Spandau Phoenix. Greg Iles

audible. Hess knew what caused that sound—the unbanishable fear of death. He felt it too. But for him it was different. He knew the stakes of the mission, the inestimable strategic gain that dwarfed the possible loss of two human lives. Like the man in the pilot’s seat, Hess too had a family—a wife and young son. But for a man in his position—a man so close to the Führer—such things were luxuries one knew might be lost at any moment. For him death was simply an obstacle to success that must be avoided at all costs. But for the man in the pilot’s chair …

      “Hauptmann?” Hess said, almost gently.

      “Sir?”

      “I know what frightens you now. I really do. But there are worse things than death. Do you understand me? Far worse.”

      The pilot’s reply was a hoarse, hollow gurgle. Hearing it, Hess decided that empathy was not the proper motivator for this man. When he next spoke, his voice brimmed with confidence. “Dwelling on that is of no use whatsoever, Hauptmann. The plan is flawless. The important thing is, have you been studying?”

      “Have I been studying!” The captain was obviously relieved to be talking about something else. “My God, some iron-assed SS Brigadeführer grilled me for two days straight.”

      “Probably Schellenberg.”

      “Who?”

      “Never mind, Hauptmann. Better that you don’t know.”

      Silence filled the cockpit as the pilot’s mind drifted back to the fate that awaited him should his special passenger fail. “Herr Reichminister?” he asked at length.

      “Yes?”

      “How do you rate your chances of success?”

      “It’s not in my hands, Hauptmann, so I would be foolish to guess. It’s up to the British now.” My advice is to prepare for the worst, Hess thought bitterly. The Führer’s bankers have been since January. “Just concentrate on your part of the mission,” he said. “And for God’s sake, be sure to jump from a high enough altitude to destroy the plane. It’s nothing the British haven’t seen before, but there’s no need to make them a present of it. Once you’ve gotten my message, just jump and wait until I can get you released. It shouldn’t take more than a few days. If you don’t get the message—”

      Verdammt! Hess cursed silently. There’s just no avoiding it. His next words cut with the brittle edge of command. “If you don’t get my message, Hauptmann, you know what must be done.”

      “Jawohl,” the pilot murmured, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. He was sickeningly aware of the small, sticky cyanide capsule taped against his chest. He wondered if he could possibly go through with this thing that everyone but him seemed to consider simply business as usual.

      “Listen to me, Hauptmann,” Hess said earnestly. “You know why your participation is necessary. British Intelligence knows I am coming to England …”

      Hess kept talking, trying to fill the emptiness that would give the pilot too much time to think. Up here, with Germany falling far behind, the concept of duty seemed much more abstract than it did when one was surrounded by the reinforcing order of the army and the SS. The captain seemed sound—and Heydrich had vouched for him—but given enough time to consider his position, he might do anything. After all, what sane man wanted to die?

      “Cut your speed!” Hess ordered, his voice quickening. “Hold at 180.”

      The miles had melted away before the Messerschmitt’s nose. They were a mere sixty miles off the Scottish coast. On a clear evening like this, the RAF radar stations would begin to pick up reflections from the fighter at any moment. Hess tightened his parachute harness, then set aside his maps and leaned backward.

      “Stay high and clear!” he shouted to the canopy lid. “Make sure they see us coming in!”

      “Where are you going out?”

      “We should make landfall over a place called Holy Island. I’ll jump there. Stay high over the mainland for a few miles, then dive and run like hell! They’ll probably scramble a whole squadron once they realize what you’re flying!”

      “Jawohl,” the pilot acknowledged. “Herr Reichminister?”

      “What is it?”

      “Have you ever parachuted before?”

      “Nein. Never.”

      An ironic laugh cut through the drone of the twin engines.

      “What’s so funny, Hauptmann?”

      “I’ve never jumped either! That’s a pretty significant fact to have overlooked in the planning of this mission, don’t you think?”

      Hess permitted himself a wry smile. “Perhaps that fact was taken into account, Hauptmann. Some people might even be counting on it.”

      “Oh … my God.”

      “It’s too late to worry about that now. We don’t have the fuel to make it back to Germany even if we wanted to!”

      “What?” the pilot exclaimed. “But the drop tanks—”

      “Are empty!” Hess finished. “Or soon will be!”

      The pilot felt his stomach turn a somersault. But before he could puzzle out his passenger’s meaning, he spied land below.

      “Herr Reichminister! The island! I see it!”

      From sixty-five hundred feet Holy Island was a tiny speck, only distinguishable by the small, bright ribbon separating it from the mainland. “And … a flare. I see a flare!”

      “Green or red?” Hess asked, his face taut.

      “Red!”

      “The canopy, Hauptmann! Move!”

      Together the two men struggled to slide back the heavy glass. Parachuting from a Messerschmitt was not common practice—strictly an emergency measure—and quite a few aviators had died attempting it.

      “Push!” the pilot yelled.

      With all their strength the two men heaved their bodies against the transparent lid of the cockpit. Their straining muscles quivered in agony until all at once the frame gave way and locked in the open position. The noise in the cockpit was deafening now, the engines roaring, the wind a screaming, living thing that struggled to pluck the men from their tiny tube of steel. Above it all, the pilot shouted, “We’re over the gap now, Herr Reichminister! Go! Go!”

      Suddenly Hess looked into his lap. Empty. He had forgotten to ditch his papers! No sign of them in the cockpit; they must have been sucked out the moment the canopy opened. He prayed they had found their way down to the sea, and not to the island below.

      “Jump, Herr Reichminister!”

      Hess struggled into a crouch and faced the lethal tail fins of the Zerstörer. The time for niceties had passed. He reached behind him and jerked the pilot’s head back.

      “Hauptmann!” he shouted. “Heydrich only ordered those drop tanks fitted to make sure you came this far! They are empty! No matter what happens, you cannot turn back! You have no choice but to follow orders! If I succeed, your actions really won’t matter! But if I fail, you cannot! You know the price of failure—Sippenhaft! Never forget that! Sippenhaft binds us both! Now climb! Give me some draft!”

      The Messerschmitt’s nose pitched up, momentarily creating a small space shielded from the wind. With a defiant yell Hess hurled himself up and backward. A novice, he pulled the ripcord the moment he cleared the plane. The tight-folded silk tore open with a ripping sound, then quickly blossomed into a soft white mushroom that circled lazily