Frustrated, he walked into the bedroom, folded the pages, and stuffed
them underneath the mattress at the foot of his bed. He switched on the
television from habit, then kicked his mud-caked boots into an empty
corner and dropped his coat on top of them. Ilse would scold him for
being lazy, he knew, but after two straight shifts he was simply too
exhausted to care.
He ate his breakfast on the bed. As much as the Spandau papers, the
thought of his father weighed on his mind. Captain Hauer had asked him
why he'd come to Berlin. Hans often wondered that himself Three years
it had been now. He hardly thought of Munich anymore. He'd married
ilse after just five months here in Berlin. Christ, what a wedding it
had been. His mother-still furious at him for becoming a policeman-had
refused to attend, and Hauer had not been included in the plans. But
he'd shown up anyway, Hans remembered. Hans had spied his rigid,
uniformed figure outside the church, standing alone at the end of the
block. Hans had pretended not to notice, but Ilse had waved quite
deliberately to him as they climbed into the wedding car.
Angry again, Hans wolfed down another sausage and tried to concentrate
on the television. A silver-haired windbag of a Frankfurt banker was
dispensing financial advice to viewers saddled with the burden of
surplus cash. Hans snorted in disgust. At fifteen hundred
Deutschemarks per month, a Berlin policeman made barely enough money to
pay rent and buy groceries. Without Ilse's income, they would be
shivering in a cold-water flat in Kreuzberg. He wanted to switch
channels, but the old Siemens black-and-white had been built in the dark
ages before remote control. He stayed where he was.
He took another bite of sausage and stared blankly at the screen.
Beneath his stockinged feet, the wrinkled sheaf of papers waited, a
tantalizing mystery beckoning him to explore. Yet he had already hit a
dead end. The strange, staring eye hovered in his mind, taunting him.
After breakfast, he decided, he would take a shower and then have
another go at the papers.
He never made it off the bed. Exhaustion and the warm air overcame him
even before he finished the sausage. He slid down the duvet, the
unfinished plate balanced precariously on his lap, the Spandau papers
hidden just beneath his feet.
10.15 A.m. French Sector. West Berlin
Ilse hated these visits. No matter how many times she saw her
Gynakologe, she never got used to it. Ever. The astringent smell of
alcohol, the gleaming stainless steel, the cold table, palpating
fingers, the overly solicitous voice of the physician, who sometimes
peered directly into her eyes from between her upraised legs: all these
combined to produce a primal anxiety that solidified like ice in the
hollow of her chest. Ilse knew about the necessity of annual checkups,
but until she and Hans had begun trying to have a child, she'd skipped
more exams than she would care to admit.
All that had changed eighteen months ago. She had been up in the
stirrups so many times now that the stress of the ordeal had almost
diminished to that of a visit to the dentist-but not quite. Unlike many
German women, Ilse possessed an extreme sense of modesty about her body.
She suspected it was because she had never known her mother, but
whatever the reason, being forced to expose herself to a stranger,
albeit a doctor, for her required a considerable act of will. Only her
strong desire to have children allowed her to endure the interminable
series of examinations and therapies designed to enhance fertility.
"All done, Frau Apfel," Doctor Grauber said. He handed a slide to his
waiting nurse. Ilse heard that hard snap as he stripped off his
surgical gloves and raised the lid of the waste bin with his foot. It
crashed down, sending gooseflesh racing across her neck and shoulders.
"I'll see you in my office after you've dressed."
Ilse heard the door open and close. The nurse started to help her out
of the stirrups, but she quickly raised herself and reached for her
clothes.
Dr. Grauber's office was messy but well-appointed, full of books and
old medical instruments and framed degrees and the smell of cigars.
Ilse noticed none of this. She was here for one thing-an answer.
Was she pregnant or was she sick? The two possibilities wrestled in her
mind. Her instinct said pregnant. She and Hans had been trying for so
long now, and the other option was too unnatural to think about.
Her body was strong and supple, lean and hard. Like the flanks of a
How could she be sick? She felt so well.
But she knew. Exterior health was no guarantee of immunity. Ilse had
seen two friends younger than she stricken with cancer. One had died,
the other had lost a breast. She wondered how Hans would react to
something like that. Disfigurement. He would never admit to revulsion,
of course, but it would matter. Hans loved her body-worshipped it,
really. Ever since their first night together, he had slowly encouraged
her until she felt comfortable before him naked.
Now she could turn gracefully about the room like a ballerina, or
sometimes just stand silently, still as alabaster.
"That was quick!" Dr. Grauber boomed, striding in and taking a seat
behind his chaotic desk.
Ilse pressed her back into the tufted leather sofa. She wanted to be
ready, no matter what the diagnosis. As she met the doctor's eyes, a
nurse stepped into the office.
She handed him a slip of paper and went out. Grauber glanced at it,
sighed, then looked up.
What he saw startled him. The poise and concentration with which Ilse
watched him made him forget the slip of paper in his hand. Her blue
eyes shone with frank and disarming curiosity, her skin with luminous
vitality. She wore little or no makeup-the luxury of youth, Grauber
thought-and her hair had that transparent blondness that makes the hands
tingle to touch it. But it wasn't all that, he decided.
Ilse Apfel was no film star. He knew a dozen women as striking as she.
It was something other than fine features, deeper than the glow of
youth. Not elegance, or earthiness, or even a hint of that intangible
scent Grauber called availability.
No, it was, quite simply, grace. Ilse possessed that rare beauty made
rarer still by apparent unconsciousness of itself.
When Grauber caught himself admiring her breasts-high and round, more
Gallic than Teutonic, he thought-he flushed and looked quickly back at
the slip of paper in his hand.
"Well," he coughed. "That's that."
Ilse waited expectantly, too anxious to ask for the verdict.
"Your urine indicates pregnancy," Grauber announced.
"I'd like to draw some blood, of course,'confirm the urine with a
beta-subunit test, but I'd say that's just a formality.
Would you like to bring Hans in? I know he'll be excited."
Ilse colored. "Hans didn't come this time."
Grauber raised his eyebrows in s
urprise. "That's a first.
He's got to be the most concerned husband I've ever met."
The smile faded. "Are you all right, Ilse? You look as though I'd just
given you three months to live."
Ilse felt wings beating within her chest. After all her anxiety, she
found it hard to accept fulfillment of her deepest hope. "I really
didn't expect this," she murmured. "I was afraid to hope for it. My
mother died when I was born, you know, and it's ... it's just very
important, to me to have a child of my own."
"Well, you've got one started," said Grauber. "Now our job is to see
that he-or she-arrives as ordered. I've got a copy of the standard
visiting schedule, and there's the matter of . . ."
Ilse heard nothing else. The doctor's news had lifted her spirit to a
plane where no mundane detail could intrude.
When the lab technician drew her blood, she felt no needle prick, and on
her way out of the office the receptionist had to call her name three
times to prevent her leaving without scheduling her next visit.
At the age of twenty-six, her happiness was complete.
11:27 A.M. Pretoria, The Republic of South Africa
Five thousand miles to the south of Germany, two thousand of those below
the equator, an old man sentenced to spend half his waking hours in a
wheelchair spoke acidly into the intercom recessed into his oaken office
desk.
"This is not the time to bother me with business, Pieter."
The man's name was Alfred Horn, and though it was not his native
language, he spoke Afrikaans.
"I'm sorry, sir," the intercom replied, "but I believe you might prefer
to take this call. It's from Berlin."
Berlin. Horn reached for the intercom button. "Ah ... I believe you're
right, Pieter." The old man let his finger fall from the button, then
pressed it again. "Is this call scrambled?"
"Sir, this end as always. I can't say for certain about the other. I
doubt it."
"And the room?"
"Swept last night, sir."
"I'm picking up now."
The connection was excellent, almost noiseless. The first voice Horn
heard was that of his security chief, Pieter Smuts.
"Are you still on the line, caller?"
"Ja, " hissed a male voice, obviously under stress. "And I haven't much
time."
"Are you calling from a secure location?"
"Nein. "
"Can you move to such a location?"
"Nein! Someone may have missed me already!"
"Calm yourself," Smuts ordered. "You will identify yourself again in
five seconds. Answer any questions Put to You-"
"You may remain on the line, Guardian," Horn interrupted in perfect
German.
"Go ahead, caller," Smuts said.
"This is Berlin-One," said the quavering voice. "There are developments
here of which I feel you should be apprised.
Two men were arrested this morning at Spandau Prison.
West Berliners."
"On what charge?" Horn asked, his voice neutral.
"Trespassing."
"For that you call this number?"
"There are special circumstances. Russian troops guarding the prison
last night have insisted that these men be charged with espionage, or
else transferred to East Berlin for such action."
"Surely you are joking."
"Does a man risk his career for a joke?"
Horn paused. "Elaborate."
"I don't know much, but there is still Russian activity at the prison.
They're conducting searches or tests of some sort. That's all I-"
"Searches at Spandau?" Horn cut in. "Has this to do with the death of
Hess?"
"I don't know. I simply felt you should be made aware."
"Yes," Horn said at length. "Of course. Tell me, why weren't our own
men guarding Spandau?"
"The captain of the unit was one of us. It was he who prevented the
Russians from taking the prisoners into East Berlin. He doesn't think,
the trespassers know anything, though."
"He's not supposed to think at all!"
"He-he's very independent," said the timid voice. "A real pain in the
neck. His name is Hauer."
Horn heard Smuts's pen scratching. "Was there anything else?"
"Nothing specific, but ...
"Yes?"
"The Russians. They're being much more forceful than usual. They seem
unworried by any diplomatic concerns. As if whatever they seek is worth
upsetting important people.
The Americans, for example."
There was a pause. "You were right to call," Horn said finally.
"Make sure things do not go too far. Keep us informed. Call this
number again tonight. There will be a delay as the call is re-routed
north. Wait for our answer."
"But I may not have access to a private phone-"
"That is a direct order!"
"Jawohl!
"Caller, disconnect," Smuts commanded.
The line went dead. Horn hit the intercom and summoned his security
chief into the office. Smuts seated himself opposite Horn on a spartan
sofa that typified its owner's martial disdain for excessive comfort.
With his wheelchair almost out of sight behind the desk, Alfred Horn
appeared in remarkably good health, despite his advanced years.
His strong, mobile face and still-broad shoulders projected an energy
and sense of purpose suited to a man thirty years his junior.
Only the eyes jarred this impression. They seemed strangely incongruous
between the high cheekbones and classical forehead. One hardly
moved-being made of glass-yet the other eye seemed doubly and
disturbingly alive, as if projecting the entire concentration of the
powerful brain behind it. But it wasn't really the eyes, Smuts
remembered, it was the eyebrows. Horn had none. The bullet wound that
had taken the left eye had been treated late and badly. Despite several
plastic surgeries, the pronounced ridge that surmounted the surviving
eye was entirely bare of hair, giving an impression of weakness where in
fact none existed. The other eyebrow was shaved to prevent an
asymmetrical appearance.
"Comments, Pieter?" Horn said.
"I don't like it, sir, but I don't see what we can do at this point but
monitor the situation. We're already pushing our timetable to the
limit." Smuts looked thoughtful. "Perhaps Number Seven's killer left
some evidence that was overlooked."
"Or perhaps Number Seven himself left some hidden writings which were
never found," Horn suggested. "A deathbed confession, perhaps?
We can take no chances where Spandau is concerned."
"Do you have any speeific requests?"
"Handle this as you see fit, but handle it. I'm much more concerned
about the upcoming meeting." Horn tapped his forefinger nervously on
the desktop. "Do you feel confident about security, Pieter?"
"Absolutely, sir. Do you really feel you are in immediate danger?
Spandau Prison is one thing, but Horn House is five thousand miles from
Britain."
"I'm certain," Horn averred. "Something has changed.
Our English contacts have cooled. Lines of communication are kept open,
but they are too forced. Inquiries have been made into o
ur activities
in the South African defense program.
Ever since the murder of Number Seven."
"You don't think it could have been suicide?"
Horn snorted in contempt. "The only mystery is who killed him and why.
Was it the British, to silence him? Or did the Jews finally kill him,
for revenge? My money is on the British. They wanted him silenced for
good. As they want me silenced." Horn scowled. "I'm tired of waiting,
that's all."
Smuts smiled coldly. "Only seventy-two hours to go, sir."
Horn ignored this reassurance. "I want you to call Vorster at the mine.
Have him bring his men up to the house tonight."
"But the interim security team doesn't arrive until noon tomorrow,"
Smuts objected.
"Then the mine will just have to work naked for eighteen hours!"
Horn had wounded his security chief's pride, but Smuts kept silent.
His precautions for the historic meeting three nights hence, though
unduly rushed, were airtight. He was certain of it. Situated on an
isolated plateau in the northern Transvaal, Horn House was a veritable
fortress. No one could get within a mile of it without a tank, and
Smuts had something that could stop that, too. But Alfred Horn was not
a man to be argued with. If he wanted extra men, they would be there.
Smuts made a mental note to retain a contract security team to guard
Horn's platinum mine during the night.
"Tell me, Pieter, how is the airstrip extension proceeding?"
"As well as we could hope, considering the time pressure we're under.
Six hundred feet to go."
"I'll see for myself tonight, if we ever get out of this blasted city.
That helicopter of mine spends more time in the service hangar than it
does on my rooftop."
"Yes, sir."
"I still don't like those aircraft, Pieter. They look and fly like
clumsy insects. Still, I suppose we can't very well put a runway on the
roof, can we?"
"Not yet at least."
"We should look into something like the British Harrier.
Wonderfully simple idea, vertical takeoff. There must be a commercial
variant in development somewhere."
"Surely you're joking, sir?"
Horn looked reprovingly at his aide. "You would never have made an
aviator, Pieter. To fight in the skies you must believe all things are
possible, bendable to the human will."