Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles
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Harry muttered. “There is one problem. I’ve got a racquetball date this evening with a girl from the British embassy.”
“Cancel it.”
Harry looked thoughtful. “Colonel, I understand your thinking on this, but don’t you think breaking the date might call more attention—”
“I’ll tell you what I think!” Rose cut in with surprising force. “I think the goddamn Brits killed Hess! And during our goddamn guard month! How about that?” His face flushed. “You think I’m crazy, Major?”
Harry swallowed his surprise. “No, sir. I wouldn’t say that scenario was outside the realm of possibility.”
“Possibility! Ever since Gorbachev came out with the goddamn glasnost, the limeys have been quaking in their boots thinking the Russians would go soft and let Hess out to spill his guts to the world. The Russians were the only ones vetoing his release those last few years, you know. The Brits knew if they ever had to step in and veto it, all the old questions would start again.” Rose nodded angrily. “I think those smug sons-of-bitches slipped one of their ex-SAS killers over the wall last month, strangled that old Nazi, and left us holding the goddamn bag! That’s what I think about the British, Major! And you will cancel your racquetball date as of now. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely, Colonel.”
“I want your report on my desk by oh-eight-hundred,” Rose growled.
Harry stood, saluted, and marched out.
“Clary!” Rose’s gruff baritone boomed through the open door.
“Yes, sir?”
“Let Major Richardson into Captain Donovan’s office. He’s got a little work to do on the computer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Clary?”
“Sir?”
“I want one of those phone gadgets like Richardson’s got.”
Grinning, Sergeant Clary backed out and pulled the door shut.
Rose looked longingly at the Wild Turkey bottle, then slipped it back into his bottom drawer. He closed his eyes, leaned his chair all the way back and propped his legs up on the huge desk. That Richardson is one strange bird, he thought. Damn near insubordinate sometimes. But he gets the job done. Rose congratulated himself on a fine piece of human resource management. Harry can handle the fairies from State, he thought with satisfaction, and I’ll take care of the friggin’ Russians. And if the Brits stick their stuffy noses into it, the devil take the hindmost.
6:10 P.M. MI-5 Headquarters: Charles Street, London, England
Sir Neville Shaw looked up from the report with anger in his eyes. As director general of MI-5, he had witnessed his share of crises, but the one he now faced was one he had long prayed would remain buried in the ashes of history.
“This cock-up started almost twelve hours ago!” he snapped.
“Yes, Sir Neville,” admitted his deputy. “The unit on the scene reported it to General Bishop in Berlin. Bishop informed MI-6 but saw no reason to apprise us. The Russian complaint went to the Foreign Office, and the F.O. apparently felt as the general did. We’ve got one contact on the West Berlin police force; he’s the only reason we got onto this at all. He can’t tell us much, though, because he’s stationed in our sector. These German trespassers were taken to a police station in the American sector. The thing’s been on the telly over there since this afternoon.”
“Good God,” Sir Neville groaned. “One more bloody week and this would have been nothing but a minor flap.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
Shaw rubbed his forehead to ease a migraine. “Forget it. This was bound to happen sooner or later. Damned journalists and curiosity hounds poking at the story for years. Matter of time, that’s all.”
“Yes, sir,” the deputy director commiserated.
“Who did we have at Spandau, anyway?”
“Regular military detail. The sergeant in charge said he knew nothing about any papers. He didn’t have the foggiest idea of the implications.”
“What monumental stupidity!” Shaw got to his feet, still staring at the report in his hands. “Can this Russian forensic report be relied upon?”
“Our technical section says the Soviets are quite good at that sort of thing, sir.”
Sir Neville snorted indignantly. “Papers at Spandau. Good Christ. Whatever has turned up over there, ten to one it’s got something to do with Hess. We’ve got to get hold of it, Wilson, fast. Who else was at Spandau?”
“The Americans, the Frogs, and the Russians. Plus a contingent of West Berlin police.”
Sir Neville wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I could hang for this one, that’s sure. What do we have in Berlin?”
“Not much. What we do have is mostly on the commercial side. No one who’s cleared for this.”
“I didn’t think anyone was cleared for this rot,” Shaw murmured. “All right, you get me four men who are cleared for it—men who can quote me the bloody Official Secrets Act—and get them here fast. Arrange air transport to West Berlin straightaway. I want those lads airborne as soon as I’ve briefed them.”
“Yes, sir.”
After an almost interminable silence, Shaw said, “There is a ship, Wilson. I want you to locate her for me.”
“A ship, sir?”
“Yes. A freighter, actually. MV Casilda, out of Panama. Get on to Lloyd’s, or whoever keeps up with those things. Talk to the satellite people if you have to, just find out where she is.”
Perplexed, the deputy director said, “All right, sir,” and turned to go. At the door he paused. “Sir Neville,” he said hesitantly. “Is there anything I should know about this Hess business? A small brief, perhaps?”
Shaw’s face reddened. “If there was, you’d know it already, wouldn’t you?” he snapped.
Wilson displayed his irritation by clipping out a regimental “Sir!” before shutting the door.
Shaw didn’t even notice. He walked to his well-earned window above the city and pondered the disturbing news. Spandau, he thought bitterly. Hess may stab us in the back yet. In spite of the ticklishness of his own position, Sir Neville Shaw smiled coldly. There’ll be some royal arses shaking in their beds tonight, he thought with satisfaction. Right along with mine.
He reached for the telephone.
6:25 P.M. #30 Lützenstrasse, West Berlin
Hans reached the apartment building too winded to use the stairs. He wriggled into the elevator, yanked the lever that set the clattering cage in motion, then slumped against the wrought-iron grillwork. Despite his frayed nerves, he was smiling. Heini Weber could joke all he wanted, but in the end the joke would be on him. Because Hans knew something Weber didn’t: where he had found the papers. And that single fact would make him rich, he was certain of it. He jerked back the metal grille and trotted to the apartment door.
“Ilse!” he called, letting himself in. “I’m home!”
In the kitchen doorway he stopped cold. Wearing a white cotton robe, Ilse sat at the table holding the papers Hans had found at Spandau.
“Where