Free Spandau Phoenix by Greg Iles Page B

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 needleprick, 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 aredevelopments 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.