Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles
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commands echoed across the prison yard, rebounding through the broken canyons.
“Versailles!” Hans shouted. “Versailles, Comrade! Let’s go!”
The Russian seemed confused. He lowered his rifle a little, wavering. “Versailles,” he murmured. He looked hard at Hans for a moment more; then he broke and ran.
Rooted to the earth, Hans exhaled slowly. He felt cold sweat pouring across his temples. With quivering hands, he pocketed his cigarettes, then carefully refolded his sector map, realizing as he did so that the paper he held was not his sector map at all, but the first page of the papers he had found in the hollow brick. Like a fool he had been waving under the Russian’s nose the very thing he wanted to conceal! Thank God that idiot didn’t check it, he thought. He pressed the page deep into his left boot, pulled his trouser legs down around his feet, and sprinted toward the sound of confusion.
In the brief moments it took Hans to respond to the whistle, a routine police matter had escalated into a potentially explosive confrontation. Near the blasted prison gate, five Soviet soldiers stood in a tight circle around two fortyish men wearing frayed business suits. They pointed their AK-47s menacingly, while nearby their commander argued vehemently with Erhard Weiss. The Russian was insisting that the trespassers be taken to an East German police station for interrogation.
Weiss was doing his best to calm the shouting Russian, but he was obviously out of his depth. Captain Hauer was nowhere in sight, and while the other policemen stood behind Weiss looking resolute, Hans knew that their Walthers would be no match for the Soviet assault weapons if it came to a showdown.
The sergeants of the NATO detachments kept their men well clear of the argument. They knew political dynamite when they saw it. While the Soviets kept their rifles leveled at the wide-eyed captives—who looked as if they might collapse from shock at any moment—the Russian “sergeant” bellowed louder and louder in broken German, trying to bully the tenacious Weiss into giving up “his” prisoners. To his credit, Weiss stood firm. He refused to allow any action to be taken until Captain Hauer had been apprised of the situation.
Hans stepped forward, hoping to interject some moderation into the dispute. Yet before he could speak, a black BMW screeched up to the curb and Captain Hauer vaulted from its rear door.
“What the hell is this?” he shouted.
The screaming Russian immediately redirected his tirade at Hauer, but the German brusquely raised his hand, breaking the flood of words like a wave against a rock.
“Weiss!” he barked.
“Sir!”
“Explain.”
Weiss was so relieved to have the responsibility of the prisoners lifted from his shoulders that his words tumbled over themselves. “Captain, five minutes ago I saw two men moving suspiciously inside the perimeter. They must have slipped in somewhere between Willi and me. I flashed my light on them and shouted, ‘Halt!’ but they were startled and ran. They charged straight into one of the Russians, and before I could even blow my whistle, every Russian on the lot had surrounded them.”
“Radios,” Hauer muttered.
“Captain!” the Soviet “sergeant” bellowed. “These men are prisoners of the Soviet government! Any attempt to interfere—”
Without a word, Hauer strode past the Russian and into the deadly circle of automatic weapons. He began a rapid, professional interrogation of the prisoners, speaking quietly in German.
The black American sergeant whistled low. “That cop’s got balls,” he observed, loudly enough for all to hear. One of his men giggled nervously.
The terrified civilians were elated to be questioned by a fellow countryman. In less than a minute, Hauer extracted the relevant information from them, and his men relaxed considerably during the exchange. It revealed a familiar situation—distasteful perhaps, but thankfully routine. Even the Russians holding the Kalashnikovs seemed to have picked up on Captain Hauer’s casual manner. He patted the smaller of the two trespassers on the shoulder, then slipped out of the circle. A few of the rifles dropped noticeably as he stepped up to the Russian officer.
“They’re quite harmless, Comrade,” he explained. “A couple of homos, that’s all.”
Misunderstanding the slang, the Russian continued to scowl at Hauer. “What is their explanation?” he demanded stiffly.
“They’re homosexuals, Sergeant. Queers, Schwüle … golden boys, I think you call them. Looking for a temporary love nest, that’s all. They’re all over Berlin.”
“No matter!” the Russian snapped, grasping Hauer’s meaning at last. “They have trespassed on Soviet territory, and they must be interrogated at our headquarters in East Berlin.” He motioned to his men. The rifles jerked back up instantly. He barked an order and started marching toward the parking area.
Hauer had no time to consult his superiors as to legalities, but he knew that allowing Russian soldiers to drag two of his fellow countrymen into the DDR without any semblance of a trial was something no West Berliner with an ounce of pride would do without a fight. Glancing around, he tried to gauge the sympathies of the NATO squads. The Americans looked as if they might be with him, but Hauer knew he couldn’t rely on that if it came to a fight. Force would probably be counterproductive in any case, he thought; it usually was. He’d have to try a different tack.
Five steps carried him to the departing Russian. He grasped the burly man by his tunic and spun him around. “Listen, Sergeant,” he whispered forcefully, “or Major or Colonel or whatever the hell you are. These men have committed no serious offense and they certainly pose no threat to the security of this site. I suggest we search them, then book them into one of our stations just like anybody else. That way we keep the press out of it, understand? Pravda? Izvestia? If you want to make an international incident out of this, you’re quite welcome to do it, but you take full responsibility. Am I clear?”
The Russian understood well enough, and for a moment he considered Hauer’s suggestion. But the situation was not so simple now. He had gone too far to back down in front of his men. Ignoring Hauer, he turned to his squad.
“These men are suspected enemies of the Soviet Union! They will remain in Soviet custody until the objective of their mission has been determined! Corporal, put them aboard our bus!”
Furious but outgunned, Hauer thought quickly. He had dealt with Russian officers for more than twenty-five years, and all his experience had taught him one lesson: the communist system, inefficient as it was, had grown proficient at breeding one thing out of its citizens—individual initiative. This Russian had to be reminded that his actions could have serious international implications. With two fingers Hauer removed his Walther from its holster and handed it to an astonished Weiss with a theatrical flourish. Again, the Soviet riflemen paused uncertainly, their eyes riveted on the unpredictable policeman.
“We have a stalemate, Comrade!” Hauer declared loudly. “You wish to keep these men in Soviet custody? Very well! You now stand on the only plot of Russian soil in West Berlin—an accident of history that will soon be rectified, I think. You may keep the prisoners here for as long as you wish—”
The Russian slowed his march.
“—however, crossing into the DDR with two citizens of the Federal Republic is an entirely different matter—a political matter—and quite beyond my power or yours to authorize. The prisoners must remain here until we have contacted our superior officers! I shall accompany you to the command trailer, where we can make the necessary calls.” Hauer looked over his shoulder. “I would also suggest to the British sergeant that he join us, as we are in the British sector of the city.”
Hauer started toward the trailer. He didn’t intend to give the Russian time to argue. “Apfel!” he shouted. “Weiss! Drive everyone back to the station, then go home! I’ll handle the paperwork on this!”
“But Captain!”