Spandau Phoenix

  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 AM 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 fuelling area. “On account?” he asked.

  Handsomely dressed in a tailored gray suit, Lieutenant Jürgen 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 I, are to be granted a great opportunity. Tomorrow we’re going to meet the man who owns this jet. It is a great honour.” 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 pulled at himself, his blue eyes burned not with lust, but with blind, furious hatred. Jürgen Luhr wanted to do more than rape Ilse—he wanted 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 Münich to visit Hans’s mother, at a small Pfahlbauten on the long silver lake outside the city.

  Frau Jaspers, nee Apfel, had been 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 flight number or plan, and its destination would be a matter into which only the most uninformed would inquire. The reach of the reclusive president and CEO of Phoenix AG Corporation was known to be very long indeed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  1.35 AM 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.”

  Hauer looked across at Hans. “Your wife has just 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 metres 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 exasperat
ion. 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 analyse 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 staunched 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 focussed on Hauer’s face. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m going back to Berlin.” He was trying to button 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 levelled 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 acknow
ledged your son at last, eh?”

  “I acknowledged him the first moment I saw him,” Hauer said in a clipped tone.

  Natterman looked sceptical. “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.