Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles

He would probably take an “I told you so” attitude when Ilse admitted that Hans’s behavior had shaken even her. He had been against her marrying Hans to begin with. Ilse’s doubts made her think back to when she had first met Hans. Three years ago, at a traffic accident. An old Opel had broadsided a gleaming Jaguar right before her eyes on the Leibnizstrasse, smashing the Jaguar’s door and trapping its driver. There’d been a police patrol car behind the Opel. Two officers had jumped out to help, but as they tried to free the trapped driver, the Jaguar had burst into flame. All they could do was hold back the crowd and wait for the fire police to arrive. Suddenly a young foot patrolman had bulled his way through the crowd—right past Ilse—and dashed to the Jaguar. Shouting at the driver to get down in the seat, he drew his Walther, fired several shots through the stuck window and kicked out what was left of the glass. He dragged the stunned driver to safety only moments before the gas tank exploded.

      The handsome young officer with singed eyebrows had taken Ilse’s slightly awestruck statement, then accepted her invitation to go for coffee afterward. Their romance, like the newspaper accounts of Hans’s heroism, had been brief and fiery. He was promoted to sergeant, and they were married as his splash of celebrity faded from the picture magazines.

      Ilse had always believed she made a good choice, no matter what her snobby friends or her grandfather said. But this madness from Spandau was no traffic accident. Hans couldn’t summon a burst of physical courage to stop the danger she felt tightening around them now. The papers lying on her kitchen table were like a magnet drawing death toward them—she knew it. She did not believe in premonitions, but as she thought of Hans driving anxiously toward a situation he knew nothing about, her heart began to race. A wave of nausea rolled inside her. The pregnancy …? Afraid she might throw up, she hurried into the kitchen and leaned over the sink. She managed to choke down the nausea, but not her terror. With tears blurring her eyes, Ilse lifted the phone and dialed her grandfather’s apartment.

       FIVE

      7:30 P.M. Polizei Abschnitt 53

      A stubborn group of reporters huddled on the sidewalk in the freezing wind, hoping for a break in the Spandau Prison story or the weather. As Hans idled his Volkswagen past the front steps of the police station, he saw klieg lights and cameras leaning against a remote-broadcast truck, evidence of how seriously the Berlin media were taking the incident. He felt a nervous thrill when he realized that even now the press was driving up the asking price of the Spandau papers for him. He accelerated past the journalists before they could get a decent look at him or the car and swung into the rear lot of the station.

      The unexpected summons had taken him by surprise, but upon reflection he wasn’t really worried. It made sense for the police brass to try to defuse the crisis before the Allied commandants got too involved—if they weren’t already. Nobody liked the Four Powers poking about in German affairs, even if Berlin still technically belonged to them.

      As he unlocked the rear door of the station, he spied Erhard Weiss’s red coupe parked against the wall. A good sign, Hans thought. At least he hadn’t been singled out for questioning. He flicked his cigarette onto the snow and walked inside. The back hallway was usually empty, but tonight a pinch-faced young man he didn’t know waited behind a rickety wooden table. The unlikely sentry leapt to attention when he saw Hans.

      “Identify yourself!” he ordered.

      “What?”

      “Your identification!”

      “I’m Hans Apfel. I work here. Who are you?”

      The little policeman shot Hans an exasperated look and reached for a piece of paper on his desk. It was apparently a list of some sort; he ran his finger down it like a prim schoolmaster.

      “Sergeant Hans Apfel?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Report immediately to room six for interrogation.”

      Under normal circumstances Hans would have challenged the man’s authority on general principles alone. Officers from other districts—especially snotty bureaucrats like this one—were treated coolly at Abschnitt 53 until they had proved their competence. Tonight, however, Hans didn’t feel quite confident enough to push. He walked on toward the stairs without comment.

      The oppressive block of interrogation rooms lay on the second floor, out of the main traffic of the station. At least they chose number six, he thought. Slightly larger than the other questioning rooms, “six” held a long table on a dais, some straight-backed chairs and, mercifully, an electric heater. Emerging from the stairwell on the second floor, Hans saw another unfamiliar policeman standing guard between rooms six and seven. A silent alarm sounded in his head, but it was too late to turn back.

      Suddenly a door further down the hall burst open. Two uniformed men with heavy beards bustled Erhard Weiss out of the room and down the hall away from Hans. Weiss’s feet seemed to be dragging behind him. He turned and gave Hans a dazed look; then he was gone. Hans slowed down. Something odd was happening here.

      “Interrogation?” the guard queried, noticing him.

      Hans nodded warily.

      “Wait in room seven.”

      Hans looked for a name tag on the man’s chest but saw none. “You from Wansee?” he asked. When the man didn’t answer, he tried again. “What’s going on in there, friend?”

      “Room seven,” the man repeated.

      “Seven,” Hans echoed softly. “All right, then.”

      Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door. There was only one man inside the smoky room—Kurt Steger, one of the four recruits from the Spandau assignment. Kurt jumped to his feet like a nervous puppy when he saw Hans.

      “Thank God!” he cried. “What’s going on, Hans?”

      Hans shook his head. “I’ve no idea. It looks like the whole place has been taken over by strangers. What have you seen?”

      “Nichts, almost nothing. We started in here together—all of us from Spandau except you. One by one they call us into room six. Nobody comes back.”

      Hans frowned. “They were practically dragging Weiss down the hall when I walked up. It didn’t look right at all.” He hated to ask the next question, but he needed the information. “Have you seen Captain Hauer, Kurt?”

      “No. I think the prefect’s handling this.”

      Hans considered this in silence.

      “I haven’t been on the force very long,” said Kurt, “but I get the feeling Captain Hauer and the prefect aren’t too fond of each other.”

      Hans nodded thoughtfully. “To say the least. They’ve been at each other’s throats since Funk took over eight years ago.”

      “What’s the problem?”

      “The problem is that Funk is an ass-kissing bureaucrat with no real police experience, and Hauer reminds him of it every chance he gets.”

      “Can’t the prefect fire whoever he wants?”

      “Firing Hauer isn’t worth the controversy it would start.” Hans felt himself coloring as he went to the defense of the father he had accused of terrible things in the silence of his own mind. “He’s a decorated hero, one of the best cops in the city. He also works with GSG-9, the counterterror unit. Connections like that don’t hurt. Plus he’s only got one month before retirement. Funk’s been waiting for that day a long time. Now he’s almost rid of him.”

      “What a bastard.” Kurt snapped his fingers anxiously. “You got any cigarettes? We smoked all we had.”

      Hans handed over his pack and matches. “Have they