slowing. Number twelve. Ilse was counting. Wait until midnight, her
grandfather had told her. If Hans isn't home by then, get out. Sound
advice, perhaps, but Ilse couldn't imagine running for safety while Hans
remained in danger. She fumed at her own obstinacy. How could she have
let a stupid argument keep her from telling Hans about the baby? She
had to find him. Find him and bring him to his senses.
But where to start? The police station? The nightclub district?
Hans might meet a reporter anywhere. Rising from her telephone vigil,
she went to the bedroom to put on some outdoor clothes. Outside, a long
low groan built slowly to a rattling roar as a train passed on the
elevated S-Bahn tracks up the street. During the day trains passed
every ten minutes or so; at night, thank God, the intervals were longer.
As Ilse tied a scarf around her hair, yet another automobile clattered
down the Liitzenstrasse, coughing dnd wheezing in the cold.
Unlike the others, however, this one sputtered to a stop near the front
entrance of the building. Please, she prayed, rushing to the window,
please let it be Hans.
It wasn't. Looking down, she saw a shiny black BMW sedan, not Hans's
Volkswagen. She let her forehead fall against the freezing pane. The
cold eased the throb of the headache that had begun an hour earlier. She
half-watched as the four doors of the BMW opened simultaneously and four
men in dark business suits emerged. They grouped together near the
front of the car. One man pointed toward the apartment building and
waved in a circle. Another detached himself from the group and
disappeared around the corner.
Curious, Ilse watched the first man turn his face toward the upper
floors and begin counting windows. His bobbing arm moved slowly closer
to her window. How 'odd, she thought.
Who would be out counting apartment windows at midnight in-?
She jumped back from the window. The men below were looking for her. Or
for Hans-for what he'd found. She groped for the light switch to turn
it off, then thought better of it. Instead she ran into the living
room, opened the door, and peered cautiously down the hall.
Empty. She dashed down the corridor and around the corner to a window
that overlooked the building's rear entrance. Three men huddled there,
speaking animatedly. Ilse wondered if they might be plain-clothes
police. Suddenly two of them entered the building, while the third took
up station in the shadow of some garbage bins near the exit.
The metallic groan of the ancient elevator jolted Ilse from the window.
Too late to run. They would reach her floor in seconds. With her back
to the corridor wall, she inched toward the corner that led back to her
apartment. She felt a tingling numbness in her hands as she peeked
around it. A tall young man in a dark suit stood outside her door.
Remembering the fire stairs, she started in the other direction, but the
echo of ascending steps made her thought redundant.
Hopelessly trapped, she decided to try to bluff her way out.
Feeling adrenaline suffuse her body, she stepped around the corner as if
she owned the building and marched toward the man outside her apartment.
She cocked her chin arrogantly upward, intending to walk right past him
and into the lift that would take her to the lobby.
After all, she had appeared from another part of the floor-she might be
anybody. If she could only reach the lobby ...
The man looked up. He began to stare. First at Ilse's legs, then at
her breasts, then her face.
I can't do it! she thought. I'll never make it past himIn a
millisecond she saw her chance. Stay calm, she told herself. Steady
... Fifteen feet away from her apartment she stopped and withdrew her
apartment key from her purse. She smiled coolly at the guard, then
turned her back to him and bent over the door handle of apartment 43.
Be here, Eva! she screamed silently. For God's sake, be here!
Ilse scratched her key against the knob to imitate the sound of an
unlocking door, then she said one last prayer and turned the knob.
It opened! Like a reprieved prisoner, she backed into her friend's
apartment, smiling once at the guard before she shut and locked the
door. After shooting home the bolt, she sagged against the door, her
entire body quivering in terror.
For an unsteady moment she thought she might actually collapse, but she
forced down her fear and padded up the narrow hall to her friend's
Ilse knocked, but heard no answer.
"Eva?" she called softly. "Eva, it's Ilse."
Too anxious to wait, she opened the door and stepped into the room. From
behind the door a hand shot out and caught her hair, then jerked her to
the floor. She started to struggle, but froze when she felt a cold
blade press into the soft flesh of her throat. "Eva!" she rasped.
"Eva', it's me-Ilse!"
The hand jerked harder on her hair, drawing her head back. The blade
did not relent. Then, suddenly, she was free.
"Ilse!" Eva hissed. "What the hell are you doing here? I might have
killed you. I would have. I thought you were a rapist. Or worse."
The remark threw Ilse off balance. "What's worse than a rapist?"
"A faggot, dearie," Eva answered, bursting into laughter.
She folded the straight razor back into its handle.
Ilse's panic finally overcame her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and
she sobbed as her middle-aged friend hugged her wet face to a
considerable bosom and stroked her hair like a mother comforting her
child.
"Ilse, darling," Eva murmured. "What's happened? You're beside
yourself."
"Eva, I'm sorry I came here, but it was the only place I could go!
I don't know what's happening-"
"Shh, be quiet now. Catch your breath and tell Eva all about it. Did
Hans do sometfiing naughty? He didn't hit you?"
"No ... nothing like that. This is madness. Crazy. You wouldn't
believe me if I told you!"
Eva chuckled. "I've seen things in this city that would drive a
psychiatrist mad, if you could find one who isn't already. Just tell me
what's wrong, child. And if you can't tell me that, tell me what you
need. I can at least help you out of trouble."
Ilse wiped her face on her blouse and tried to calm down.
Despite the presence of the men outside, she felt better already.
Eva Beers had a way of making any problem seem insignificant. A barmaid
and tavern singer for most of her fifty-odd years, she had worked the
rough-and-tumble circuit in most of the capitals of western Europe. She
had returned home to Berlin three years ago, to "live out my days in
luxury," as she jokingly put it. Hans sometimes commented that Eva was
only semiretired, for the frequent pilgrimage of well-dressed and
ever-changing old gentlemen to her door seemed to indicate that
something slightly more profitable than conversation went on inside
number 43. But that was Eva's business; Hans never asked any questions.
She was a cheerful and discreet neighbor w
ho often did favors for the
young couple, and Ilse had grown very close to her.
"Eva, we're in trouble," Ilse said. "Hans and I."
"What kind of trouble? Hans is Polizei. What can't he fix?"
Ilse fought the urge to blurt out everything. She didn:t want to
involve Eva any more than she already had. "I don t know, Eva, I don't
know. Hans found something. Something dangerous!"
"It's drugs, isn't it?" Eva wrinkled her nose in disgust.
"Hashish or something, right?"
"I told you, I don't know. But it's bad. There's a man in the hall
right now and he's waiting for Hans to get home.
There are three more men outside by the doors!"
"What? Outside here? Who do you mean, child? Police?"
Ilse threw up her hands. "I don't know! All I know is that Hans's
station said he left hours ago. I've got to get out of here, Eva. I've
got to warn Hans."
"How can you warn him if you don't know where he is?"
Ilse wiped a wet streak of mascara from her cheek. .1
don't know," she said, trying to stop her tears. "But first I've got to
get past those men outside."
As the old barmaid watched Ilse's mascara run, a hot wave of anger
flushed her cheeks. "You dry those tears," she said. "There hasn't
been a man born to woman that Mama Eva can't handle."
10. 10 P. m. Europe Center, Breitscheid Platz. West Berlin
Major Harry Richardson stared curiously at the receding back of Eduard
Lenhardt, his contact in Abschnitt 53. In seconds the policeman
disappeared into the crush of bodies crowding the bar of the imitation
Irish pub in the basement of the Europe Center, West Berlin's answer to
the American megamall. This twenty-two-story tower housed dozens of
glitzy shops, bars, restaurants, banks, travel agencies, and even a
hotel-all of whose goods and services seemed to be priced for the
Japanese tourist. Harry had chosen it for its crowds.
He swallowed the last of an excellent Bushmill's and then began to
gather his thoughts. Eduard Lenhardt was only the third in a chain of
personal contacts Harry had spoken with tonight.
Contrary to Colonel Rose's orders, Harry had kept his racquetball date.
And by so doing, he had learned that Sir Neville Shaw, director of
Britain's mI-5, hid ordered British embassy personnel to burn the
midnight oil in West Berlin.
Shortly after that, Harry had called a State Department contact in Bonn,
an. old college buddy, who had let it slip that the Russian complaint
filed against the U.S. Army specified papers taken from Spandau Prison
as the primary object of Soviet concern. The British and the French had
received the same complaint. Harry could well imagine the British
consternation at such an allegation. After the phone call, Harry had
finally gained an audience with his reluctant contac from Abschnitt
53-Lieutenant Eduard Lenhardt.
Lenhardt had revealed information to Harry in three ways: by what he'd
said, by what he hadn't said, and simply by how he'd looked. In Harry's
professional opinion, the policeman had looked scared shitless.
What he had not said was anything about papers found in Spandau Prison.
What he had said was this: That the prefect of police, Wilhelm Funk, had
moved out of the Police Presidium and set up a command post in Abschnitt
53, after which the station had taken on the demeanor of an SS barracks
after Graf Stauffenberg's briefcase exploded in Hitler's bunker. That
two Berlin policemen had been detained in a basement cell, then had
either escaped or been killed. And that while the Russians had pulled
out of Abschnitt 53 at eight, they had acted as if they might return at
any time with T-72 tanks. All this in breathless gasps from a veteran
policeman whom Harry had never seen get excited about anything other
than the piano quartets of BrahmsHarry dropped ten marks on the table
and hurried out of the pub. Sixty seconds later he was on the Ku'damm,
where he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver an address near the
Tiergarten. The man who occupied the house there was one of Harry's
"private assets," a rather high-strung German trade liaison named Klaus
Seeckt. During Harry's first year in Berlin, he had spotted Klaus at
the Philharinonie, in the company of an arrogant and well-known KGB
agent named Yuri Borodin. It hadn't taken Harry long to establish that
Klaus was using his semi-official cover to funnel restricted technology
to Moscow. That had not interested Harry much; what had interested
him-after a thorough investigation of Seeckt-was that while Klaus dealt
directly with the KGB, he had no ties, voluntary or otherwise, to the
East German secret police, the Stasi. And that was a very rare
combination in Berlin.
Rather than arrest Klaus for the high-tech ripoff, Harry had opted to
use his leverage whenever he needed a direct line into KGB operations.
He never even filed a report on Klaus. Colonel Rose might have insisted
that Hariy push the German too hard, which would only have spooked him
into fleeing the city. Men like Klaus had to be treated delicately.
Harry cultivated the man's ego, pretending to share with him the
fraternal enjoyment of superior intellect, and applied pressure only
when necessaryTonight was different. Eduard Lenhardt's apprehensions
were worming their way into Harry's gut, and the checks he non-nally
kept on his imagination began to erode as his mind raced through the
possible implications of the events at Abschnitt 53. When the taxi
reached the Tiergarten house, Harry tipped its driver enough to satisfy,
but not enough to draw attention. And as he reached Klaus's door, he
decided that his sensitive East German would have to pay the remainder
of his debt tonight.
10.10 Pm. The Bismarekstrasse
"Captain!" Hans warned.-"Motorcycle patrol, three cars back!
"I see him." Hauer swung the Volkswagen smoothly around a corner just
as the traffic signal changed, stranding the police cycle in the line of
vehicles stopped at the light.
"We've got to get off the street."
"Where do we go? My apartment? Your house?"
"Think, Hans. They'll be covering both places."
"You're right. Maybe-" He grabbed Hauer's sleeve. "Jesus, Ilse's at
the apartment alone!"
"Easy, Hans, we'll get her. But we can't walk in there like lambs to
the slaughter."
"But Funk could have men there already!"
"Hold your water. Where are we, Bergstrasse? There should be a hotel
four blocks south of us. The Steglitz. Just what we need."
"A hotel?"
"Get in the backseat," Hauer ordered, and stepped on the accelerator.
"What are you going to do?"
"Do it!"
As Hans climbed into the backseat, Hauer ripped the police insignia from
his collar and spurred the VW into the Steglitz garage.
The violent turn threw Hans against the side door. They squealed down
the curving ramp to the parking sublevels below and into a tiny space
between two large sedans.
"All right, Hans," Hauer said. "Out with it. Everything.
What really happened at
Spandau this morning?"
Hans climbed awkwardly through the narrow gap between the seats.
"I'll tell you on the way to my apartment."
Hauer shook his head. "We don't move one meter until you talk."
Hans bridled, but he could see that Hauer would not be swayed.
"Look, I would have reported it if it hadn't been for those damned
Russians."
"Reported what?"
"The papers. The papers I found at Spandau."
"Christ, you mean the Russians were right?"
Hans nodded.
"Where did you find these papers? What did they say?"
Hauer looked strangely hungry. Hans looked out the window. "I found
them in a pile of rubble. In a hollow brick, just like Schmidt asked
me. What does it matter? I started reading them, but one of the
Russians stumbled on me. I hid them without even thinking." He turned
to Hauer. "That's it!
That's all I did! So why has everyone gone crazy?"
"What did the papers say, Hans?"
"I don't know. Gibberish, mostly. Ilse said it was Latin."
"You showed them to your wife?" ' "I didn't intend to, but she found
them. She understood more of it than I did, anyway. She said the
papers had something to do with the Nazis. That they were dangerous."
He looked down at his lap. "God, was she right."
"Tell me everything you remember, Hans."
"Look, I hardly remember any of it. The German part sounded bitter,
like a revenge letter, but ... there was fear in it, too. The writer
said he had written because he could never speak about what he knew.
That others would pay the price for his words."
Hauer hung on every syllable. "What else?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?"
"It was Latin, I told you! I couldn't read it!"
"Latin," Hauer mused, leaning back into his seat. "Who wrote the
papers? Were they signed?"
Hans shrugged uncomfortably. "There wasn't any name.
Just a number."
"A number?" Hauer's eyes grew wide. "What number, Hans?"
"Seven, goddamnit! The lucky number. What a fucking joke. Now can we
get out of here?"
Hauer shook his head slowly. "Hess," he murmured. "It's impossible.
The restriction&, the endless searches. It can't Hans ground his teeth
angrily. "Captain, I know what you're talking about, but right now I
don't care! I just want to know my wife is safe!"
Hauer laid a hand on his shoulder. "Where are these papers now?"