Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles

God,” said Natterman, his face white. “He wouldn’t!”

      “He said he wouldn’t. But—”

      “Ilse, he can’t do that! It’s crazy! And far too dangerous!”

      “I know that … but he’s been gone so long. Maybe that’s where he is, meeting a reporter somewhere.”

      Natterman shook his head. “God forgive me, I hope that’s it. He’ll probably turn up any minute. But I’m afraid I can’t wait.” He held up his hand. “Please, Ilse, no more questions. I’m going to the university to get some things, then I’m leaving the city.”

      “Leaving the city! Why?”

      Natterman donned his long overcoat, then picked up his briefcase and took his umbrella from the stand by the front door. “Because anyone could find me in Berlin, and eventually they would. People are searching for these papers now—I can feel it.” He laid a hand on Ilse’s shoulder. “We have stumbled into a storm, my child. I’m trying to do what is best. It’s nine o’clock now. You wait here until midnight. If Hans hasn’t returned by then, I want you to leave. I’ll be at the old cabin.”

      “On the canal? But that’s two hundred kilometers from here!”

      “I just hope it’s far enough. I’m serious, Ilse, if Hans hasn’t arrived by midnight, leave. The cabin telephone’s still connected. I always pay the bill. You have the number?”

      She nodded. “But what about Hans?” she asked, her voice trembling.

      The professor set down his briefcase and hugged his granddaughter. “Hans is a grown man,” he said gently. “A policeman. He knows how to take care of himself. He’ll find us when he’s ready. Now I must go. You do exactly as I said.” He patted his briefcase. “This little discovery is going to make a lot of people very nervous.”

      Too dazed to argue, Ilse kissed him on the cheek. “You be careful,” she said. “You’re not a young bull anymore, you know.”

      “No,” said Natterman softly, his eyes glittering. “I’m a wise old serpent.” He grinned. “You haven’t forgotten your patronymic, have you? ‘Natter’ still means snake. Don’t worry about me.”

      With that the professor kissed Ilse’s forehead and slipped outside the door. He looked disdainfully at the old elevator; then he stepped into the stairwell and, despite his excitement, started down with an old man’s careful tread. He did not hear the stairwell door open again behind him, or the whisper of Jonas Stern’s stockinged feet descending the concrete steps.

      Stern knew the game now. It was a simple one. Follow the papers. Strange how the peaceful present could be shattered by a few strokes from an old pen, he reflected. Cryptic telegrams from an unquiet past. For in the Israeli’s pocket nestled another scrap of paper—the seed of the premonition that had brought him to Germany after so many years. One hour before he’d driven out of the Negev desert headed for Ben-Gurion Airport, Stern had dug it out of the little chest he’d saved from Jerusalem—his unfinished-business chest, an old cherry box containing the musty collection of loose ends that would not leave a man in peace. On this scrap of paper was a brief note written in Cyrillic script, unsigned. A Russian Jew had translated it for Stern on the day it arrived in his office, June 3, 1967.

       People of Zion Beware! The Unholy Fire of Armageddon may soon be unleashed upon you! I speak not from hatred or from love, but from conscience. Fear of death stays my hand from revealing the secret of your peril, but the key awaits you in Spandau. God is the final judge of all peoples!

      Stern’s colleagues had not been impressed. In Israel, such warnings were common as dust. Each was routinely investigated, but rarely did any prophesy real danger. But Stern had had a feeling about that particular note. It was vague, yes. Was the author referring to Spandau Prison in West Berlin? Or the district of Spandau, which covered over five square miles of the city? Stern never found out. Two days after the “Spandau note” arrived, the ’67 war erupted. Shells were falling on Jerusalem, and the note was brushed aside like junk mail. Israel was in peril, but from Egyptian tanks and planes, not the “Unholy Fire of Armageddon,” whatever that meant.

      Later, when the smoke had cleared and the dead were buried, Stern’s superiors decided the note had merely been a warning of Egypt’s imminent war plans. After all, the note was in Russian, and it was the Russians who had been supplying Egypt with weapons. “A communist with a religious conscience,” they’d said, “a common enough breed.” But Stern had never accepted that. Why would the note have mentioned Spandau, of all things? And so he’d kept the note.

      At the foot of the stairs, he slipped his shoes back on and glided out into the frigid darkness. Forty meters up the Lützenstrasse stood Professor Natterman, clinging to his briefcase like a diamond courier. He flagged down a speeding yellow taxi and climbed inside. Stern smiled and climbed into his rental car.

      Four floors above the street, Ilse sat cross-legged on the floor behind her triple-bolted door, fixed her eyes on the wall clock, and waited with both hands on the telephone.

      9:40 P.M. Polizei Abschnitt 53

      The clang of the pipe apparently carried much farther than a human voice. Hans had been smashing it against the bars for less than a minute when the basement door crashed open and a powerful flashlight beam sliced down through the darkness.

      “Stop that goddamn banging!” shouted a guttural voice.

      Rolf again, Hans thought. The profanity was a dead giveaway. The same bearded man trailed behind him, but this time the pair stayed well back from the cell and aimed the flashlight in.

      “Well?” said Rolf from behind the glare. “What the hell do you want? The facilities not up to your high standards?”

      Hans flexed his fists in rage. If he could only lure one of them into the cell … “This man’s dead,” he said, pointing to the gurney.

      Neither guard responded.

      “Come in here and check his pulse, if you don’t believe me.”

      “If he’s dead, what can we do?” said Rolf, chuckling at his logic.

      “Get him out of here!” Hans cried.

      “Sorry,” said the other guard, with a trace of sympathy. “We can’t come in. Orders.”

      In desperation Hans shoved the gurney to the front of the cell and thrust his friend’s lifeless arm through the bars. “Feel it, damn you!”

      “Take it easy,” said the second man. “I’ll do it.” He pinched Weiss’s wrist expertly between his thumb and middle finger and counted to thirty. “The man’s dead, all right.”

      Rolf checked Weiss’s pulse himself. “So he is. Well, you just stay right here with him, Sergeant. We’ll send somebody down for him. Eventually.”

      Hans turned to the wall in despair. Obviously these two thugs weren’t going to be lured into the cell. When he finally turned back around, they had gone. He picked his way to the rear of the cell and sat down on a box of files. I can wait, he told himself. Someone’s got to come in here eventually, and when they do …

      Fifteen minutes later the basement door crashed open again. This time Hans heard no cursing or stumbling from the stairs. The tread of boots was loud and regular. Whoever was coming knew his way around down here.

      “This way, idiot,” muttered a disembodied voice.

      Nothing could have prepared Hans for the next few seconds. When the boots stopped in front of his cell, the flashlight beam arced in and blinded him completely. He squinted in pain. Then, out of the blackness behind the dazzling light came a voice that froze his heart.

      “Hans?