Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles

hated these visits. No matter how many times she saw her Gynäkologe, she never got used to it. Ever. The astringent smell of alcohol, the gleaming stainless steel, the cold table, palpating fingers, the overly solicitous voice of the physician, who sometimes peered directly into her eyes from between her upraised legs: all these combined to produce a primal anxiety that solidified like ice in the hollow of her chest. Ilse knew about the necessity of annual checkups, but until she and Hans had begun trying to have a child, she’d skipped more exams than she would care to admit.

      All that had changed eighteen months ago. She had been up in the stirrups so many times now that the stress of the ordeal had almost diminished to that of a visit to the dentist—but not quite. Unlike many German women, Ilse possessed an extreme sense of modesty about her body. She suspected it was because she had never known her mother, but whatever the reason, being forced to expose herself to a stranger, albeit a doctor, for her required a considerable act of will. Only her strong desire to have children allowed her to endure the interminable series of examinations and therapies designed to enhance fertility.

      “All done, Frau Apfel,” Doctor Grauber said. He handed a slide to his waiting nurse. Ilse heard that hard snap as he stripped off his surgical gloves and raised the lid of the waste bin with his foot. It crashed down, sending gooseflesh racing across her neck and shoulders. “I’ll see you in my office after you’ve dressed.”

      Ilse heard the door open and close. The nurse started to help her out of the stirrups, but she quickly raised herself and reached for her clothes.

      Dr. Grauber’s office was messy but well-appointed, full of books and old medical instruments and framed degrees and the smell of cigars. Ilse noticed none of this. She was here for one thing—an answer. Was she pregnant or was she sick? The two possibilities wrestled in her mind. Her instinct said pregnant. She and Hans had been trying for so long now, and the other option was too unnatural to think about. Her body was strong and supple, lean and hard. Like the flanks of a lioness, Hans said once (as if he knew what a lioness felt like). How could she be sick? She felt so well.

      But she knew. Exterior health was no guarantee of immunity. Ilse had seen two friends younger than she stricken with cancer. One had died, the other had lost a breast. She wondered how Hans would react to something like that. Disfigurement. He would never admit to revulsion, of course, but it would matter. Hans loved her body—worshipped it, really. Ever since their first night together, he had slowly encouraged her until she felt comfortable before him naked. Now she could turn gracefully about the room like a ballerina, or sometimes just stand silently, still as alabaster.

      “That was quick!” Dr. Grauber boomed, striding in and taking a seat behind his chaotic desk.

      Ilse pressed her back into the tufted leather sofa. She wanted to be ready, no matter what the diagnosis. As she met the doctor’s eyes, a nurse stepped into the office. She handed him a slip of paper and went out. Grauber glanced at it, sighed, then looked up.

      What he saw startled him. The poise and concentration with which Ilse watched him made him forget the slip of paper in his hand. Her blue eyes shone with frank and disarming curiosity, her skin with luminous vitality. She wore little or no makeup—the luxury of youth, Grauber thought—and her hair had that transparent blondness that makes the hands tingle to touch it. But it wasn’t all that, he decided. Ilse Apfel was no film star. He knew a dozen women as striking as she. It was something other than fine features, deeper than the glow of youth. Not elegance, or earthiness, or even a hint of that intangible scent Grauber called availability. No, it was, quite simply, grace. Ilse possessed that rare beauty made rarer still by apparent unconsciousness of itself. When Grauber caught himself admiring her breasts—high and round, more Gallic than Teutonic, he thought—he flushed and looked quickly back at the slip of paper in his hand.

      “Well,” he coughed. “That’s that.”

      Ilse waited expectantly, too anxious to ask for the verdict.

      “Your urine indicates pregnancy,” Grauber announced. “I’d like to draw some blood, of course, confirm the urine with a beta-subunit test, but I’d say that’s just a formality. Would you like to bring Hans in? I know he’ll be excited.”

      Ilse colored. “Hans didn’t come this time.”

      Grauber raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a first. He’s got to be the most concerned husband I’ve ever met.” The smile faded. “Are you all right, Ilse? You look as though I’d just given you three months to live.”

      Ilse felt wings beating within her chest. After all her anxiety, she found it hard to accept fulfillment of her deepest hope. “I really didn’t expect this,” she murmured. “I was afraid to hope for it. My mother died when I was born, you know, and it’s … it’s just very important to me to have a child of my own.”

      “Well, you’ve got one started,” said Grauber. “Now our job is to see that he—or she—arrives as ordered. I’ve got a copy of the standard visiting schedule, and there’s the matter of …”

      Ilse heard nothing else. The doctor’s news had lifted her spirit to a plane where no mundane detail could intrude. When the lab technician drew her blood, she felt no needle prick, and on her way out of the office the receptionist had to call her name three times to prevent her leaving without scheduling her next visit. At the age of twenty-six, her happiness was complete.

      11:27 A.M. Pretoria, The Republic of South Africa

      Five thousand miles to the south of Germany, two thousand of those below the equator, an old man sentenced to spend half his waking hours in a wheelchair spoke acidly into the intercom recessed into his oaken office desk.

      “This is not the time to bother me with business, Pieter.”

      The man’s name was Alfred Horn, and though it was not his native language, he spoke Afrikaans.

      “I’m sorry, sir,” the intercom replied, “but I believe you might prefer to take this call. It’s from Berlin.”

      Berlin. Horn reached for the intercom button. “Ah … I believe you’re right, Pieter.” The old man let his finger fall from the button, then pressed it again. “Is this call scrambled?”

      “Sir, this end as always. I can’t say for certain about the other. I doubt it.”

      “And the room?”

      “Swept last night, sir.”

      “I’m picking up now.”

      The connection was excellent, almost noiseless. The first voice Horn heard was that of his security chief, Pieter Smuts.

      “Are you still on the line, caller?”

      “Ja,” hissed a male voice, obviously under stress. “And I haven’t much time.”

      “Are you calling from a secure location?”

       “Nein.”

      “Can you move to such a location?”

      “Nein! Someone may have missed me already!”

      “Calm yourself,” Smuts ordered. “You will identify yourself again in five seconds. Answer any questions put to you—”

      “You may remain on the line, Guardian,” Horn interrupted in perfect German.

      “Go ahead, caller,” Smuts said.

      “This is Berlin-One,” said the quavering voice. “There are developments here of which I feel you should be apprised. Two men were arrested this morning at Spandau Prison. West Berliners.”

      “On what charge?” Horn asked, his voice neutral.

      “Trespassing.”

      “For that you call this number?”

      “There