dead issue.”

“So, what is it?”

“I think this is a Russian territorial thing. Spandau was a Soviet foothold in West Berlin—small maybe, but they don’t like giving it up.”

“Hmm. What about the Russian accusations that someone murdered Hess?”

Harry sighed. “Colonel, I don’t think the Russians ever believed Prisoner Number Seven was Hess. But if this is about Hess, I think we should stay out of it. Let the Russians knock themselves out. They’ve been obsessed with the case for years. But I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s Russian paranoia, plain and simple.”

“Jesus,” Rose grumbled, “I thought the goddamn Cold War was over.”

Harry smiled wryly. “The reports of its death have been greatly exaggerated. Which reminds me, Colonel, I caught a glimpse of Ivan Kosov at that police station this morning.”

“Kosov! What the hell was that old bear doing in our sector?”

Harry shrugged. “We’d better find out.”

“Okay, what do you need?”

“Do you have a list of all personnel with access to the Spandau site last night? Ours and theirs?”

“I’ll have Clary get Ray down here to crack the computer file.”

“Don’t bother, I’ll get it.”

“Ray’s the only one with the codes, Harry. He buries that stuff deep.”

Harry smiled thinly. “Just get me into his office.”

Rose cocked an eye at Richardson, then pushed on. “There’s something else. I know you’re pretty chummy with some of the Brits over here. Been fishing in Scotland with a few ministers and such. But on this thing—the Spandau thing—I’d like to keep the Brits out of it. Just for the time being. It’s a matter of—”

“Understood, Colonel. You’re not sure they’ve always played straight with us on the Hess affair.”

“Exactly,” Rose said, relieved. “Even if you’re right about this not having anything to do with Hess, I’d feel better keeping it in-house for a while.”

“No problem.”

Rose smiled humorlessly. “Right. I’ll just—”

“Shit,” Harry muttered. “There is one problem. I’ve got a racquetball date this evening with a girl from the British embassy.”

“Cancel it.”

Harry looked thoughtful. “Colonel, I understand your thinking on this, but don’t you think breaking the date might call more attention—”

“I’ll tell you what I think!” Rose cut in with surprising force. “I think the goddamn Brits killed Hess! And during our goddamn guard month! How about that?” His face flushed. “You think I’m crazy, Major?”

Harry swallowed his surprise. “No, sir. I wouldn’t say that scenario was outside the realm of possibility.”

“Possibility! Ever since Gorbachev came out with the goddamn glasnost, the limeys have been quaking in their boots thinking the Russians would go soft and let Hess out to spill his guts to the world. The Russians were the only ones vetoing his release those last few years, you know. The Brits knew if they ever had to step in and veto it, all the old questions would start again.” Rose nodded angrily. “I think those smug sons-of-bitches slipped one of their ex-SAS killers over the wall last month, strangled that old Nazi, and left us holding the goddamn bag! That’s what I think about the British, Major! And you will cancel your racquetball date as of now. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, Colonel.”

“I want your report on my desk by oh-eight-hundred,” Rose growled.

Harry stood, saluted, and marched out.

“Clary!” Rose’s gruff baritone boomed through the open door.

“Yes, sir?”

“Let Major Richardson into Captain Donovan’s office. He’s got a little work to do on the computer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Clary?”