motivate him. He had wanted to go to South Africa with Richardson all
along. Funk, Luhr, Goltz: these men were minions, corrupt servants of
an insidious power creeping into Germany from without. Stopping them
would be a temporary victory at best. Whoever they served was the true
enemy. To unite officers of the Stasi and the Polizei-sworn
enemies-would take a truly monstrous power. And to kill a monster,
Schneider knew, you cut off its head, not its hand.
With a glance back at Kosov's kneeling figure, he caught Rose by the
ar-rn and pulled him back into the room where Harry's corpse sat baking
in the dry heat.
"I'll go to South Ahica, Colonel," he growled. "But I don't like being
manipulated. You should have sent me in the first place. You want to
find two German cops? Send a German cop." Schneider jerked his thumb
toward the front room. "But I report to you, not him.
Understood? I trust you alone. Not your government, not Kosov, not his
government.
Just YOU."
"Agreed, Detective." Rose pulled Harry's airplane ticket from his
pocket and handed it to the German. "From now on, all expenses will be
paid out of my personal bank account." He lowered his voice. "Your
flight leaves at two Pm.
tomorrow. I'll brief you just before you leave. Now, if you don't
mind, I need to talk a little shop with my new Russian friend."
Schneider turned. Ivan Kosov stood motionless in the bedroom door, his
eyes riveted on Harry Richardson's mutilated head. He made no sound.
Schneider stuffed the plane ticket into his coat pocket and moved toward
the door. At the last moment, Kosov stepped aside.
Schneider paused, looked back at Harry, then looked into the Russian's
eyes lohg enough for Kosov to read the message there. I hate Russians
as much as you hate Germans, it said. I blinded your little black
assassin, and I haven't ruled you out as a suspect in this either
Schneider walked on. He understood Colonel Rose's motives: this was a
marriage of expediency, nothing more. Politics, as ever, made strange
bedfellows. Rose didn't TRUSt his Russian counterpart any more than
Schneider did, but the two professionals had much in common. They're
like a pair of fathers grieving over murdered sons, Schneider thought as
he trudged down the stairs. A pair of very dangerous fathers.
Kosov had looked even angrier than Rose, if that was possible.
Schneider only hoped the two men realized what they and he-were up
against. Eighteen hours ago Harry Richardson had practically scalped a
Stasi agent in an East Berlin street. Tonight he was slated for a
closed-casket funeral. The man who had done that to him, Schneider
reflected, was a man to be taken very seriously indeed.
Six floors below Harry's apartment, Yuri Borodin smiled with
satisfaction. His plan had worked after all. Ten minutes ago he'd been
furious. Richardson hadn't had the Spandau papers-as Borodin had
thought he might-and he had refused to discuss the two German policemen,
even under torture. Borodin hadn't intended to kill Richardson, but the
American had made him angry. And then Kosov's bumbling footpad had
blundered in during the interrogation. Borodin had shot Rykov from
reflex, without even knowing who he was. That had sealed Richardson's
fate. Borodin couldn't very well leave anyone alive to reveal what he
had done.
Even a Twelfth Department man could not kill a fellow KGB officer with
impunity.
Yet in the midst of adversity, inspiration had struck. Before leaving
Harry's apartment Borodin had planted two microtransmitters@ne in the
front room, one in the bedroom. Then he'd made an anonymous telephone
call to Colonel Rose. The harvest had been bountiful. Now he knew not
only the location of the two German policemen, but also the identity of
Rose's emissary to South Africa. The burly Kripo detective would lead
him straight to Hauer and Apfel, and ultimately to the Spandau papers.
And if that wasn't enough, he was now listening to Kosov and Rose hatch
a renegade operation that could smash both their careers. The only
oversight, Borodinconceded to himself, had been the writing on the
floor. The American had sneaked that past him. Richardson had been
trying to write Borodin, of course, but a bullet through his spinal cord
had apparently turned his o into something like an r The Anglophobic
Rose had already misread the one clue that could help him, though; and
Ivan Kosov wasn't likely to disabuse him of his fantasies!
As Schneider emerged from the front entrance of Harry's building, Yuri
Borodin laughed aloud.
Even in the dog days of glasnost, his job was sometimes more fun than
work.
7'31 Pm. Lufthanso Flight 417, Corsican Airspace
Dieter Hauer looked down at the shiny, wrinkled ball of aluminum foil in
his hand. It had taken four minutes of his best pickpocket technique to
remove the Spandau papers from Hans's trousers, but he had finally done
it. Hans sat in the airplane seat next to him, sleeping fitfully. Hauer
removed the foil wrapping the thin sheets as if it concealed an
archaeological treasure. Despite all that had happened, he had yet to
actually see the papers.
The first page looked just as Hans had described it: a paragraph
written in German, followed by a stream Of unintelligible gibberish.
Hauer scanned the German, but learned nothing new. Sighing, he pulled
the bottom page from the stack and looked for the signature.
There it was: Number 7. My God, he thought, to have been in prison so
long that you didn't even use your name. If the poor bastard remembered
it at all ... On the last page Hauer saw the carefully drawn eye. It
looked exactly like those he'd seen tattooed on at least a dozen scalps.
Whoever wrote the Spandau papers, he decided, had obviously been visited
at least once by someone with more than hair behind his right ear. Hauer
didn't realize that three of the pages were blank until he began
arranging them to repack them in the foil.
He rubbed his eyes vigorously, unwilling to accept what he saw, but the
truth was I plain to see. Three pages bore no ink at all.
The paper wasn't even the same! His first impulse was to shake Hans
awake and demand to know what he had done with the missing pages. Yet as
soon as he raised his hand, Hauer realized what had happened. The
substituted sheets told the story.
Professor Natterman had lied. The old man had held back after all ...
he'd kept some of the pages for himself! Hauer cringed as he recalled
Natterman slipping into the bathroom before laying the foil acket on
Hans's lap.
p Greedy bastard! he thought furiously. With yourfamily's lives at
stake! Pulling the bottom page out again, Hauer stared with grim
frustration. Angrily, he read the final note in German. The last bit
caught his eye:
Phoenix wields my precious daughter like a sword of fire!
If only they knew! Am I even a dim memory to my angel?
No. Better that she never knows. I have lived a life of madness, but
in the face
of death I found courage ...
Better that she never knows. Those words resonated in Hauer's mind.
Better that you don't know, either he thought, looking at Hans's
sleeping face. You'll find out soon enough.
Hans's lank blond hair hung down across eyelids that quivered in
troubled sleep. Carefully, Hauer refolded the aluminum foil around the
pages and slipped them back into Hans's pocket. And what will you do,
he wondered, when you finally learn that your grandfather-in-law has
condemned your wife to death? For without the Spandau papers to trade
to the kidnappers, intact, Hauer knew the chance of bringing Ilse out of
Africa alive dropped by at least 50 percent. How could that bastard do
that to his ownflesh and blood?
And then Hauer knew. The old man had not stolen the missing pages-he'd
lost them! Lost them to the Afrikaner who attacked him.
And the Afrikaner had lost them to whoever had attacked him! That was
why Natterman had frantically searched the carcass that Hans dragked
into the cabin; he'd been looking for the missing pages. And he had
found nothing! My God, Hauer thought, feeling acid flood his stomach,
someone else has those pages!
As the DC-10 roared south toward the bottom of the un world, Hauer
wondered who could possibly have 0 Natterman's cabin before he and Hans.
Funk's men? Ilse had obviously been forced to give the cabin telephone
number to her kidnappers. Had she also given them the cabin's location?
How early had she been captured? Who else was hunting for the papers
now? Hauer had seen some rather English-looking young men hovering
around the ticket d'Hans had slipped counters at Frankfurt Airport, but
he an by them on the strength of their false passports.
have felt less like a shepherd leading a lamb to the slaughter.
But he didn't know. And as he closed his eyes to the sound of the
roaring turbines, one word cycled endlessly through his mind.
Who?
7.40pm. E-35Motorway, Frankfurt, FRG Jonas Stern took his eyes from the
motorway long enough to glare at Natterman in the passenger seat. "We're
going to Israel to pick up some packages, and that's all I'll bloody say
about it!"
"But what kind of packages?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
"But you were on the phone for hours," Natterman persisted. "You wasted
a whole day."
"Klap kop in vant!" Stern snapped in Yiddish. "So the Messiah comes a
day later! You don't order these packages like a pizza pie, Professor.
You told me yourself that the rendezvous with the kidnappers isn't until
tomorrow night.
We'll make Pretoria in plenty of time."
Natterman sulked in his seat. "Why were you talking to an air force
general?"
Stern exploded. "You were listening to my calls!"
"Only one," Natterman lied. "I just want to know what's going on.
Where's the harm in that?"
"You'll know all you need to know," Stern said, scowling.
"When you need to know it, not before. If you'd put your precious
career aside for a moment and tell me all you know about Hess's mission,
I might see fit to reciprocate."
Natterman put an age-spotted hand to his mouth and bit his thumbnail. He
looked like a gold prospector deciding whether or not to reveal the
location of his big strike to a stranger whose help he needs. With
sudden gravity, he reached across the seat and took hold of Stern's arm.
"I'll tell you what I think about Hess's mission," he said excitedly. "I
think Rudolf Hess is still alive. " Stern turned and caught Natterman's
eye; then he looked back at the wide motorway.
He chuckled softly. "I know you do, Professor. And I wish it were so
easy. But you watch too many movies."
"Then you don't think Hess is alive?" Natterman asked incredulously.
Stern grinned. "Sure. He's set up housekeeping with Martin Bormann and
Josef Mengele. Amelia Earhart is the housemaid and Elvis Presley
provides the dinner entertainment."
Natterman ignored the levity. "Then you're really not hunting Hess?" he
said suspiciously.
-.'
Stern shook his head. "I told you, Professor, I'm no Nazihunter.
I'm more of a gamekeeper. And the preserve I protect is Israel."
"Hess is alive," Natterman insisted. "I know he is. It's completely
conceivable. His double died only four weeks ago, and the medical care
at Spandau was atrocious. "
Natten-nan folded his arms defiantly. "Rudolf Hess is alive and I'm
going to find him."
Stern grunted skeptically.
"Since you're not hunting him," Natterman said in a superior tone, "I
suppose I can tell you how I know he's alive."
"Enlighten me, 0 Master," Stern said with mock gravity.
Natterman scowled. "Laugh if you like. I'll bet you don't laugh at
this. Remember the tattooed eye that I showed you on the Afrikaner's
head? That's the constant in this whole mess, the one unifying symbol.
The Spandau papers said the eye was the key, and the fascist members of
the Berlin police have the eye tattooed on their scalps beneath the
hair.
Hauer told me so. But what Hauer doesn't know, Stern, is what that
symbol means. I do. It's an Egyptian symbol-the All-Seeing Eye, the
Guarding Eye of God." Natterman nodded knowingly. "Hauer also told me
that the police fascists protect something or someone called Phoenix.
Are you familiar with the Phoenix, Stern?"
"Of course. It's the mythological bird of flames that rises from its
own ashes every five hundred years."
"Very good. Now, 'Phoenix' is a Greek word, but the Greeks did not
invent the Phoenix myth. Phoenix is but the Greek name of the Egyptian
you see?"
"What I see," said Stern irritably, "is a history professor who has lost
touch with reality."
Natterman cackled. "That's because you're blind, Stern!
Blind like all the rest! Blind to history! I told Hauer that the key
to this mystery lay in the past, but the arrogant fool didn't believe
me!"
"What in God's name are you babbling about?"
"Egypt, Stern, Egypt. Don't you see? All these mystical signs and
symbols, they lead ultimately to one man: Rudolf Hess!"
"How?" Stern snapped.
"Because," Natterman explained, "Rudolf Hess was born and raised in
Egypt! He went to school in Alexandria until he was fourteen years
old!"
Stern sat in stunned silence. "That's true," he murmured finally.
"I remember now."
Natterman was nodding with nervous energy. "I'm going to find him,
Stern. I'm going to deliver that Nazi bastard into the modern world. It
will be the academic coup of the century!"
"Take it easy, Professor. I think you're letting your imagination run
away with you. That eye could mean any number of things. And the name
Phoenix has been used to name everything from cities to cars to condoms.
You're stretching logic too far. So Hess was raised in Egypt ...
I'
presume he attended a German school there, and he was still only a. boy
when he emigrated to Germany."
"He did attend a German school," Natterman admitted.
"But fourteen is not so young. And childhood impressions are often the
most vivid of our lives. The treasures and mysteries of Egypt's past
would have fascinated any European boy. No, Stern, I don't think I'm
stretching logic. It's simple deductive reasoning."
Stern looked thoughtful. "Think what you wish, Professor.
I will say this: I'm not so sure Hess's original mission is over yet"-he
smiled-"I just don't think Hesr, is running it."
Natterman looked anxious. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Hess flew to Britain to arrange an AngloGerman peace.
I accept that as fact. Whatever delusions Hess may have had, the
strongest correction, the only real foundation for such a peace was the
widespread belief in England that Germany represented the last and
strongest possible barrier against an expansionist-minded Russia.
Against communism."
"That's freshman history," said Natteirinan. "What's your point?"
"My point is that things may not be so different now. The Soviet Union
is disintegrating, Professor. The heart of the military colossus is
economic chaos; the great warrior is starving inside his armor.
Russia's provinces and satellites seethe with resentment and sedition.
One day not so long from now, Professor, the Soviet Union could
explode."
"And?"
"And I'm not the only fool who knows that! I'm saying
It
that some people may still believe that Germany represents the best
natural barrier against Russia, the unstable colossus."
"Germany? As a barrier to Russia?"
Stern smiled coldly. "Not Germany as you know it. But a Germany
reunited. Reunited and armed with nuclear weapons. Its own nuclear
weapons."
"No," Natterman breathed. "That can't be true. If we Germans wanted
nuclear weapons, we could have developed them ourselves long ago. We
invented the ballistic missile, for God's sake!"
Stern snorted. "It's no more fantastic than your fairy tale about
Rudolf Hess."
"Hess is alive!" Natterman insisted. "I know it!"
Stern's face hardened. "Whether he is or he isn't, Professor, I don't
want you mentioning his name in front of anyone from this moment
forward. You understand? No one. Not friends, not family. Fantasies