The Russian paled as he held up a hand to restrain Misha. ‘You speak confidently for a man facing death,” he said softly.
“I thought you were sending me back to West Berlin.”
Kosov grimaced. “Tell me, do you have any proof of this fantastic story? The rich American who secretly serves the worker’s paradise?”
Harry played out a little more bait. “I assume you’re familiar with the Twelfth Department of your Directorate?”
Kosov nodded almost imperceptibly.
“My contact is Yuri Borodin. Klaus Seeckt was one of our conduits.”
Kosov blinked. “What can this fiction profit you, Major? An extra hour of confusion? You are going to Moscow regardless of what you say here, and it’s there your fate will be decided.”
Kosov sounded confident, but Harry had seen the doubt flicker into his eyes at the mention of the Twelfth Department. The Twelfth Department was an elite branch of the KGB—an all-star team recruited from veterans of other KGB departments who had proved themselves expert at moving in international society. Developed under Yuri Andropov, the Twelfth Department had more autonomy than any other branch of the service; its agents were allowed to pursue their chosen quarry anywhere in the world. Harry’s personal history of wealth and privilege made him an excellent target for a man like Yuri Borodin; plus he had seen Borodin in the company of Klaus Seeckt. He thought his desperate story might stand up to perhaps an hour’s scrutiny.
“Tell me about this mysterious message, Major,” said Kosov.
My God, thought Harry. He’s buying it. “Sorry, Colonel,” he said gravely. “The message is for Borodin alone.”
“You had better tell me something,” Kosov warned. “Or I may see fit to let Misha persuade you. He’s most eager to do so.”
Harry gave a sardonic smile. “That’s about what I’d expect from an old Second Directorate thug.”
Kosov came up out of his chair. He moved very fast for a big man. For a moment Harry thought he had carried things too far, but the Russian sat down again, albeit slowly. Harry didn’t want to push Kosov over the edge—only up to it.
“I’m waiting,” Kosov rasped.
Here goes, Harry thought. In the past two minutes he had pieced together the most plausible story he could from the meagre facts he possessed about the Spandau case. Play out the bait, wait for the strike … “I can tell you this much, Colonel,” he said, “US Military Intelligence is fully aware of the content of the papers found at Spandau Prison. While your moronic thugs were kidnapping me, our State Department was considering a request from the British government to turn over an abstract of those papers to MI-5. My message for Borodin concerns those papers, and if you don’t appreciate the sensitivity of that issue, it’s your misfortune. So, why don’t you get off your fat ass and verify my story before you sabotage what remains of your less-than-illustrious career.”
It was a shot in the dark, but it struck home. Kosov stood up and studied Harry. “An interesting story, Major. Tell me, how is our one-eyed friend these days?”
Harry felt a jolt of confusion. Kosov had blindsided him. One-eyed friend? Did Kosov mean Yuri Borodin? As far as Harry knew, Borodin had two perfectly good eyes. Harry racked his memory for a one-eyed man, but all he could come up with was a black kid from Baltimore who’d lost both his eyes to shrapnel in the DMZ. Jesus. “I don’t quite get you, Colonel,” he said lamely.
Kosov smiled. “Well, then, Major, how about the Spandau papers? Did they mention any names?”
“Several. Hess, for one.”
“Naturally. Any others?”
“None I’d care to mention,” Harry said tersely, feeling the noose closing around him.
“I’ll mention a few, then.” The Russian grinned. “Tell me if you recognize any. Chernov? Frolov?” Kosov waited. “No? How about Zinoviev?”
Just the house wine, thanks, Harry thought crazily. He felt cold sweat heading on the back of his neck. Russian names? What the hell could they have to do with Spandau?
“Well, Major?”
“Zinoviev,” Harry whispered.
Kosov blanched. “Rykov!”
The three agents rushed back into the room like hungry Dobermans. Kosov seized his overcoat from a rack by the door and issued orders while he pulled it on.
“Hold the major here until I return from headquarters. I need to call Moscow and I want a line the Stasi can’t tap.”
“But Herr Oberst!” Axel Goltz objected, venting his anxiety at last. “We can’t keep an American here! If Rose finds out, the reaction could be very severe. Why—”
“Stop whining!” Kosov snapped. “Act like a German, for God’s sake! You can manage without me for an hour. Misha?”
The black-clad killer whipped open the door. Kosov hurried through and crunched down the snowy drive, his silent footpad on his heels. The door banged shut. Harry sat completely still. He couldn’t quite believe that his desperate ploy had worked. One brief glance through the open door had told him what he wanted to know—that the room they now occupied stood at ground level, not on the tenth floor of some human warehouse in Pankow. Quickly he mapped the room in his mind: Andrei and Goltz by the deal table; a sofa with a broken spine against the far wall; a large curtained window at right angles to the sofa; Kosov’s empty chair, facing him; one door leading to the room where he had been held earlier, and another, guarded by Rykov, leading outside.
The three agents glowered at each other as if they had been arguing in the other room.
“You fellows find a lot to talk about back there?” Harry asked in Russian, his tone insulting.
Andrei scowled, but Rykov only smiled and leaned against the outside door, resting his injured leg. Suddenly Axel Goltz spoke up. “What is Kosov doing, Comrades?”
When the Russians didn’t respond, Goltz scratched thoughtfully behind his right ear. “What did the major tell him that weakened his resolve?”
“Relax,” said Rykov. “We have everything under control.”
Goltz’s nostrils flared. “Under control? You don’t even know what’s going on! I know this man Richardson, he’s a skilled agent. I can’t believe Kosov fell for his tricks.”
“The colonel knows what he’s doing,” Rykov said evenly. He curled his lip in distaste. “Stop scratching your head, Goltz. You look like a mangy old hound.”
The East German flushed. “It’s a wound,” he said. He cocked his head to the side, exposing a small white bandage behind his ear. “A skinhead threw a brick in a riot. Four stitches to close it.”
Rykov snorted with contempt. “Probably a Jew! They’ll avenge themselves on you Germans yet!”
Goltz ground his teeth furiously.
“What tricks of mine were you referring to?” Harry cut in. “Perhaps you, like Kosov, are unaware of certain important facts.”
“Find another fool, Major,” Goltz snapped. “Be glad I’m not in charge of you.”
Harry kept smiling, but inside he shivered. He had always believed the Stasi far superior to the KGB in all areas of intelligence work, and he was glad to see Goltz in the minority tonight. Rykov tacitly admitted this with his next question. “What would you do with him, Goltz, if you were in command?”
“Kill him. Simplest for all parties concerned.”
Harry felt a tremor of fear.
“You’re a cold one,” Rykov observed.
Goltz shrugged.
“What about his intelligence value?”
The Stasi man pulled a wry face. “I don’t think he knows a damned thing about Spandau.”
“He might.”
“Drug him senseless, then. But he’s got to disappear.”
“Goltz is right,” Harry agreed. “Leave it to the Germans to come up with the most efficient solution.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Andrei asked from the table.
Now we’re getting somewhere, Harry thought. “Just what it seems to mean, Corporal. That ever since the Second World War, the East Germa
ns have run rings around their Russian masters.”
Goltz bowed his head slightly, acknowledging a self-evident truth. Andrei flushed and rose from the table.
“Pay no attention to him, Andrei,” Rykov said. “He’s only trying to provoke us.”
“That’s right, Corporal,” Harry taunted. “Follow your captain’s example. I insult him, and what does he do? Lies back and takes it, like a good Russian.”
Andrei charged from the table. Harry darted out of the chair and sidestepped him. “Now, now, Corporal, I advise you to treat me with discretion. When Kosov returns, he’ll enlighten you as to my privileged status within your organization.”
“My God!” Goltz cried. “He’s insufferable! He insults your homeland to your face, then tells you that he secretly serves it? Are you complete fools?”
“It’s Kosov’s responsibility,” Rykov said slowly. “He’ll be back soon.”
The Russian captain squinted at Harry. “And while we wait, Major Richardson is going to tell us exactly what was found at Spandau last night.”
Harry caught a sudden, furtive alertness in Axel Goltz’s eyes. “I just might do that, Captain,” he said lightly, his eye on the big German. Goltz stiffened.
“Tell you what,” Harry went on, “get me something to drink, and I’ll tell you boys part of a very interesting story.”
Axel Goltz had compressed his muscles like steel springs. Harry sensed it like a hunter senses his dog straining to break cover. He rechecked everyone’s position: Goltz stood by the table, Rykov still blocked the door. But Andrei stood only a single step from Harry’s chair, his eyes smoldering. He had to be moved.
“I’ll take Scotch, if you have it,” Harry said.
“Get him a vodka, Andrei,” Rykov ordered.
Thank you God! Harry flexed his calf muscles. Andrei started to obey his captain, but after two steps the resentment he’d been nursing since the argument at Klaus’s house finally surfaced. He stopped and turned back to his commander. “Get it yourself,” he said defiantly.
Rykov went pale at this public challenge to his authority. He stood erect and laid a hand on the machine pistol in his belt. “You mutinous bastard!” he said, stepping forward.
Harry’s heart pounded. Jesus, this is it … Andrei now stood five feet away from him, facing Rykov in fury. It’s now or never…
Then Harry saw something so unexpected that it froze him in his chair. Axel Goltz silently brought a Heckler & Koch PSP pistol out of his jacket and aimed it not at Harry, but at Dmitri Rykov’s astonished face.
“Back against the wall, you Russian bastard!” he shouted. “Throw your gun on the floor!”
Andrei whirled, then froze. Rykov dropped his Skorpion on the floor. “Have you gone mad?” he asked, an incredulous smile on his face.
Goltz grinned scornfully. “Are you surprised, my little Russian puppies? Surprised that a German is about to blow your puny brains out?”
“You crazy fucking German,” said Rykov, still unbelieving. “You’re a dead man. No matter what you do now, Kosov will hunt you down. That demon Misha will slice your throat like a bratwurst.”
Goltz spoke over his shoulder. “Stand up, Major. You and I are going to take a short ride together. You’re about to find out what a real interrogation is like. A German interrogation.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Rykov said uselessly.
Goltz laughed coldly. “Of course I will. Corporal Ivanov has already reasoned out my alibi. I left here to attend to other business, you two quarrelled, and Major Richardson managed to kill you both and escape. With two idiots like you, Kosov will be the first to believe it.”
“But why?” asked Rykov, fascinated by Goltz’s apparently suicidal impulse. “Do you work for the Americans?”
I’m afraid he doesn’t, Harry thought with a sinking head. Raising his chin proudly, Goltz spoke his next words in German. “If I die,” he said softly, “I die for Germany. For Phoenix.”
His voice dropped still lower. “Der tag kommt.”
“The day approaches,” Harry echoed softly. What the hell?
At that moment Corporal Andrei Ivanov chose to die a soldier’s death. With no weapon but his hands he charged a man who was pointing a semi-automatic pistol at him. Stunned by this display of courage, Goltz hesitated for a split-instant, then fired. Andrei took a round in the chest, but he kept coming. Rooted to his chair, Harry watched the doomed charge with hypnotic fascination. Goltz’s third bullet killed the Russian, but the corporal’s furious momentum bowled the Stasi agent over backward. Shaken to the core, Harry wrenched his mind back to reality. He knew he couldn’t beat a bullet to the door; with a cry he hurled himself from the chair and crashed headlong through the window, trailing the curtains after him into the darkness.
Axel Goltz heaved Andrei’s bleeding body off him and stumbled to his feet. Rykov was nowhere to be seen. Cursing, Goltz darted to the window and hit a switch that flooded the courtyard with light. He saw only a sparkling jigsaw of shattered glass. Taking three steps back, he rushed the jagged window and leaped through. He tumbled across the glass-covered bricks in an expert parachutist’s roll and came to his feet at a run. The glass cut him badly, but he uttered no sound as he disappeared into the darkness after Harry.
2.26 AM The Natterman Cabin near Wollsbürg, FRG
“Stop tying to change my mind!” Hans shouted. He lashed out with his cuffed hands, missing Hauer’s face by inches. Hauer didn’t flinch. They sat opposite each other on the cabin floor, Hans with his back set against the wall, the foil packet containing the Spandau papers in his lap. Behind Hans’s eyes swirled a thousand currents of rage and tension.
“Listen,” Hauer pressed, “you’re reacting just like every relative of every kidnap victim I’ve ever seen. No one wants police involved—they’ll try anything to get their loved one back. Anything but the right thing. You know better, Hans. You know how many kidnap victims we get back alive: ninety percent of hostages are dead before the ransom call ever comes. You’ve already been lucky. You can get Ilse back, but you’re going to have to take her.”
Hans glowered at the floor. Statistics meant nothing to him now. All he could see was the nightmare image of the girl dredged from the Havel, leached gray by the oily river …
Hauer watched him silently. For the fifteen minutes since Hans regained consciousness, Hauer had tried in vain to convince him that Ilse’s only chance lay in rescue. In his mind there was no other option. Bitter experience had taught him that the real hostages in a kidnapping were the family members left behind, not the victim. Hauer had seen them all: the shattered mothers who served coffee to the police in zombie-like traces of sedation; the raging fathers who refused to sleep until they collapsed from exhaustion; the wives who could not stop crying, or who could not cry at all; and the husbands, like Hans, who toughed it out in stoic silence until helplessness and despair finally unmanned them. Hans had to be saved from himself.
Hauer watched as, despite the handcuffs, Hans worked open the foil packet containing the Spandau papers. Hans examined the first page—the scrawled German that switched to carefully blocked Latin—and then, apparently satisfied that Natterman had not tried to steal the precious ransom, tie closed the packet and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. He refused to meet Hauer’s eyes, keeping his own focussed on the handcuffs.
Hauer stood up. He started to speak again, to marshal the reasons Hans should set aside his fear and do what he himself would do. But as he stared, he began to see with different eyes. He saw that his son, though like himself in many ways, was profoundly different in others. Hans was not yet thirty, still young enough that he defined himself more by his job and his friends than by his inner self. And with the family situation he’d had—a mother he despised and a father he had hated until tonight—Hans probably drew more emotional sustenance from his wife than he would ever understand. In the span of eight hours, he had seen his job unmasked as a travesty, his friend brutally murdered,
and his wife torn from his side. Little wonder, Hauer reflected, that he lacked the resolve to punch through the blinding red wall of emotion and act. Hauer had seen this type of paralysis before, and inexperience was not always the root of it. Hans’s internal compass, like that of so many Germans, gravitated toward a magnetic north—the gilded scaffolding of official authority. With that scaffolding shattered and himself branded a fugitive, he was a man adrift.
Hauer felt no such confusion. His internal compass pointed to the true north of his spirit. He had lost his illusions very young, and through the trials of finding his way in the world alone, he had learned to exalt the essence, not the trappings, of his work. He took a most un-German approach to his skill as a marksman: in unexpected moments he found himself viewing the world through his rifle scope—not in a limited, but a profoundly focussed way. All existence compressed into the tube of polished lenses, the smallest movement magnified a hundredfold, melding him with the target a thousand yards away: the six-inch red paper circle, the tawny fur beneath the stag’s shoulder, the pale forehead of a man. When he led men—in the army, on the GSG-9 firing range, in the streets of Berlin—he led not by virtue of his rank, but by example. In situations like this one, cut off from command, the fire inside Hauer burned all the brighter, spurring him to action, driving him toward resolution.
As he watched Hans now, he felt an awful powerlessness. What Hans needed was a new allegiance, a fixed star that the spinning needle in his soul could lock onto. If Hauer could not provide that, if he could not lead the son who had returned to him like a prodigal, then he would truly have failed as a father, at all that he had believed himself to be. He started suddenly. Professor Natterman was speaking.
“Your father is right,” the old man was saying. “Give in to Nazis and they crush you. Exterminate you. We can’t surrender the papers, we’ve got to take Ilse back.”
“Nazis?” Hans groaned. “You’re both crazy! Crazy old men! What does that have to do with getting Ilse back? With today? It’s ancient history!”
You’re right,” Hauer said quickly. He squatted down on his haunches, his face a foot from Hans’s own. “Forget all that crap. What matters is Ilse. But unless you force yourself to look at this objectively, Hans, your emotion is going to kill her. You have never faced this thing you are facing now. You’ve seen brutality, and you’ve seen death. But you have never faced pure evil. That is what you are facing now. Call it Nazism or Phoenix or whatever you want, it’s all the same. It is a thing as mindless and as ravenous as a cancer. It perceives only what it wants, obstacles to getting what it wants, and threats to its existence. Right now it wants those papers. The papers are a dream. You have them, Ilse has read them, so both of you are also threats. Killing her, killing you—this is less than nothing. Remember Weiss, Hans, think of Steuben. I tried to kid myself about it, but Steuben was a dead man the moment I saved your life.”