Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles
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as the Spandau papers claimed they had? Whom did they fly there to meet? Why was it necessary for the double to remain in Spandau? Had he been murdered for the same reason? If so, who murdered him? Circumstantial evidence pointed to the British. Yet if the British killed the double, why had they done it now, after all these years? Publicly they had joined France and the United States in calling for Number Seven’s early release (though they knew full well they could rely on the Russians to veto it, as they had done every year before)—
My God, Natterman thought suddenly. Was that it? Had Mikhail Gorbachev, in the spirit of glasnost, proposed to release Hess at last? As Natterman scrawled this question in the margin of Dr. Rees’s book, the huge, bright yellow diesel engine disengaged its brakes with a hiss and lurched out of the great glass hall of Zoo Station, accelerating steadily toward the benighted fields of the DDR. In a few minutes the train would enter the narrow, fragile corridor linking the island of West Berlin to the Federal Republic of Germany. Natterman pulled the plastic shade down over his small window. There were ghosts outside—ghosts he had no wish to see. Memories he thought long laid to rest had been violently exhumed by the papers he now smuggled through communist Germany. God, he wondered, does it ever end? The deceit, the casualties? He touched the thin bundle beneath his sweater. The casualties … More were coming, he could feel it.
Yet he couldn’t give up the Spandau papers—not yet. Those nine thin sheets of paper were his last chance at academic resurrection. He had been one of the lions once, an academic demigod. A colleague once told Natterman that he had heard Willy Brandt quote from Natterman’s opus on Germany no less than three times during one speech in the Bundestag. Three times! But Natterman had written that book over thirty years ago. During the intervening years, he had managed to stay in print with “distinguished contributor” articles, but no publisher showed real interest in any further Natterman books. The great professor had said all he had to say in From Bismarck to the Bunker—or so they thought. But now, he thought excitedly, now the cretins will be hammering down my door! When he offered his explosive translation of The Secret Diary of Spandau Prisoner Number Seven—boasting the solution to the greatest mystery of the Second World War—they would beg for the privilege of publishing him!
Startled by a sharp knock at the compartment door, Natterman stuffed Dr. Rees’s book under his seat cushion and stood. Probably just Customs, he reassured himself. This was the very reason he had chosen this escape route from the city. Trains traveling between West Berlin and the Federal Republic did not stop inside East Germany, so passport control and the issue of visas took place during the journey. Still more important, there were no baggage controls.
“Yes?” he called. “Who is it?”
Someone fumbled at the latch; then the door shot open. A tall, wiry man with a dark complexion and bright eyes stared at the professor in surprise. A worn leather bag dangled from his left hand. “Oh, dear!” he said. “Dreadfully sorry.”
An upper-class British accent. Natterman looked the man up and down. At least my own age, he thought. Strong-looking fellow. Thin, tanned, beaked nose. Looks more Jewish than British, come to think of it. Which is ridiculous because Judaism isn’t a nationality and Britishness isn’t a religion—although the adherents of both sometimes treat them as such—
“I say there,” the intruder said, quickly scanning the room, “Stern’s my name. I’m terribly sorry. Can’t seem to find my berth.”
“What’s the number?” Natterman asked warily.
“Sixteen, just like it says on the door here.” Stern held out a key.
Natterman examined it. “Right number,” he said. “Wrong car, though. You want second class, next car back.”
Stern took the key back quickly. “Why, you’re right. Thanks, old boy. I’ll find it.”
“No trouble.” Natterman scrutinized the visitor as he backed out of the cabin. “You know, I thought I’d locked that door,” he said.
“Don’t think it was, really,” Stern replied. “Just gave it a shove and it opened right up.”
“Your key fit?”
“It went in. Who knows? They always use the oldest trains on the Berlin run. One key probably opens half the doors on the train.” Stern laughed. “Sorry again.”
For an instant the tanned stranger’s face came alive with urgent purpose, so that it matched his eyes, which were bright and intense. It was as if a party mask had accidentally slipped before midnight. Stern seemed on the verge of saying something; then his lips broadened into a sheepish grin and he backed out of the compartment and shut the door.
Puzzled, and more than a little uncomfortable, Natterman sat down again. An accident? That fellow didn’t seem like the type to mix up his sleeping arrangements. Not one bit. And something about him looked familiar. Not his face … but his carriage. The loose, ready stance. He’d been unseasonably tanned for Berlin. Impossibly tanned, in fact. Retrieving Dr. Rees’s book from beneath the seat cushion, the professor tapped it nervously against his leg. A soldier, he thought suddenly. Natterman would have bet a year’s salary that the man who had stumbled into his compartment was an ex-soldier. And an Englishman, he thought, feeling his heart race. Or at least a man who had lived among the English long enough to imitate their accent to perfection. Natterman didn’t like the arithmetic of that “accident” at all if he was right. Not at all.
10:04 P.M. MI-5 Headquarters: Charles Street, London, England
Deputy Director Wilson knocked softly at Sir Neville Shaw’s door, then opened it and padded onto the deep carpet of the director general’s office. Shaw sat at his desk beneath the green glow of a banker’s lamp. He took no notice of the intrusion; he continued to pore over a thick, dog-eared file on the desk before him.
“Sir Neville?” Wilson said.
Shaw did not look up. “What is it? Your hard boys arrived?”
“No, sir. It’s something else. A bit rum, actually.”
Sir Neville looked up at last. “Well?”
“It’s Israeli Intelligence, sir. The head of the Mossad, as a matter of fact. He’s sent us a letter.”
Shaw blinked. “So?”
“Well, it’s rather extraordinary, sir.”
“Damn it, Wilson, how so?”
“The letter is countersigned by the Israeli prime minister. It was hand-delivered by courier.”
“What?” Sir Neville sat up. “What in God’s name is it about?” His ruddy face slowly tightened in dread. “Not Hess?”
Wilson quickly shook his head. “No, sir. It’s about an old intelligence hand of theirs. Chap named Stern. Seems he’s been holed up in the Negev for the past dozen years, but a couple of days ago he quietly slipped his leash.”
Shaw looked exasperated. “I don’t see what the devil that’s got to do with us.”
“The Israelis—their prime minister, rather—seem to think we might still hold a grudge against this fellow. That there might be a standing order of some type on him. A liquidation order.”
“That’s preposterous!” Shaw bellowed. “After all this time?”
The deputy director smiled with forbearance. “It’s not so preposterous, Sir Neville. Our own Special Forces Club—which the Queen still visits occasionally, I’m proud to say—still refuses to accept Israeli members. They welcome elite troops from almost every democratic nation in the world, even the bloody Germans. Everyone but the Israelis, and they’re probably the best of the lot. And all because the older agents still hold a grudge for the murder of an SAS