Spandau Phoenix (30 page)

"Very well, then," the policeman said gleefully. "I hope your stay in West Berlin has been a memorable one."

"I'll remember you," Rykov vowed, his face twisted in pain.

"Depend on that."

The Mercedes screeched away. It stopped perfunctorily at the western checkpoint, then shot beneath the raised barrier on the East German side, accelerating all the way. "Just as I thought," the sergeant muttered. "Precleared." He turned and signaled the next car forward.

Benjamin Ochs swallowed his fear, placed a reassuring hand on his wife's arm and eased the Jaguar toward the roadblock. The sergeant turned his back to the bowling wind and lit a cigarette; then he walked back to the police van. A younger officer stepped up to Ochs's window.

"Guten Abend, Officer," Ochs said, handing over his passport. "Is there some emergency?"

"I'm afraid so, Herr ... Ochs. We're looking for two fugitives.

I must ask you a few questions. What is the purpose of your visit to East Berlin?"

"Family emergency. My nephew has been killed. We're on our way to Braunschweig."

Frau Ochs gave a little sob, then turned away as if she were crying. The young policeman leaned over and peered in at her, then scrutinized her husband's papers.

Ochs patted his wife's shoulder. "Now, now, Bernice.

We'll be there soon."

Inside the dark boot, Hans could hear every word distinctly.

"Captain," he whispered. "What do we do if-"

"Shut up," Hauer breathed. "It's all up to the old man now."

"But if they open the boot ... do we fight? Do you still have your gun?"

"If they open the boot we do nothing. If I pulled out a gun this close to the Wall, they'd be hosing us off the street in the morning.

The old couple, too. Just be quiet and don't move."

Though every muscle twitched in pain, Hans struggled to remain still. He tried to ignore the voices outside, but it was impossible.

"He died in an auto accident early this evening," Ochs was saying.

"My brother called me. A horrible thing. Fourcar pileup."

"Why do you exit here?" asked the young officer sharply.

"Braunschweig lies due west."

Ochs tried to think of what Hauer had told him to say, but he hesitated a second too long.

"Open the trunk, please," the policeman ordered. "You may remain in the car if you have an automatic release."

With his heart in his throat, Ochs slowly reached for the button.

"Why is this taking so long?" Frau Ochs cried suddenly.

"He's only doing his job, Bernice," Ochs said, his heart pounding.

"The men we're after murdered two policemen,'@ the young man answered stiffly. "They must be brought to justice." He looked over at the van and motioned toward the Jaguar's boot.

The surly sergeant who had smashed Rykov's leg walked to the rear of the Jaguar. He drummed his fingers on the boot lid, waiting for Ochs to release the catch.

Inside, Hans tensed like a coiled spring. Hauer shoved his Walther deep into the spare tire receptacle, praying it wouldn't be spotted until they were safely away from the vehicle. Just as he got the pistol covered, the catch popped open. The lid rose a little, then the sergeant flipped it all the way up. Seeing the old blanket, he took hold of a corner and jerked it aside.

Blinding glare from the checkpoint spotlights struck Hans and Hauer full in the face, illuminating their twisted bodies.

The big policeman froze. This tiny compartment was the last place he had expected to find the fugitives. He groped clumsily for his gun.

Squinting into the light, Hauer discerned the outlines of the policeman's face. "Steiger!" he hissed through gritted teeth.

The policeman gaped in surprise, then leaned low over the trunk.

"Dieter!" he whispered. "What the hell are you doing?"

Hauer shook his head violently.

Sergeant Steiger glanced around the boot lid at his companion, who was still questioning Ochs. Then he leaned lower and looked into Hauer's eyes. "Dieter, was it you?" he whispered. "Did you kill Weiss?"

Hauer shook his head still more violently. "Funk, " he spat.

"That bastard ordered it."

Steiger straightened up and glanced over the trunk lid, past his partner, to the American checkpoint, and then farther on to where the East German Vopos waited. He made a hard decision very fast. Leaning back over the boot, he shoved down hard on the car frame with his thighs and hands, giving the impression of checking for a false bottom.

Then he stood up, glanced once at Hauer, and slammed the lid.

"Nothing here," he called to his partner. "Suitcases."

Steiger sauntered to the police van and picked up his cigarette.

His partner was still questioning Ochs.

"This is highly irregular," the young man said officiously.

What's happening? Ochs thought wildly. Why didn't that policeman jerk them out of the boot? "My wife is very upset, Officer," he stammered.

"There's an old synagogue in East Berlin-in the Kollwitzstrasse, not far from here. She was practically raised in that synagogue. Before the war, of course' "

"You are Jewish?" the policeman asked sharply.

Ochs heard blood roaring in his ears. Memories of his youth flooded into his mind. Midnight knocks at his door ...

screams for help ignored-"Yes," he answered quietly. "We are Jewish."

The young man smiled and handed back Ochs's papers.

"There is also a very beautiful synagogue in Braunschweig," he said.

"You must see it. I spent my summers there as a boy.

That's why I asked."

Ochs swallowed the lump in his throat. "Thank you. Yes, we've seen it many times." With a shaking hand he shifted into first gear.

"You have your money ready for the Vopos?" the policeman asked.

"You know you must change twenty-five Deutschemarks as you cross over."

"I've got it, thank you. Right here." The old tailor patted his breast pocket. He let out the clutch pedal and moved slowly away from the van.

Crushing out his cigarette, Sergeant Steiger stepped away from the police van and waved to the West German checkpoint guards. They raised the barrier from inside their booth and let the Jaguar pass unmolested.

Ochs rolled to a stop on the East German side. In the boot, Hans held his breath and listened for the voices of the Vopos. He heard Ochs inquire about the exchange rate, complaining a little but not too much.

The wait seemed interminable to Hans, but at last the red-and-white post lifted and the Jaguar glided slowly past the dragon's teeth, barbed wire, minefields, and machine gun towers that fortified the eastern side of the Wall.

"Where are we now?" Hans whispered.

"Swinging south around the city, I hope," Hauer replied.

"Would you mind getting your knee out of my balls?"

Hans squirmed in the darkness. His heart was still racing.

"Why didn't that sergeant arrest us?"

"Steiger and I go back a long way. He was with me on the Baader-Meinhof case that got me my captain's bars. Stormed a house with me."

"But if there's a warrant for our arrest-"

"He could be arrested too. He knows that. But he also knows Funk and his kind.

Mealy-mouthed bureaucrats who've never seen the real Berlin, never had to face down a crazy kid with a gun. Steiger asked me if I killed Weiss, I said no. That was enough for him."

"How long will it take us to cross the DDR?"

"If we get out of East Berlin, you mean? Depends on the old man.

We're taking the long way around, but it shouldn't take over two hours to reach the Marienborn-Helmstedt crossing. If we make it, we'll leave the Ochses at Helmstedt and you can drive us from there."

Hans made an uncertain sound of acknowledgment.

"Don't tell me," Hauer said. "You've never been to this cabin."

"Actually, I haven't. But I'll recognize it when we get there.

I've seen dozens of pictures."

Hauer didn't bother berating Hans; it was difficult to speak for long in the boot. There didn't seem to be much oxygen.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

11:15 Pm. PolizOi Abschniff 53.- West Berlin Funk set the phone back in its cradle and reached for the bottle of soda water on his desk. His hand quivered as he poured.

"I gather Pretoria was not amused?" Luhr said softly.

Funk swallowed a huge gulp of soda. "Outraged," he gargled.

"Said we were a disgrace to the German people."

"Was it Phoenix himself.?"

"Are you joking? His aide or security chief or whatever that diabolical Afrikaner calls himself"

"I believe Herr Smuts is half-German, Prefect."

"And how would you know that?"

"That one time he came here in person, to our plenary meeting.

One of his men told me that he was such an efficient security chief because he'd got the toughest qualities of both races from his parents.

"The worst qualities, if you ask me," Funk complained.

"The man doesn't have much tact."

"I don't think tact is a major asset in his business," Luhr said dryly, hoping he didn't sound too sarcastic. For the time being Funk was still his superior in both the police and Phoenix's hierarchies.

And until that changed ...

A brisk knock at the door startled Luhr.

"Komm!" Funk barked.

An impeccably uniformed patrolman marched into the office and saluted.

"There's been a murder, Prefect," he announced. "Near the Tiergarten."

Funk looked unimpressed. "So?"

"The murdered man, sir. He was an East German trade liaison.

He'd lived here just four years. And the way he was killed, sir. Shot in the head at close range by a Makarov pistol.

The gun was in his own hand like a suicide, but@' "A Makarov?"

Luhr interrupted.

"Yes, but there were other shots fired at the scene. A burst of automatic-weapons fire."

"What? What was the victim's name?"

"Klaus Seeckt, Herr Oberleutnant."

"Who do we have on the scene?" Funk interjected.

"A Kripo homicide team, sir. But they're from the Tiergarten district.

The photographer's ours, but he didn't get a chance to call until just now."

"Leave us," Funk ordered.

The officer clicked his boot heels together and marched out.

"What do you make of this?" Funk asked anxiously.

Luhr looked thoughtful. "I don't know, but I'd better get over there.

We can't let anything slip until we run Hauer down. I don't like any of this. First the Russians barge in here like an invasion force, then Hauer betrays us, then I find Steuben taping our calls at the-switchboard. And now some East German is murdered with a Russian-made pistol?

What did Apfel find at Spandau?"

Funk frowned worriedly. "If the Russian forensic people are right, some type of paper. A journal, perhaps? Whatever it is, Jiirgen, Phoenix isn't amused. Do you think Steuben could be part of an official investigation? One I don't know about? Something Hauer initiated, perhaps?"

Luhr shook his head. "Steuben was working with Hauer, but I don't think it went any farther up than that. We'd have been warned if it did. As soon as I get back, I'll make the bastard own up to the whole thing.

Don't worry, we're going to bag Hauer, send Phoenix his papers, and end up better off than we were before."

"You're probably right," Funk said wearily. He stood.

"I'll be at home if you find anything I should know about."

Luhr pulled on his coat and strode into the hall, smiling confidently until he closed the door. You bumbling fool, he thought.

All you care about is collecting your filthy drug percentages and keeping your mistress happy. Luhr felt a thrill of secret satisfaction.

As soon as he had learned of Hauer's treason and escape, he had dispatched some of Phoenix's deadliest assets to every possible place Hauer or Apfel might go to ground-from the apartment of a woman that Hauer spent his weekends with, to a remote cabin on the Mittelland Canal near the East German border. And as soon as one of Phoenix's killers recovered the Spandau papers, Luhr would step forward and take the credit. By tomorrow morning, he thought, I'll have enough to break that fool with Phoenix, and then Berlin-One will pass to me. To a true German!

He shoved open the main station door and hulled through the crowd of reporters. Ignoring all questions, he climbed into an unmarked Audi and slammed the door in a journalist's face. "Those South Africans had better be good," he 1

muttered, as he rewed the cold engine. "Because Dieter Hauer isn't going to die easily."

Ten minutes after Luhr pulled away from the curb, Ilse Apfel trudged through the huge doors of Abschnitt 53 and presented herself to the desk sergeant. Like the reporters outside, he mistook her for a prostitute and so ignored her for as long as he could. While she waited for him to finish a telephone conversation, Ilse tried to wipe off the remainder of Eva's garish makeup with a tissue.