Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles

concert to control the unexpected emergency. Two men knelt over Klaus’s body, checking for signs of life; two others covered the front and rear windows of the house. Rykov issued orders.

      “Yuri, get the car. Major, move back into the room. Now!” Rykov tapped the shoulder of a young man leaning over Klaus’s corpse. “Leave him, Andrei. Touch nothing. Klaus was a traitor; he deserved a coward’s death. Leave the gun in his hand. We couldn’t have set this up better ourselves.”

      “Shouldn’t we take him along?” Andrei asked. “The Kriminalpolizei aren’t stupid.”

      Rykov’s eyes gleamed. “Ideally, I suppose. But we won’t have room for him.”

      “What about the weapons compartment?”

      “The major will be in there.” Rykov turned to Harry. “You don’t want to spend the next hour hugging a corpse, do you, Major?”

      Harry’s mind raced. If this Russian intended to kidnap an American army officer from the heart of tightly controlled West Berlin, something very big indeed was going on. And to Harry’s mind, that something could only be the events at Spandau Prison.

      “Kosov won’t like this,” he said, remembering seeing the Russian colonel at Abschnitt 53 this morning. “You better take some time to think, Captain.”

      Rykov smiled. “You’re very clever, Major.”

      The sound of an engine rumbled through the front door.

      “That’s Yuri,” said Rykov. “All right, Major, let’s go.”

      Harry didn’t move.

      “Conscious or unconscious, I don’t care. But I must tell you, it’s never quite as clean as the movies when you bash someone in the back of the head with a pistol.”

      Harry moved. He couldn’t warn Colonel Rose if he was dead.

      It was only a few steps from the front door to the car, a black Mercedes 190. The Russians crowded close around him all the way. There’s got to be a way out, thought Harry. Got to be. I’ve got to warn—

      Dmitri Rykov slammed the butt of his Skorpion machine pistol into the base of Harry’s skull. He heard a dull thud but no crunch. “Americans are so gullible,” he said, laughing. “Lucky for this one he has a wooden head.”

      Corporal Ivanov looked distressed. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just kill him here?” he said anxiously. “Make it look like some illegal business, perhaps a homosexual tryst?”

      “I’m in command here,” Rykov snapped, losing a bit of his earlier control. “I’ll do the thinking.”

      “Yes, sir. I was only thinking of Colonel Kosov. If he doesn’t approve—”

      “I know what Kosov wants, Corporal. Did he not choose me for command? We may need this American later as a bargaining chip.” Rykov’s voice softened. “Andrei, the other team is running down Sergeant Apfel’s wife as we speak. Kosov is with them. Do you want us to return to East Berlin empty-handed?”

      Ivanov did not look entirely convinced, but he said no more.

      Lying half-conscious at their feet, Harry slipped a hand into his inside coat pocket, fished out a white business card, and let it fall. There was no name on it—only a telephone number. As the Russians lifted him into the Mercedes, he glanced down. He saw his own blood, but the white card had already vanished against the snow.

      10:31 P.M. Lietzensee Park, British Sector

      “Once again,” Ivan Kosov said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Where did the girl get out?”

      Pressed into the corner of the taxi’s rear seat, Eva Beers scowled and said nothing. Her hands were tied behind her head with her own stockings. The young Russian called Misha had twice smashed her right cheek with his gloved fist, but so far Eva had refused to speak.

      “Misha,” Kosov growled.

      The interior of the taxi echoed with the force of the third blow. A large purplish bruise was already visible beneath the thick patina of makeup Eva wore. In the front seat beside Kosov, Ernst the cabbie slumped unconscious over the wheel of his old Mercedes.

      “I have no time for your stupid loyalty, woman,” Kosov said. “If you don’t answer this time, this zealous young man will have to slit the throat of your sleepy old hero. You don’t want that, do you?”

      Misha drew a long-bladed stiletto from an ankle sheath and brandished it under Eva’s chin.

      “I think he’s quite eager to use that,” observed Kosov. “Aren’t you, Misha?”

      Eva saw feral eyes glinting in the dark.

      “Now, where did Frau Apfel get out?”

      Eva struggled to think through the pain of the blows and her growing apprehension that she would not survive the night. How long had Ernst evaded the black sedan? Two minutes? Three? With his taxi finally trapped in the dead-end lane beside the Lietzensee lake, the old cabbie had done his best to fend the Russians off, but the young KGB agents had simply been too agile for him. How far could Ilse have gotten in that time?

      Without warning Misha savagely thrust his knee into Eva’s left breast, crushing it—

      “All right!” she gasped.

      The pressure eased a little. “You have regained your memory?” Kosov asked.

      Perhaps they’ll spare Ernst, Eva thought. Swine. “We stopped two or three blocks back,” she whispered. “When we rounded a corner. Ilse jumped out there.”

      “Sko’lka?” asked Kosov. “Two blocks or three? Which is it?”

      Again Misha jabbed his knee forward. “Stop!” Eva begged. “Please!” She could fight no more, but she could fire a last covering shot. “Three blocks,” she lied, laboring for breath. “The Seehof Hotel … by the lake. She ran inside.”

      Kosov nodded. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

      Eva gulped air like a landed fish.

      Kosov sighed angrily, debating with himself. How in hell was he supposed to find the Spandau papers? Three times Moscow had signaled him, each time telling him just a little more about the Hess case, doling out information like scraps of meat to a dog. Names without physical descriptions, dates of events Kosov had never heard of. And at the center of it all, apparently, a one-eyed man who had no name. Kosov could make no sense of it. And of course that was how Moscow wanted it.

      “Now that you’re talking,” he said amiably, “I have one more question. Did Frau Apfel mention any names in connection with what her husband found?”

      “No,” Eva groaned. “She told me someone was after her, that’s all. I didn’t ask—”

      Unbelievably, Misha’s knee buried itself still deeper into Eva’s chest. The pain was excruciating. She felt as if she were going to vomit. “Please!” she choked.

      The pressure relented just enough for her to take a shallow breath. Kosov heaved a bearlike shoulder over the front seat and bellowed, “Names, woman! Names are what I want! Did Frau Apfel mention the name Zinoviev to you? Do you hear me? Z-I-N-O-V-I-E-V. It’s a Russian name. Did she mention it?”

      Eva shook her head violently. She had passed the point of being able to lie, and something in her eyes must have shown it. After several moments Kosov nodded, and Misha removed his knee from her chest. The old colonel’s face softened.

      “Unlike my young friend,” he murmured, “I do not believe in needless killing. However, if you are lying—that is, if we do not find Frau Apfel,