Spandau Phoenix

The East German slumped against the foyer wall, his pistol hanging slack. He looked broken, already resigned to the grisly fate that undoubtedly awaited him in Moscow. Corporal Andrei Ivanov moved to disarm him.

“As you can see, Major,” Rykov continued, “you’ve stumbled upon us at a most inopportune time. I’ll certainly speak to my superiors about it, but I suspect that your unfortunate timing may cost you your life—”

Before Andrei could reach the unfortunate Klaus, the East German raised the Makarov to his own temple and fired.

The sheer madness of the act stunned everyone, causing a moment of confusion. In desperation Harry bolted for the door. He had his fingers on the brass door handle when someone peppered the wall beside him with a burst from a silenced machine pistol.

“Don’t move, Major!” Captain Rykov ordered, his voice strained but even.

Harry let his fingers fall from the handle. He turned around slowly. In the time it had taken him to reach the door, the Russians behind him had been transformed from a quiet group of social acquaintances into a squad of paramilitary soldiers moving in concert to control the unexpected emergency. Two men knelt over Klaus’s body, checking for signs of life; two others covered the front and rear windows of the house. Rykov issued orders.

“Yuri, get the car. Major, move back into the room. Now!” Rykov tapped the shoulder of a young man leaning over Klaus’s corpse. “Leave him, Andrei. Touch nothing. Klaus was a traitor; he deserved a coward’s death. Leave the gun in his hand. We couldn’t have set this up better ourselves.”

“Shouldn’t we take him along?” Andrei asked. “The Kriminalpolizei aren’t stupid.”

Rykov’s eyes gleamed. “Ideally, I suppose. But we won’t have room for him.”

“What about the weapons compartment?”

“The major will be in there.” Rykov turned to Harry. “You don’t want to spend the next hour hugging a corpse, do you, Major?”

Harry’s mind raced. If this Russian intended to kidnap an American army officer from the heart of tightly controlled West Berlin, something very big indeed was going on. And to Harry’s mind, that something could only be the events at Spandau Prison.

“Kosov won’t like this,” he said, remembering seeing the Russian colonel at Abschnitt 53 this morning. “You better take some time to think, Captain.”

Rykov smiled. “You’re very clever, Major.”

The sound of an engine rumbled through the front door.

“That’s Yuri,” said Rykov. “All right, Major, let’s go.”

Harry didn’t move.

“Conscious or unconscious, I don’t care. But I must tell you, it’s never quite as clean as the movies when you bash someone in the back of the head with a pistol.”

Harry moved. He couldn’t warn Colonel Rose if he was dead.

It was only a few steps from the front door to the car, a black Mercedes 190. The Russians crowded close around him all the way. There’s got to be a way out, thought Harry. Got to be. I’ve got to warn—

Dmitri Rykov slammed the butt of his Skorpion machine pistol into the base of Harry’s skull. He heard a dull thud but no crunch. “Americans are so gullible,” he said, laughing. “Lucky for this one he has a wooden head.”

Corporal Ivanov looked distressed. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just kill him here?” he said anxiously. “Make it look like some illegal business, perhaps a homosexual tryst?”

“I’m in command here,” Rykov snapped, losing a bit of his earlier control. “I’ll do the thinking.”

“Yes, sir. I was only thinking of Colonel Kosov. If he doesn’t approve—”

“I know what Kosov wants, Corporal. Did he not choose me for command? We may need this American later as a bargaining chip.” Rykov’s voice softened. “Andrei, the other team is running down Sergeant Apfel’s wife as we speak. Kosov is with them. Do you want us to return to East Berlin empty-handed?”

Ivanov did not look entirely convinced, but he said no more.

Lying half-conscious at their feet, Harry slipped a hand into his inside coat pocket, fished out a white business card, and let it fall. There was no name on it—only a telephone number. As the Russians lifted him into the Mercedes, he glanced down. He saw his own blood, but the white card had already vanished against the snow.

10:31 P.M. Lietzensee Park, British Sector

“Once again,” Ivan Kosov said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Where did the girl get out?”

Pressed into the corner of the taxi’s rear seat, Eva Beers scowled and said nothing. Her hands were tied behind her head with her own stockings. The young Russian called Misha had twice smashed her right cheek with his gloved fist, but so far Eva had refused to speak.

“Misha,” Kosov growled.

The interior of the taxi echoed with the force of the third blow. A large purplish bruise was already visible beneath the thick patina of makeup Eva wore. In the front seat beside Kosov, Ernst the cabbie slumped unconscious over the wheel of his old Mercedes.

“I have no time for your stupid loyalty, woman,” Kosov said. “If you don’t answer this time, this zealous young man will have to slit the throat of your sleepy old hero. You don’t want that, do you?”

Misha drew a long-bladed stiletto from an ankle sheath and brandished it under Eva’s chin.

“I think he’s quite eager to use that,” observed Kosov. “Aren’t you, Misha?”

Eva saw feral eyes glinting in the dark.

“Now, where did Frau Apfel get out?”

Eva struggled to think through the pain of the blows and her growing apprehension that she would not survive the night. How long had Ernst evaded the black sedan? Two minutes? Three? With his taxi finally trapped in the dead-end lane beside the Lietzensee lake, the old cabbie had done his best to fend the Russians off, but the young KGB agents had simply been too agile for him. How far could Ilse have gotten in that time?

Without warning Misha savagely thrust his knee into Eva’s left breast, crushing it—

“All right!” she gasped.

The pressure eased a little. “You have regained your memory?” Kosov asked.

Perhaps they’ll spare Ernst, Eva thought. Swine. “We stopped two or three blocks back,” she whispered. “When we rounded a corner. Ilse jumped out there.”

“Sko’lka?” asked Kosov. “Two blocks or three? Which is it?”

Again Misha jabbed his knee forward. “Stop!” Eva begged. “Please!” She could fight no more, but she could fire a last covering shot. “Three blocks,” she lied, laboring for breath. “The Seehof Hotel … by the lake. She ran inside.”

Kosov nodded. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Eva gulped air like a landed fish.

Kosov sighed angrily, debating with himself. How in hell was he supposed to find the Spandau papers? Three times Moscow had signaled him, each time telling him just a little more about the Hess case, doling out information like scraps of meat to a dog. Names without physical descriptions, dates of events Kosov had never heard of. And at the center of it all, apparently, a one-eyed man who had no name. Kosov could make no sense of it. And of course that was how Moscow wanted it.

“Now that you’re talking,” he said amiably, “I have one more question. Did Frau Apfel mention any names in connection with what her husband found?”

“No,” Eva groaned. “She told me someone was after her, that’s all. I didn’t ask—”

Unbelievably, Misha’s knee buried itself still deeper into Eva’s chest. The pain was excruciating. She felt as if she were going to vomit. “Please!” she choked.

The pressure relented just enough for her to take a shallow breath. Kosov heaved a bearlike shoulder over the front seat and bellowed, “Names, woman! Names are what I want! Did Frau Apfel mention the name Zinoviev to you? Do you hear me? Z-I-N-O-V-I-E-V. It’s a Russian name. Did she mention it?”

Eva shook her head violently. She had passed the point of being able to lie, and something in her eyes must have shown it. After several moments Kosov nodded, and Misha removed his knee from her chest. The old colonel’s face softened.

“Unlike my young friend,” he murmured, “I do not believe in needless killing. However, if you are lying—that is, if we do not find Frau Apfel, or if you feel the sudden urge to speak to the authorities—well, quite obviously we know where to find you. And we will find you. I would send Misha personally. Do you understand?”

Eva lay as still as she could. The animals were going to let her live. “Ja,” she breathed.

“Good.” Kosov climbed out of the old taxi. “Misha, a reminder.”

With an expert flick of his stiletto, the young KGB agent opened a two-inch gash along Eva’s left cheek. Eva shrieked in pain. Misha grinned, watching her struggle in vain to reach the wound and stop the bleeding. As the young Russian backed out of the taxi, Kosov’s hard face appeared in the front window.

“Free her hands,” he ordered.

Cursing quietly, Misha slashed the stockings over Eva’s head. But instead of getting out of the car, he thrust his hand viciously beneath Eva’s skirt and clenched her pubic mound in a clawlike fist. With flashing eyes he leaned close so that Kosov couldn’t hear. “When I find your little friend,” he snarled, “the pretty one—she’s going to bleed, old woman. Everywhere.” He wrenched his hand away, tearing hair and skin as he backed out of the taxi.

Shaking like an epileptic, Eva turned away and tried to stanch the flow of blood from her lacerated face. She heard Kosov’s BMW skid around and speed down the Lietzensee-Ufer in the direction of the Seehof Hotel. “Screw you,” she spat. “Swine. You’ll never find her.” Slowly she leaned forward and put her bloody hand to the old cabbie’s forehead. “Ernst, are you all right? Poor darling, you fought well for an old soldier. Wake up for Eva.”

The old man didn’t move.

If only some of my old friends were here, Eva lamented. That young pig’s balls would be meat for the dogs.

Ernst groaned and jerked forward in his seat. “Wo sind sie!” he cried, flailing his arms.

“They’re gone,” Eva said, soothing his forehead with a knowing hand. “All gone. You can take me home now, my brave knight. We’ll mend our scratches together.”

10:33 P.M. South African Airspace: 100 km Northeast of Pretoria

The JetRanger helicopter stormed northward beneath a moonless African sky, startling flocks of black heron, spooking herds of impala and zebra gathered around the waterholes on the veld below. Inside the chopper’s luxurious cabin, Alfred Horn sat gripping the arms of his wheelchair, which was bolted to the carpeted deck by specially designed fittings. Pieter Smuts, Horn’s Afrikaner security chief, leaned closer to his master and spoke above the low beating drone of the rotor blades.

“I wanted to wait until we were airborne to tell you, sir.”

The old man nodded slowly. “What is so important that you don’t even trust your own security?”

“We’ve received the new figures from Britain, sir. The American figures. They were delivered by courier just an hour ago.”

“The Bikini figures?”

“More than that. Sixty-five percent of American test data from Eniwetok Atoll in ’fifty-two up to the test ban in ’sixty-three.” The Afrikaner shook his head. “Sir, you can’t imagine what a one megaton surface blast will actually do.”

“Yes, I can, Pieter.”

“It leaves a crater one mile across and sixteen stories deep. Christ, we’ve got the design, the plants … If we had six months, we could probably divert—”

“I’ll be dead in six months!” Horn snapped. “What do these figures tell you about our current resources?”

“The blast effects will be greater than we predicted. Using round figures, a forty-kiloton air burst should vaporize everything within three kilometers of ground-zero. Intense heat will incinerate anything for a five-kilometer radius beyond that. And the resulting winds and fires will wreak havoc for a considerable distance beyond those already mentioned.”

“And the fallout?” Horn asked.

“Twenty percent higher than we predicted.”

Horn digested this without emotion. “And these figures … you believe they are more reliable than our own?”

“Sir, except for the secret Indian Ocean test, all South African figures are purely theoretical. By definition they are predictions. The American figures represent verified data.”

Horn nodded thoughtfully. “Apply them to our scenario.”

“Everything depends on the target, sir. Obviously, ground-zero at the center of Tel Aviv or Jerusalem would obliterate either city. But if the weapon were used at the right time, its effects could be greatly enhanced, possibly even doubled, by a collateral factor: the weather.”

“How?”

“By the wind, sir. At this time of year the prevailing winds in Israel blow southeast. If the weapon were detonated in Jerusalem, the fallout would probably dissipate over Jordan. But if it were detonated in Tel Aviv, not only would it obliterate the city, but it might well spread a lethal blanket of strontium-90 over Jerusalem within one or two hours.”

Horn closed his eyes and sighed with satisfaction. “And if we get the cobalt-seeded bomb case in time?”

The Afrikaner turned his palms upward. “We won’t, sir. Not sooner than twenty days. The technical problems are formidable.”

“But if we did get it?”

Smuts pursed his lips. “With a cobalt-seeded bomb case and the revised yield figures, I’d say … sixty percent of the Israeli population would be dead within fourteen days, and Palestine would be rendered uninhabitable for at least a decade.”

Horn let out a long sigh. “Increase the bounty, Pieter. Five million rand in gold to the team that delivers a cobalt bomb case within seven days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do we have any further information on the Israeli doctrinal response?”

Smuts shook his head. “Our London source dried up after we requested the American satellite photos. Frankly, I don’t even trust his initial reports on that subject.”

“Why?”

“Do you really think Israel would target Russian cities?”

Horn smiled. “Of course. It’s the only way the Jews could win a war against a united Arab force. They must be able to prevent Soviet resupply of the Arabs, and the only way they can do that is to blackmail the Soviets. What do they have to lose by doing so?”

“But the deployment plan for Israel’s nuclear arsenal is the most closely guarded secret in the world. How could our London source know what he claims to know?”

Horn smiled. “Not the most closely guarded secret, Pieter. No one has yet proved that South Africa’s nuclear arsenal even exists.”

“Thanks in no small part to us,” Smuts observed. The Afrikaner began cracking his knuckles. “The Russian matter aside, I think we can safely assume that if Tel Aviv or Jerusalem were destroyed, Israel would go beyond a measured response. If they knew the source of the attack, they would respond with a significant portion of their ‘black’ bomber and missile forces.”

“They will know the source of the attack,” Horn rasped.

“There is one unpredictable factor,” Smuts said carefully. “If our clients were to detonate the weapon at Dimona, Israel’s weapons-production plant, there is a slight chance that the rest of the world might believe the explosion to be a genuine Israeli accident. The Americans might coerce the Jews into waiting until an outside investigation was completed. By that time cooler heads might prevail.”

Horn made a dismissive gesture with his skeletal arm. “Don’t worry. I’m relying on Arab impatience, not stupidity. Hussein, Assad, these men might have the self-control to wait and try to develop a cohesive plan. Not our friend. He will strike swiftly. Consider how quickly he agreed to our meeting. He won’t purposefully hit Jerusalem—there are too many sacred Muslim sites there. And the security around Dimona is airtight. We needn’t worry on that score. The target will be Tel Aviv.”

Horn’s one living eye focused on the Afrikaner. “What of the Spandau matter, Pieter? Have they captured the traitor? Have they found the papers?”

“Not yet, sir. Berlin-One assures me it is only a matter of time. However, I received a call from his immediate subordinate, Berlin-Two. He’s a lieutenant, I believe. Jürgen Luhr.”

“And?”

“Lieutenant Luhr doesn’t feel the prefect is up to the job. He’s moved some of our German assets into play without the prefect’s knowledge. He checked the files on the two missing officers and dispatched men to all locations they might possibly run to. I approved his action. Who knows what those Bruderschaft clowns are really doing. A little competition might speed up the capture.”

“I’m surprised that these policemen were able to escape at all,” Horn remarked.

Smuts shifted uncomfortably. “I did a little checking on my own, sir. The man who betrayed us—Hauer—he’s quite an officer, it seems. An ex-soldier. Even the young man with him was decorated for bravery.”

Horn raised a long, crooked finger in Smuts’s tanned face. “Never underestimate the German soldier, Pieter. He is the toughest in the world. Let this be a lesson to you.”

Smuts colored. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep me posted hourly. I’m anxious to see how this ex-soldier does.”

“You almost sound as if you want them to escape.”

“Nonsense, Pieter. By getting hold of the Spandau papers, we might well buy ourselves extra time. At least we can keep the Russians and the Jews out of our business, if not the British. But that’s it, you see. At this moment MI-5, the KGB, and the Mossad must be scouring Berlin for our two German policemen, yet so far they have failed to capture them. If these men live up to their racial heritage, I suspect they will manage to evade their pursuers. In the end we will have to find them ourselves.”

The Afrikaner nodded. “I’ll find them.”

Horn smiled coldly. “I know you will, Pieter. If this Hauer but knew you as I do, he would already have given himself up.”

NINE

10:35 P.M. Goethestrasse: West Berlin

“There,” Hauer grunted. He had wedged Hans’s Volkswagen so tightly between two parked cars that the one behind would have to be moved to reveal the license plate. “All right, where’s the house?”

“I’m not sure,” Hans replied, peering through his window. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Are you joking?”

“No.”

Hauer stared in disbelief. “So why are we here?”

“Because it’s just what you asked for—a place we can’t be traced to.”

Hans climbed out of the VW and started up the deserted street, skirting the pools of light from the street lamps. “That’s it,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. Hauer followed a few paces behind. “See it? Eleven-fifty.”

“Quiet!” said Hauer. “You’ll wake the whole block.”

Hans was already halfway up the walk. He rapped loudly on the front door, waited half a minute, then knocked again. Finally, a muffled voice came from behind the wood.

“I’m coming already!”

Someone fumbled with the latch, then the door opened wide. Standing in a pair of blue silk pajamas, a tiny man with silver hair and a tuft of beard squinted through the darkness. He reached for a light switch.

“Please leave the light off, Herr Ochs,” Hans said.

“What? Who are you?” Finally the uniform registered in the old man’s brain. “Polizei,” he murmured. “Is there some problem?”

Hans stepped closer. He took the tattered business card from his pocket and handed it to the old man. “I don’t know if you remember me, Herr Ochs, but you said that if I ever needed a favor—”

“Gott im Himmel!” Ochs cried, his eyes wide. “Sergeant Apfel!”

Hans nodded. “That’s right. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but there’s an emergency. My captain and I need to make some telephone calls. We can’t use the station just now—”

“Say no more, Sergeant. Come inside. Did I not tell you? Ben Ochs knows how to return a favor. And what a favor! Bernice!”

An even tinier gray-haired woman appeared behind Ochs. She stared at the uniforms with trepidation. “What is it, Benjamin?”

“It’s young Hans Apfel! He needs our help. Get your slippers, Bernice. We’ll need some tea and …” Ochs trailed off, noticing the large bruise at the base of Hans’s skull, a souvenir of Rolf’s lead pipe. “Something stronger, I think.”

“Please,” said Hans, following the old man inside, “all we need is a telephone.”

“Nonsense, you look terrible. You need food, and something to calm your nerves. Bernice?”

Frau Ochs bustled into the kitchen, talking all the way. “There’s chicken in the refrigerator, boys, and cabbage too. It’s no feast, but this is very short notice.”

The old tailor pulled two chairs from beneath the kitchen table; Hans immediately collapsed into one. The Ochses’ kindness seemed otherworldly after the events of the past four hours. Hans felt as if he’d been running for days.

Hauer had been too amazed by the warm reception to say anything. Summoning a smile, he extended his hand to Ochs. “Guten Abend, Herr Ochs. I’m Captain Dieter Hauer.”

Ochs nodded respectfully.

“I’m afraid Hans is right. A rather special situation has arisen. I myself believe it’s just another of the endless exercises they put us through, but of course we never know for sure. If we could just use your telephone for a few minutes, we would be gone before you know it.”

Ochs nodded again, slower this time. “You are a poor liar, Captain. But I count that in your favor. Most honest men make poor liars. If you’re anything like your young friend, you are always welcome in my house. This boy”—Ochs grinned and patted Hans on the shoulder—“this boy saved my life. Three years ago I was trapped in a burning car, and Hans was the only man who had the nerve to get me out.”

The light of realization dawned on Hauer’s face. Only now did he notice the old man’s left hand; it was withered and covered with scar tissue from a deep burn.

Ochs shook his head in wonder. “I thought he was trying to kill me! He blasted out the window right over my head!” The old man laughed and stepped over to the counter. “Here is the chicken,” he said. Then he held up a dark bottle his wife had pulled from a high cabinet. “And here is some bromfn—brandy—for the nerves. We’ll leave you to your business now. Come along, Bernice.” Taking his wife under his silk-covered arm, Benjamin Ochs left the kitchen without looking back.

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