Spandau Phoenix

Ilse fought the urge to blurt out everything. She didn’t want to involve Eva any more than she already had. “I don’t know, Eva, I don’t know. Hans found something. Something dangerous!”

“It’s drugs, isn’t it?” Eva wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Hashish or something, right?”

“I told you, I don’t know. But it’s bad. There’s a man in the hall right now and he’s waiting for Hans to get home. There are three more men outside by the doors!”

“What? Outside here? Who do you mean, child? Police?”

Ilse threw up her hands. “I don’t know! All I know is that Hans’s station said he left hours ago. I’ve got to get out of here, Eva. I’ve got to warn Hans.”

“How can you warn him if you don’t know where he is?”

Ilse wiped a wet streak of mascara from her cheek. “I don’t know,” she said, trying to stop her tears. “But first I’ve got to get past those men outside.”

As the old barmaid watched Ilse’s mascara run, a hot wave of anger flushed her cheeks. “You dry those tears,” she said. “There hasn’t been a man born to woman that Mama Eva can’t handle.”

10:10P.M.Europa Center, Breitscheid Platz: West Berlin

Major Harry Richardson stared curiously at the receding back of Eduard Lenhardt, his contact in Abschnitt 53. In seconds the policeman disappeared into the crush of bodies crowding the bar of the imitation Irish pub in the basement of the Europa Center, West Berlin’s answer to the American megamall. This twenty-two-story tower housed dozens of glitzy shops, bars, restaurants, banks, travel agencies, and even a hotel—all of whose goods and services seemed to be priced for the Japanese tourist. Harry had chosen it for its crowds.

He swallowed the last of an excellent Bushmill’s and tried to gather his thoughts. Eduard Lenhardt was only the third in a chain of personal contacts Harry had spoken with tonight. Contrary to Colonel Rose’s orders, Harry had kept his racquetball date. And by so doing, he had learned that Sir Neville Shaw, director of Britain’s MI-5, had ordered British embassy personnel to burn the midnight oil in West Berlin. Shortly after that, Harry had called a State Department contact in Bonn, an old college buddy, who had let it slip that the Russian complaint filed against the U.S. Army specified papers taken from Spandau Prison as the primary object of Soviet concern. The British and the French had received the same complaint. Harry could well imagine the British consternation at such an allegation. After the phone call, Harry had finally gained an audience with his reluctant contact from Abschnitt 53—Lieutenant Eduard Lenhardt.

Lenhardt had revealed information to Harry in three ways: by what he’d said, by what he hadn’t said, and simply by how he’d looked. In Harry’s professional opinion, the policeman had looked scared shitless. What he had not said was anything about papers found in Spandau Prison. What he had said was this:

That the prefect of police, Wilhelm Funk, had moved out of the Police Presidium and set up a command post in Abschnitt 53, after which the station had taken on the demeanor of an SS barracks after Graf Stauffenberg’s briefcase exploded in Hitler’s bunker. That two Berlin policemen had been detained in a basement cell, then had either escaped or been killed. And that while the Russians had pulled out of Abschnitt 53 at eight, they had acted as if they might return at any time with T-72 tanks. All this in breathless gasps from a veteran policeman whom Harry had never seen get excited about anything other than the piano quartets of Brahms.

Harry dropped ten marks on the table and hurried out of the pub. Sixty seconds later he was on the Ku’damm, where he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver an address near the Tiergarten. The man who occupied the house there was one of Harry’s “private assets,” a rather high-strung German trade liaison named Klaus Seeckt. During Harry’s first year in Berlin, he had spotted Klaus at the Philharmonie, in the company of an arrogant and well-known KGB agent named Yuri Borodin. It hadn’t taken Harry long to establish that Klaus was using his semi-official cover to funnel restricted technology to Moscow. That had not interested Harry much; what had interested him—after a thorough investigation of Seeckt—was that while Klaus dealt directly with the KGB, he had no ties, voluntary or otherwise, to the East German secret police, the Stasi. And that was a very rare combination in Berlin.

Rather than arrest Klaus for the high-tech ripoff, Harry had opted to use his leverage whenever he needed a direct line into KGB operations. He never even filed a report on Klaus. Colonel Rose might have insisted that Harry push the German too hard, which would only have spooked him into fleeing the city. Men like Klaus had to be treated delicately. Harry cultivated the man’s ego, pretending to share with him the fraternal enjoyment of superior intellect, and applied pressure only when necessary.

Tonight was different. Eduard Lenhardt’s apprehensions were worming their way into Harry’s gut, and the checks he normally kept on his imagination began to erode as his mind raced through the possible implications of the events at Abschnitt 53. When the taxi reached the Tiergarten house, Harry tipped its driver enough to satisfy, but not enough to draw attention. And as he reached Klaus’s door, he decided that his sensitive East German would have to pay the remainder of his debt tonight.

10:10P.M.The Bismarckstrasse

“Captain!” Hans warned. “Motorcycle patrol, three cars back!”

“I see him.” Hauer swung the Volkswagen smoothly around a corner just as the traffic signal changed, stranding the police cycle in the line of vehicles stopped at the light. “We’ve got to get off the street.”

“Where do we go? My apartment? Your house?”

“Think, Hans. They’ll be covering both places.”

“You’re right. Maybe—” He grabbed Hauer’s sleeve. “Jesus, Ilse’s at the apartment alone!”

“Easy, Hans, we’ll get her. But we can’t walk in there like lambs to the slaughter.”

“But Funk could have men there already!”

“Hold your water. Where are we, Bergstrasse? There should be a hotel four blocks south of us. The Steglitz. Just what we need.”

“A hotel?”

“Get in the backseat,” Hauer ordered, and stepped on the accelerator.

“What are you going to do?”

“Do it!”

As Hans climbed into the backseat, Hauer ripped the police insignia from his collar and spurred the VW into the Steglitz garage. The violent turn threw Hans against the side door. They squealed down the curving ramp to the parking sublevels below and into a tiny space between two large sedans.

“All right, Hans,” Hauer said. “Out with it. Everything. What really happened at Spandau this morning?”

Hans climbed awkwardly through the narrow gap between the seats. “I’ll tell you on the way to my apartment.”

Hauer shook his head. “We don’t move one meter until you talk.”

Hans bridled, but he could see that Hauer would not be swayed. “Look, I would have reported it if it hadn’t been for those damned Russians.”

“Reported what?”

“The papers. The papers I found at Spandau.”

“Christ, you mean the Russians were right?”

Hans nodded.

“Where did you find these papers? What did they say?”

Hauer looked strangely hungry. Hans looked out the window. “I found them in a pile of rubble. In a hollow brick, just like Schmidt asked me. What does it matter? I started reading them, but one of the Russians stumbled on me. I hid them without even thinking.” He turned to Hauer. “That’s it! That’s all I did! So why has everyone gone crazy?”

“What did the papers say, Hans?”

“I don’t know. Gibberish, mostly. Ilse said it was Latin.”

“You showed them to your wife?”

“I didn’t intend to, but she found them. She understood more of it than I did, anyway. She said the papers had something to do with the Nazis. That they were dangerous.” He looked down at his lap. “God, was she right.”

“Tell me everything you remember, Hans.”

“Look, I hardly remember any of it. The German part sounded bitter, like a revenge letter, but … there was fear in it, too. The writer said he had written because he could never speak about what he knew. That others would pay the price for his words.”

Hauer hung on every syllable. “What else?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“It was Latin, I told you! I couldn’t read it!”