Free Spandau Phoenix by Greg Iles Page B

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