Spandau Phoenix (38 page)

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.