THREE

      3:31 P.M. British Sector: West Berlin

      Hans awoke in a sweat. He still cowered inside a dark cave, watching in terror as a Russian soldier came for him with a Kalashnikov rifle. The illusion gripped his mind, difficult to break. He sat upright in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Still the wrecked compound hovered before him. His soiled uniform still chafed, still smelled of the dank prison yard. He shook his head violently, but the image would not disappear. It was real …

      On the screen of the small Siemens television two meters in front of Hans, a tall reporter clad in the type of topcoat favored by West Berlin pimps stood before a wide shot of the wasteland that yesterday had been Spandau Prison. Hans clambered over the footboard of the bed and turned up the volume on the set.

      “… Deutsche Welle broadcasting live from the Wilhelmstrasse. As you can see, the main structure of Spandau Prison was destroyed with little fanfare yesterday by the British military authorities. It was here early this morning that Soviet troops in conjunction with West Berlin police arrested the two West German citizens whom the Russians are now attempting to extradite into East Berlin. There is virtually no precedent for this attempt. The Russians are following no recognized legal procedure, and the story that began here in the predawn hours is rapidly becoming an incident of international proportions. To the best of Deutsche Welle’s knowledge, the two Berliners are being held inside Polizei Abschnitt 53, where our own Peter Müller is following developments as they occur. Peter?”

      Before switching to the second live feed, the producer stayed with the Spandau shot for a few silent seconds. What Hans saw brought a sour lump to his throat. A hundred meters behind the reporter, dozens of uniformed men slowly picked their way across the ruined grounds of Spandau. They moved over the icy rubble like ants in search of food, some not far from the very mound where Hans had made his discovery. A few wore white lab coats, but others—Hans’s throat tightened—others wore the distinctive red-patched brown uniforms of the Soviet infantry.

      Hans scoured the screen for clues that might explain the Soviet presence, but the scene vaporized. Now a slightly better-dressed commentator stood before the great three-arched doorway of the police station where Hans reported to work every morning. He shifted his weight excitedly from one foot to the other as he spoke.

      “Thank you, Karl,” he said. “Other than the earlier statement by the police press officer that a joint investigation with the USSR is under way, no details are forthcoming. We know that an undetermined number of Soviet soldiers remain inside Abschnitt 53, but we do not know if they are guests here, as is claimed, or if—as has been rumored—they control the station by force of arms.

      “While the Spandau incident occurred in the British sector of the city, the German prisoners were taken by a needlessly lengthy route to Abschnitt 53, here in the American sector, just one block from Checkpoint Charlie. Informed sources have speculated that a quick-witted police officer may have realized that the Soviets would be less likely to resort to violence in the American-controlled part of the city. We have received no statements from either the American or the British military commands. However, if Soviet troops are in fact inside this police station without the official sanction of the U.S. Army, the Allied occupational boundaries we have all by familiarity come to ignore may suddenly assume a critical importance. This small incident could well escalate into one of the most volatile crises of the post-glasnost era. We will update this story at 18:00 this evening, so please stay tuned to this channel. This is Peter Müller, Deutsche Welle, live …”

      While the reporter solemnly wrapped his segment, he failed to notice the huge station door open behind him. Haggard but erect, Captain Dieter Hauer strode out into the afternoon light. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. He surveyed the sidewalk like a drill sergeant inspecting a barracks yard; then, apparently satisfied, he gave the reporter a black look, turned back toward the station door, and dissolved into a BMW commercial.

      Hans fell back against the footboard of the bed, his mind reeling. Russian troops still in his home station? Who had leaked the Spandau story to the press? And who were the men in the white lab coats? What were they searching for? Was it the papers he’d found? It almost had to be. No one cared about a couple of homosexuals who happened to trespass public property in their search for a love nest. The realization of what he had done by keeping the papers hit Hans like a wave of fever. But what else could he have done? Surely the police brass would not have wanted the Russians to get hold of the papers. He could have driven straight to Polizei headquarters at Platz der Luftbrücke, of course, but he didn’t know a soul there. No, when he turned in the papers, he wanted to do it at his home station. And he couldn’t do that yet because the Russians were still inside it! He would simply have to wait.

      But he didn’t want to wait. He felt like a boy who has stumbled over a locked chest in a basement. He wanted to know what the devil he’d found! Anxiously, he snapped his fingers. Ilse, he thought suddenly. She had a gift for languages, just like her arrogant grandfather. Maybe she could decipher the rest of the Spandau papers. He lifted the phone and punched in the first four digits of her work number; then he replaced the receiver. The brokerage house where Ilse worked did not allow personal calls during trading hours. Hans would break a rule quicker than most Germans, but he remembered that several employees had been fired for taking this rule lightly.

      A reckless thought struck Hans. He wanted information, and he knew where he could get some. After sixty seconds of hard reflection, he picked up the telephone directory and looked up the number of Der Spiegel. Several department numbers were listed for the magazine. He wasn’t sure which he needed, so he dialed the main switchboard.

      “Der Spiegel,” answered a female voice.

      “I need to speak to Heini Weber,” Hans said. “Could you connect me with the proper department, please?”

      “One moment.”

      Thirty seconds passed. “News,” said a gruff male voice.

      “Heini Weber, please. He’s a friend of mine.” A bit of an exaggeration, Hans thought, but what the hell?

      “Weber’s gone,” the man growled. “He was just here, but he left again. Field assignment.”

      Hans sighed. “If he comes back—”

      “Wait, I see him. Weber! Telephone!”

      Hans heard a clatter of chairs, then a younger male voice came on the line. “Weber here. Who’s this?”

      “Hans Apfel.”

      “Who?”

      “Sergeant Hans Apfel. We met at—”

      “Right, right,” Weber remembered, “that kidnapping thing. Gruesome. Listen, I’m in a hurry, can you make it fast?”

      “I need to talk to you,” Hans said deliberately. “It’s important.”

      “Hold on—I’m coming already! What’s your story, Sergeant?”

      “Not over the phone,” Hans said, knowing he probably sounded ridiculous.

      “Jesus,” Weber muttered. “I’ve got to get over to Hannover. A mob of Greens is disrupting an American missile transport on the E-30 and I need to leave five minutes ago.”

      “I could ride with you.”

      “Two-seater,” Weber objected. “And I’ve got to take my photographer. I guess your big scoop will have to wait until tomorrow.”

      “No!” Hans blurted, surprised by his own vehemence. “It can’t wait.